[Veritas]

"Hey, Springs!"

Springs turned around to see the smiling face of Criss Angel, with his pint-sized girlfriend under his arm (literally under it--she barely came up to his chest), both striding toward the bar. Seeing him dusted off a few memory cells in his aging brain: he remembered he was going to meet Criss' mother, Didi, for lunch that day at Adamo's. Lucky thing the guy came along, or Springs would have forgotten it.

"So, how's it going?" Criss asked.

The old man merely shrugged. "Can't complain," he said glibly, despite his past musings while he had been nursing his Manhattan. "Just killin' time before my lunch date with your ma."

"What time are you meeting her?"

Springs thought for a moment. "Twelve-thirty."

Criss glanced at his watch. "You've got half an hour 'til then," he said. "Like some company?"

"Hey, why not?" Springs said. "Pull up as stool and make yourselves at home, here. I always do."

Criss sat down on the old man's left while Sandra took the stool on the right. Immediately the bartender appeared before them. "Can I get you anything?" she asked.

Sandra ordered a Mimosa while Criss asked for a Martini. Springs declined another Manhattan. "Trying to cut back," he muttered in the way of an excuse. "Don't wanna be too crocked when I meet yer ma, y'know."

Criss chuckled a bit. "Say, you remember Sandra, my fiancee', don't you?" he asked. "Sandra, this is Springs. I told you about him, remember?"

"Yeah, you did," Sandra said. "Nice to meet you, Springs."

Springs tilted his glass in a salute. "Same here," he said.

There was an awkward moment of silence, then Criss found something to say. "So," he began, "how was the opening of the new mobster museum? Heard you were there for it."

Springs drained the last of his Manhattan. "Not only was I there, Angel," he said, "but you're lookin' at the guy who cut the ribbon."

"Wow," Criss said, "that must've been quite an honor."

"Yeah, well," Springs hedged, "it was no big deal, really."

"See anyone you knew from the old days?"

"Besides Oscar, not really."

"Who's Oscar?" Sandra asked.

Springs looked at her. "Whaddya mean, 'who's Oscar?'. Oscar Goodman, the mayor, that's who! Ain't you read the papers?"

Sandra was surprised. "You know the mayor?"

Springs nodded. "Oh, yeah," he said. "Used to be the defense attorney for just about everyone in the rackets back in the day. Damn good one, too. Kept me and The Guys outta jail. Oscar and me, we go way back."

"So, uh, did you have fun at the opening?" Sandra floundered, still stunned at this sudden revelation about the mayor of Las Vegas.

Another shrug. "I wouldn't call it 'fun'," he said. "I guess the best word would be 'bittersweet'. Lotta photos of what Vegas used to be, but there are a lotta things I'd rather forget."

"Like what?" Criss asked.

Springs turned and faced Criss. "A lot of things," he repeated more emphatically. "Things you're better off not knowing." He swirled the melting ice in his glass. "Take it from me, kid," he said, "ignorance is truly bliss as far as my past is concerned."

"But you told everything in your book," Criss argued.

The old man shook his gaunt head. "Not everything," he said. "There's a lotta stuff I've forgotten over the years, and there's a lotta stuff I wish I could forget. Things that not even old age can erase, y'know. The mob museum bought back a lot of it, unfortunatly. I dunno why they had to glamorize it like they did. They don't know the half of it, the half I lived through. The dark side."

"The dark side?" Sandra half-whispered fearfully.

"Yeah, the dark side," Springs repeated. "The fear you live with every day. The feelin' yer gonna get whacked any minute. Tensing up every time a car drives past you, thinkin' there's some hitter in the back seat with a gun, ready to blow you straight to hell. Never knowin' when either the cops or the Syndicate is gonna come knocking on your door, and not just for coffee, either. Fearin' for your loved ones, knowing they make easy targets for payback. That's what I'm talkin' about."

Springs sighed heavily. "How the hell I survived all that in one piece, I'll never know," he said. "Sometimes I wonder why I did. Why didn't I go belly up with Mick and the rest of The Guys? Why am I still around?"

Criss laid a sympathetic hand on the old man's leg. "Springs..."

"Nah, nah, nah," Springs said, brushing him off. "Don't gimme that! You know my life's story, Angel: two divorces, lost my only son in 'Nam, and that whole mess with Mick's will. Everybody I know is dropping like flies around me, but me? I just keep on goin'. They should have given that stomach transplant to someone else, someone younger with more to look forward to in life. Why the hell do the keep me around, anyway? I'm just an effing relic from the past."

Criss leaned forward. "Because we need you," he replied. "You're practically the last living link to Vegas' golden era. You're here to set the record straight, to look past the glamor and glitz of it all and tell the truth about what it was really like back then. We need someone who's been there, seen it all, and lived to tell the tale. That's why you wrote your book, wasn't it?"

Springs grimaced thoughtfully. "Yeah, maybe," he replied in a low voice.

"And you're also here to take my mom out to lunch, remember?" Criss reminded him. "It's almost twelve-thirty--you better get a move on!"

Springs glanced at his watch and hopped off his stool. "Holy (bleep)!" he exclaimed. "I'm damn near late! See to the tab, willya, Angel?"

(to be continued).

[RACHEL02189]

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

[Veritas]

Originally Posted by RACHEL02189

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm?

[Veritas]

Sorry I'm stuck, folks. Gimme time, okay?

[Loyal Lady Dee]

It's all good, Veritas, take your time writing this-you obviously have put a lot of work into your fanfictions, and if it's time you need to keep up with the story, than it's time you should take! You are a great writer!

[Veritas]

(con't)

Criss could only stare at Springs' retreating backside. "Uh, yeah, sure," he mumbled bemusedly. "Uh, have a nice time."

The old man walked out of the lounge and headed for Adamo's. His pace was brisk for an eighty-eight year old man, but it was slower than from his younger days, and he tended to shuffle a bit. At least he never needed to use a cane or a walker like many of his generation still living. So many people his age or younger were confined to nursing homes or assisted living facilities, unable to feed themselves or even go to the crapper without help. Springs gave his deceased friend, Rob Bluseman, the accountant of the Guys, a mental note of gratitude for helping him become financially secure enough to stay independent. Good ol' Blusey, he mused, don't know what we'd of done without him.

"Excuse me, sir."

Springs turned and faced a brown-haired hippie type in a dirty grey t-shirt and grungy jeans holding out a white sheet of paper. Unpleasant memories of anti-Vietnam protesters and civil rights activists flooded into his brain. He wanted nothing to do with this punk and whatever cause he was supporting, and besides, Didi was waiting for him at the restaraunt. "I ain't got time for all this," he grumbled, brushing away the flyer, "get outta here."

The hippie was not to be deterred. "Sir," he said, trailing behind Springs, "do you realize that NASA has been deceiving the American public for over forty years? They've created the biggest hoax in history with a phoney moon landing!"

Springs halted in his tracks and twisted his head around. "Whaddya mean, hoax?" he said.

"But it's true!" the hippie insisted. "The entire Apollo 11 moon mission was a fake! They didn't even go to the moon! It took place right here on Earth!"

Springs looked squarely at the shaggy-haired young man. "Son," he said paitently, "I don't know what dope you're on, but I think you need to sober up and reread your history books. You may be too young to remember the moon shot, but I was there, and I saw it. There ain't been no hoax, no way, no how, and they got the pictures to prove it."

"That's just it!" the hippie cried. "All those photos, all that film footage--they were all produced in a Hollywood-type sound stage! It was all a set-up from the start! If you look closely, you can see the fakery..."

Springs began to wish he did have a cane, so he could beat some sense into this nutjob. Instead, he grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him closer. "Listen, pal," he said in his best mob-enforcer voice, "I don't know what game you're playin' here, but there ain't been no hoax, got it? There. Ain't. Been. No. Hoax. The moon shot was real, real as we're standin' here. Now, if I were you, I'd get my sorry ass outta this hotel--or else!" He released him with a shove. "Now, beat it!"

The hippie stumbled away, muttering curses under his breath. Springs headed for Adamo's, muttering curses under his. Damn hippie punks! Gotta turn the whole effing world upside down, just to cause trouble! The nerve of that guy, saying the Apollo mission was a hoax! Why, that was a slap in the face of the whole country and everything it stood for! America busted its collective ass getting those three astronauts (he couldn't recall their names at the moment) to the moon and back, and this was the thanks they got? Buncha effing Commies, that's what they were! They should go back to effing Russia, if that's how they feel!

His sour mood did not lessen when he arrived at Adamo's, despite the professional courtesy extended to him by the staff. He sat down at his table with a grumbled thanks and ordered a glass of white wine. In spite of his irritation, he pragmatically chose to lay off the cocktails before lunch; God forbid Didi should think he was a lush.

His eye caught a list of events hosted by the Luxor. For lack of anything else to do besides drink himself into a stupor, he picked it up and skimmed it over idly.

There was that strip show, Fantasy, but Springs had long ago lost his taste for such erotic entertainment; age and two failed marriages had seen to that. There was that red-headed comedian, Carrot Top, a wierd looking character whose very appearance would have had an audience screaming with laughter; he would have been a hit in vaudeville. On the serious side, there was that human body exhibit Springs found too gruesome for his taste: he'd seen too many freshly killed bodies in his time to care about some dissected, preserved ones.

And, of course, there was Criss Angel's MindFreak with Cirque de Soleil. He had seen it with Didi when they had first met and he had been bowled over by it. Quite a show: it was big, it was loud, and it was snappy, a far cry from the old vaudeville pull-a-rabbit-out-of-a-hat-variety magicians he had seen back in Queens as a kid. Still, Angel could have done with a better wardrobe. Those ragged jeans and t-shirts--hell, he didn't dress any better than that hippie he had run into. Didi should talk to her son about his personal appearance if he was going to stay in show business, he thought.

Springs looked around the restaraunt. What the hell was keeping Didi? Did she forget? Nah, her memory wasn't that bad, even at seventy-five. Maybe she stopped to talk to her son after all. He smiled as he imagined the scene. Christopher! When are you going to get some decent clothes? Here you are, the most famous magician in Las Vegas, and you dress like a bum! I should have Danny introduce you to his tailor--at least he knows how to dress!

"Danny?"

Springs looked up and saw Didi standing before him, a vision of lovliness in a light blue summer dress. His sour mood about the hippie sweetened at the sight of her. Ever since he had met Didi (her real name was Dimitra; she had a tongue twister of a Greek surname which he always had a hard time recalling), his long, lonely life had become brighter, or at least more bearable. They had gone out to dinner together, seen the shows (and not just her famous son's, either), strolled the grounds of Springs' estate. She had even been his escort for the grand opening of the mob museum. It wasn't romance they were after, not at their ages. Besides, Didi was a widow who still harbored feelings for her late husband, John, and Springs was twice divorced; love and marriage was out of the question for both of them. They were just two lonely old people seeking companionship.

Remembering his manners, he stood up and pulled out the chair opposite from the one in which he had been sitting. Didi took her seat, smoothing the skirt of her dress as she did so. Springs sat down across from her. "Sorry I'm late," she said.

"Oh, no, no, no," Springs said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It's a woman's perogative. And, anyway, it was worth the wait."

Didi blushed. "So," Springs began, "howya been, Didi?"

"Oh, fine," she replied, "and you?"

"Well, I'm still kickin'," he said. "You're lookin' good, as always."

"Oh, well, thank you," Didi said, blushing even deeper.

A waiter in a starched white shirt with a black bow tie arrived. "May I take your order?" he asked politely. "Would you like something from the bar?"

"Uh, yeah," Springs said. "I'll have another white wine. Didi?"

"I'll have the same," she said.

The waiter gave a little bow and swept away to fetch their drinks. "No Manhattan today, Danny?" Didi asked.

Springs shook his head. "Had one at the lounge already," he said. "Met your son and future daughter-in-law over there."

"Sandra?"

"Yeah. She's a little thing, ain't she?"

"Oh, she's almost as tall as I am, really."

"So, when's the big day?"

"Well, they promised me to keep it a secret for now," Didi replied. "They want to avoid a media circus. But I promise to send you an announcement at least," she added quickly.

The wine arrived in flawless crystal goblets. Didi ordered a pasta salad while Springs went for the salmon fillet. "Doc says I gotta eat more fish," he explained. "Good for the old ticker, y'know."

They chatted about this and that as they waited for their orders, the tone of their voices blending in harmoniously with those of the other diners. Soon, the topic of conversation turned to the subject of Springs' little run-in with the hippie conspiracy theorist. "That guy had some nerve," Springs said, shaking his head, "saying the moon shot was a hoax. Hell, I saw the whole thing on the tube, and I'm tellin' ya, it was no Hollywood soundstage, that was for sure! You saw it yourself, didn't ya, Didi?"

Didi smiled. "I remember some of it," she began, "but I was too busy putting Christopher down for his nap. He was only a baby at the time, you know." Her tone turned more serious. "But I do agree with you, yes," she said. "I don't know where that young man got such a silly idea, but I'm sure Buzz Aldrin will straighten him out when he gets here."

Springs was puzzled. "Buzz Aldrin is coming here?"

"Why, yes, of course he is," Didi said. "It's right here on the program." She handed him the card he had been perusing earlier. "You can read it for yourself."

He looked at the program card more closely than he did before. Sure enough, there was the announcement of Dr. Buzz Aldrin's ShareSpace lecture and exhibit coming this very weekend to the Luxor. "Hm," he grunted, "how about that?"

"I'm sure Buzz can prove that it wasn't a hoax," Didi said confidently.

"Well, I hope so," Springs said, setting the program aside. "I got a funny feeling in my gut that that hippie's gonna cause trouble when he gets here."

"Do you think we should tell security?" Didi suggested.

Springs thought about it. "Nah," he said. "This joint's got more cameras than a TV station. If that punk even looks like he's gonna make trouble, they'll nail 'im on the spot. Hell, they probably got 'im already, hassling people in here, handing out flyers--which, by the way, I know is against the rules here." He sat back with a sigh of contentment. "I don't think we'll have to worry about the likes of him anymore."

[RACHEL02189]

I like Springs and Didi together

[Veritas]

The metal and glass door of the Luxor security office flew open with a bang. Two blue-jacketed security guards frog-marched a struggling young man with shaggy brown hair into the office, almost throwing him down on top of Macaffey's desk. The chief of security hid his surprise at this sudden intrusion under a steely demeanor and brusquely asked the guards, "All right, what's this guy in for?"

The guard on the right, Richler by name, slapped down a sheaf of crudely Xeroxed flyers. "We caught him handing these out in the lobby," he explained. "Plus, he was harrassing the guests about the moon landing or something."

"I wasn't harrassing anyone!" the brown-haired man protested. "I was trying to create awareness of the Apollo 11 hoax!"

Richler twisted his arm a bit tighter. "You keep quiet for now, okay?"

Apollo 11 hoax? That rang a bell in Macaffey's mind. He picked up one of the flyers and skimmed over it:

ATTENTION! ATTENTION! ATTENTION!
America's been deceived for over four decades of lies and forgeries
committed by its own government and "space program"!! The entire
Apollo moon landing has been FAKED!! The film footage and photos
are FORGERIES!! The ENTIRE so-called "moon landing" is a HOAX!!

Macaffey didn't bother to read the rest. He tossed the flyer aside and dug out his notepad from the bottom of the pile of papers covering his desk. He read the note from the telephone call he had received earlier. The guy seemed to match the description all right: five-eleven, brown hair and eyes to match. "You Boone Morris?" he asked.

The man was startled. "How do you know who I am?" he demanded.

Macaffey took that as a yes. "We got an anonymous tip this morning about you," he told him, waving the notepad. "Didn't expect to see you until this weekend, but, since you decided to show up early, you've just spared us a whole lotta trouble and yourself a good deal of embarrassment taking you into custody while Buzz Aldrin was here." He flashed a sarcastic grin. "Thanks for making my job a whole lot easier."

"Yeah?" Morris sneered. "Well, screw you, buddy! There ain't nothing that's gonna stop me from coming back here when he gets here! Swear to God, I'm gonna expose Aldrin for the lying son of a (bleep) he is! I'm gonna show everyone that that so-called moon landing--"

"Blah, blah, blah, big guy," Macaffey droned.

"--was nothing but a government sponsored hoax at the cost of several billion dollars coming out of the pockets of the American taxpayers!"

Macaffey leaned closer until he was nose to nose with Morris. "Listen, Boonie," he said, "I don't know where the hell you got this cockamaimie idea about the moon shot, but you're full of (bleep) as far as I'm concerned." He grabbed a handful of dirty grey t-shirt. "Now, you listen, and you listen good. The moon landing was not a hoax, there ain't no UFOs in New Mexico, flouridated water ain't a Communist plot, no one's planting microchips into anyone's arms, and Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. So, I suggest that you abandon all these nutty conspiracy theories of yours and start living in the real world. Okay?" He pulled him closer. "And," he added, gritting his teeth, "if I do see you here this weekend--or any other weekend for that matter--I'm gonna run your ass into jail so fast it'll make your head swim! Got it?"

He flung Morris away from his desk. "Get him outta here," he ordered his men. "He's cluttering up the place."

The guards turned Morris to the door. "And make damn sure he never sets foot in this hotel ever again!" Macaffey barked as they left.

Morris, however, did not go quietly. "You're making a big mistake!" he shouted. "We got to stop the fakery! You can't suppress the truth foreverrrrrrr!"

The metal and glass door swung shut, bringing a welcome silence. Macaffey picked up the stack of flyers and tossed them into the paper recycling bin, then returned to his computer terminal. He tapped on the keyboard at a slow but steady pace. He was growing more comfortable with a PC these days; pointing and clicking was a breeze. He wasn't much of a typist; he had to use the two-finger hunt-and-peck method, but after years of practice he became pretty good at it. He still let the more tech-savvy younger members of the staff do all the computer work, though--it was easier that way.

"Hmph!" a man's voice spoke. "What the hell was all that about?"

Macaffey stopped tapping and saw Rob Houghton, his second in command. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "You're not supposed to report for duty until six."

"Oh, nothing, really," Houghton replied drily, "just had to make some adjustments to my W-2, that's all. Stopped by to see how things were going." He jerked his thumb toward the door. "So, who was that guy?" he asked.

"Ah, just some conspiracy nut case going around, passing out flyers and bothering people," Macaffey replied. "Thinks the Apollo moon mission was a fake."

Houghton nodded. "Yeah," he said, "I've heard of these crackpots. Paranoid types who believe only what they want to believe in spite of everything. You sending him to the lockup?"

Macaffey shook his head. "Nah, I just threw him out on his ass. Ain't done nothing illegal, really," he said, "just breaking hotel policy about outside soliciting."

"Think he'll be back?"

"Not on my watch," Macaffey growled. "Or yours, got it?"

A single nod "Got it."

"And if he is crazy enough to come back here," Macaffey said, pointing a sausagelike finger at Houghton, "I'll bust his ass all the way to the county jail! I ain't gonna let no nut case like that bother anyone this weekend--especially Buzz Aldrin! It's not every day that a real American hero comes here to the Luxor, and I'm gonna make double-damn sure nothing goes wrong while he's here!"

Houghton's lips creased in a grim smile. "Don't you worry, Luke," he said, "Dr. Aldrin's going to have a completely trouble-free visit. I guarantee it."

Macaffey nodded in satisfaction and returned to his typing. Houghton left the office with a quick, "See ya." The silence returned, save for the clicking of the computer keyboard. The Boone Morris incident was forgotten for the time being. Other things concerned Macaffey now, and one of them was setting up the security detail for Buzz Aldrin's visit. He couldn't help but feel a bit of a thrill at the thought of one of the Apollo astronauts coming to the Luxor. Imagine! A real American hero, the first man to set foot on the moon (well, the second, really; Neil Armstrong had been the first, officially speaking), beating the Russkies into space and proving that America was technologially superior than they were! Like thousands of American boys back in the Sixties, he had wanted to become an astronaut just like Armstrong and Aldrin. He had even enlisted in the Air Force after high school. Unfortunately, joining the space program hadn't panned out for him. Instead, he had found himself grounded on earth, facing the gravity of being a prison guard among the toughest criminals in the state of Nevada, then here in the cushy surroundings of the Luxor Hotel and Resort.

Macaffey shrugged it off. He was too much of a professional to give in to daydreaming. The desire to be an astronaut was just a boyhood dream that had faded into the mists of time. At least he could make sure that Buzz Aldrin had a safe and pleasant stay here at the hotel, free from conspiracy freaks and other dangers which might present themselves.

Still, deep down inside, past the gruff exterior of the chief of security and former prison guard, was the skinny kid from Hoffman, Texas, with the freckled face and gap-toothed smile, wriggling with excitement over meeting Buzz Aldrin, live and in person.

[Veritas]

bump!

[Veritas]

Down in the housekeeping staff lounge, there were others who were just as excited as Big Luke Macaffey about meeting Buzz Aldrin. Lacey Keene, one of the senior maids, was passing around the snapshots her parents had taken of the Apollo 11 launch to her coworkers, explaining each and every one as they circulated around the break table. Mom and Dad Keene had arranged their vacation schedule back in 1969 to witness the momentious occasion first hand, traveling all the way from Lawrence, Kansas to Merritt Island, Florida by car. Lacey, their only child, hadn't been born yet (she would come along two years later), so they were free to travel unencumbered by family responsibilities for the time being. Armed with the latest model Kodak camera and a roll of high-quality color film, the Keenes stood within the crowd of onlookers, ready to record history in the making. It had been a long wait under the broiling Florida sun before anything happened, but the awesome power of the Saturn V SA-506 rocket roaring to life on launch pad LC 39-A at Kennedy Space Center, rising ever upward with the dreams and good wishes of the American people, had been worth it.

"Okay," she said, pointing at one of the faded, yellowing photos,"this one's the rocket before launch; Dad swore it was as tall as the Empire State Building. And this one's the loading elevator where the astronauts got into the capsule. That's one of the rocket boosters; Dad said his Buick could have fit inside it with room to spare. There's a shot of one of Neil Armstrong in there, somewhere."

Dorrie Lance held up a picture. "Is this it?"

Lacey looked at it. "Yeah, that's it," she said.

"You sure that's Neil Armstrong?" Dorrie asked.

"Oh, yeah," Lacey replied, nodding. "You see that red stripe on his suit? That's means he's the commander of the mission."

Dorrie was suitably impressed. "Hm, interesting," she said. "Learn something new every day."

"So, you going to see his show?" Tanisha Verrill asked Lacey.

Lacey's face fell. "Wish I could," she said ruefully, "but I'm scheduled to work this weekend. Be nice if I could go see him, but, well, you know..."

"Gotta pay the bills," Tanisha finished for her.

"Gotta pay the bills," Lacey echoed.

"Maybe you'll get lucky and get his room to clean on your schedule," Dorrie said hopefully.

"Yeah," Lacey sniffed, "and maybe the moon will fall out of the sky."




Lunch at Adamo's had been superb. Springs and Dimitra decided to forego dessert (for health reasons), and, having run out of topics of conversation, left the restaraunt arm in arm, smiling contentedly--just in time to see Assistant Chief of Security Rob Houghton haul Boone Morris to the exit.

Dimitra was startled at this raw display of brute force. "My goodness!" she exclaimed. "What was all that about?"

Springs merely shrugged. "Ah, just some chiseler they caught gettin' the bum's rush is all," he explained. "Looks like that hippie I told you about."

"The one who said the moon landing was a fake?"

"Yeah, him."

Dimitra shook her head. "I don't know why anyone would believe it to be a fake," she said. "I mean, there were tapes, pictures, people were there to see it--why would he think it didn't happen."

"Ah, you know the type," Springs growled. "Conspiracy theorists, they call' 'em. Been around since the Cold War. Kennedy assassination was a hotbed for conspiracies--still is, as far as I know. People think what they want to think, believe what they want to believe. They see things that ain't there, and won't see what is. Like the man says, 'My mind's made up, so don't confuse me with the facts.' Show me anything that happens in the world, and I'll show you a nut job who thinks there's a government cover-up."

"Well, let's hope that's the last we see of him," Dimitra said.

"If I know Big Luke Macaffey," Springs said, nodding toward the security office, "it will be."