!<br > Living Right<br > NO1 UNTIL I HEARD my name called and turned to see a uniform~<br > heavy of prehistoric proportions， a pair of handcuffs on his belt an<br > a gun on his hip， did I know that I could at last relax.<br > Struggling through the crowd to the sanctuary he offered， an<br > mustering a throaty gasp of "I m Holden，" I gratefully surrendere，<br > myself to his protection. With a beam belying his menacing mien<br > this mammoth grabbed my hand luggage and declared， "Welcom~<br > to Las Vegas， Mr. Holden. You look tired."<br > Hank， as a label on his lapel identified him， was one of the<br > security team from Binion s Horseshoe Casino， whose golden horse-<br > shoe logo adorned his epaulets， and whose regulation khaki safari<br > gear， scarcely able to contain the bulk of muscle within， made him<br > look like an urban mercenary out for blood. When not guarding<br >the $1 million in cash displayed in a giant glass horseshoe in Binion s<br >lobby， or patrolling the many more millions wagered each day on<br >the casino floor， the Horseshoe heavies double in an unlikely way<br >as mere limousine chauffeurs， catering to the few mobile whims of<br >otherwise sedentary high rollers.<br > Over there， indeed， beyond the silver palm fronds and neon<br >hoardings that distinguish McCarran Airport from all others，<br >
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