[ His room had nearly nothing in it. There's a bar with all the trimmings, and some unused kitchen appliances, but other than that it's a vast empty penthouse suite overlooking the city. Some would say he has no possessions. The clever ones would gather that he has possessions on a grander scale than chairs and tables; he has buildings and bodies and souls.

He regards her quietly, and smiles. ]

Oh, I know you. You're a hard one to miss. [ He does, sincerely, mean that as a compliment. And he knows her real name, too, but he'll call her The Countess if that's what she wants. You can be anyone in Vegas, baby, as long as it's not a traitor.

He takes her hand in his own and, instead of shaking it, kisses her right above the knuckles. She seems like the type to appreciate that type of old-fashioned formality that it was getting harder and harder to find nowadays. He's a little too warm, both his hands and his lips, but he's not sweaty or flushed with fever. Just the opposite: he's kind of pale. ] Just Flagg's fine. Or Randall, if you'd prefer.

[ Some people here called him 'Mr. Flagg' but they were too low on the totem pole to get any personal attention so he let it be. This one was special, somehow, in a way that was only half-clear to him, but he intended to tease the rest out. ]

Los Angeles to Las Vegas, huh? Not a long journey, but a hot and dry one. You must be parched.