He plops onto the bed and scoots his back against a small pile of pillows he’s arranged. His jacket and shoes are off, and he sits there in slacks and socks, the knot in his designer tie loose at the collar of his designer shirt. He picks up the remote and points it at the TV, muting the hotel station that has been telling him how to play roulette. He drops the remote on the bedspread, picks up his glass of Scotch from the nightstand and takes a sip.

– When I was a younger man, the first time I was in a hotel with one of these.

He points at the honor bar.

– I drank everything clear. Vodka, gin, white wine, and filled the bottles with water from the bathroom and put them back just as they had been.

He smiles, closes his eyes, and shrugs. Yes, I too was once young and stupid.

He opens his eyes.

– It embarrasses me now because there was no need. It was not long after I had left the Soviet Union, but still, I could have afforded these things even then. But, we have all done things of which we are embarrassed. Things we regret.

I take a sip of my juice. He looks at the TV, at the silent figures of smiling people now rolling dice.

– Branko tells me you are still taking the pills.

I shift in my seat.

– My face hurts.

He looks from the TV screen to my face.

– Still it hurts?

My hand goes to the scar.

– Some days are worse.

He looks into his glass.

– I am sorry for that. If there had not been a need…But.

He looks back up at me, raises his eyebrows and tilts his head to the side. Why talk about “buts”?

I take my fingers away from the scar.

– It doesn’t matter. I can live with it.

– That, I have never doubted.

He points at the window.

– And today? It went well?

I look out the window. Across The Strip I can see the purple-and-green sign of the Laughing Jackalope and, next to it, the tarpaper roof of the Happi. The ambulance is pulling away, but two LVMPD cars are parked in front of the room.