went dark, and our eyes returned to their sockets, Brian just looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “I think I know why,” I replied to his unspoken question. “But you can never be sure, can you? The heart of man is a fathomless mystery to all but himself.”
Chapter 8
Everything about Las Vegas was exhilarating to Roger Seagrave – the warm sun, the gin-and-tonic-scented desert air, the palm trees, the blissful anonymity, the freedom, the gaudily fantastic hotels, the smell of money in the air. Any pleasure human ingenuity could conceive was for sale here – the “escort services” listings in the Yellow Pages were as thick as a magazine and sorted by fetish, the bars were open 24 hours; there were even slot machines over some of the urinals. Only the Americans could devise something so grandiose, so repellently vulgar -- and so irresistible.
You couldn’t help but admire them. Sixty years ago, this vast fairytale city had been nothing more than a shitstop in the endless desert between Los Angeles and Phoenix. Now look at it – a fantastic oasis in the tarantula-infested wasteland, more surreal and grandiose than any mirage, beguiling the mind like a potent drug.
At this moment, however, Seagrave was more concerned with his own survival than with local history. He stood on a lush, sun-warmed rugby pitch on the campus of the University of Nevada, arms outstretched, awaiting the arrival of the rugby ball that floated high above him, tumbling lazily end-over-end, now at its apogee, now beginning its descent.
At field level, half a dozen members of the Old Blues – alumni of the University of California at Berkeley and some of the most accomplished rugby players in America – thundered toward him, intent on reaching him just in time to separate him from the ball. As it nestled into his arms, Seagrave hopped deftly to his right, sidestepping his opposite number, the Old Blues right winger. He hurdled an ankle-tackle from another onrushing opponent, then accelerated smoothly, splitting two more would-be tacklers and leaving them grasping at empty air.
He was in full stride now, gliding swiftly up the touch-line, with teammates in support and calling for the ball. With serene detachment, Seagrave saw an Old Blues flanker rocketing toward him; he dummied a pass to Richard Devilliers, the Hastewicke Gentlemen’s fullback, on his right wing. The flanker went for the fake, and Seagrave sprinted calmly on, past midfield, toward the 22-meter line, still untouched.
The last line of the Old Blues defense now closed in: the fullback and outside centre, angling him toward the touch-line. At the last possible instant, Seagrave lofted a beautifully-calculated up-and-under kick over the heads of the onrushing tacklers, sidestepped the Old Blues fullback and hared in pursuit of the ball. For just a moment – one brief, blissful moment – he felt 21 again, soaring over the ground, liberated from the weakness and nattering pain that were his constant companions in this, his 55th year. The ball descended, and his perfectly-timed leap brought it to hand and carried him over the try line for the touch-down, his second try of the match.
Seagrave accepted the congratulations of his teammates with barely-concealed elation, the score now 27-14 in the Hastewicke Gentlemen’s favor. A few minutes later, the referee blew the familiar three blasts on his whistle, signaling full time. The Hastewicke Gentlemen were through to the final, thanks largely to Roger Seagrave’s brilliant play.
As he rummaged through his kit-bag a few minutes later, pulling on sweats to ward off the surprising chill of late afternoon in the high desert, Seagrave encountered the note that had been slipped under the door of his suite the morning before: “An anonymous benefactor wishes it to be known that Suite 455 has been booked through the weekend for the discreet use of any Hastewicke Gentleman...”
The tour manager, Henry Bell, happened to
Chapter 8
Everything about Las Vegas was exhilarating to Roger Seagrave – the warm sun, the gin-and-tonic-scented desert air, the palm trees, the blissful anonymity, the freedom, the gaudily fantastic hotels, the smell of money in the air. Any pleasure human ingenuity could conceive was for sale here – the “escort services” listings in the Yellow Pages were as thick as a magazine and sorted by fetish, the bars were open 24 hours; there were even slot machines over some of the urinals. Only the Americans could devise something so grandiose, so repellently vulgar -- and so irresistible.
You couldn’t help but admire them. Sixty years ago, this vast fairytale city had been nothing more than a shitstop in the endless desert between Los Angeles and Phoenix. Now look at it – a fantastic oasis in the tarantula-infested wasteland, more surreal and grandiose than any mirage, beguiling the mind like a potent drug.
At this moment, however, Seagrave was more concerned with his own survival than with local history. He stood on a lush, sun-warmed rugby pitch on the campus of the University of Nevada, arms outstretched, awaiting the arrival of the rugby ball that floated high above him, tumbling lazily end-over-end, now at its apogee, now beginning its descent.
At field level, half a dozen members of the Old Blues – alumni of the University of California at Berkeley and some of the most accomplished rugby players in America – thundered toward him, intent on reaching him just in time to separate him from the ball. As it nestled into his arms, Seagrave hopped deftly to his right, sidestepping his opposite number, the Old Blues right winger. He hurdled an ankle-tackle from another onrushing opponent, then accelerated smoothly, splitting two more would-be tacklers and leaving them grasping at empty air.
He was in full stride now, gliding swiftly up the touch-line, with teammates in support and calling for the ball. With serene detachment, Seagrave saw an Old Blues flanker rocketing toward him; he dummied a pass to Richard Devilliers, the Hastewicke Gentlemen’s fullback, on his right wing. The flanker went for the fake, and Seagrave sprinted calmly on, past midfield, toward the 22-meter line, still untouched.
The last line of the Old Blues defense now closed in: the fullback and outside centre, angling him toward the touch-line. At the last possible instant, Seagrave lofted a beautifully-calculated up-and-under kick over the heads of the onrushing tacklers, sidestepped the Old Blues fullback and hared in pursuit of the ball. For just a moment – one brief, blissful moment – he felt 21 again, soaring over the ground, liberated from the weakness and nattering pain that were his constant companions in this, his 55th year. The ball descended, and his perfectly-timed leap brought it to hand and carried him over the try line for the touch-down, his second try of the match.
Seagrave accepted the congratulations of his teammates with barely-concealed elation, the score now 27-14 in the Hastewicke Gentlemen’s favor. A few minutes later, the referee blew the familiar three blasts on his whistle, signaling full time. The Hastewicke Gentlemen were through to the final, thanks largely to Roger Seagrave’s brilliant play.
As he rummaged through his kit-bag a few minutes later, pulling on sweats to ward off the surprising chill of late afternoon in the high desert, Seagrave encountered the note that had been slipped under the door of his suite the morning before: “An anonymous benefactor wishes it to be known that Suite 455 has been booked through the weekend for the discreet use of any Hastewicke Gentleman...”
The tour manager, Henry Bell, happened to
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