The Milky Way, the hotel where I was scheduled to stay in Las Vegas and whose floor show Fauntleroy was currently headlining, was the town's newest-a vast, foolish beehive of plate glass rearing fifteen stories above the sagebrush, so ruthlessly air-condi-tioned that I was wheezing like an accordion by the time I unpacked.

It was a dark place, with malodorous chambers, miserable food, and a lobby ceiling decorated with as much gilt and gesso as the Vatican chapels.

All saints can do miracles, but few of them can keep a hotel.