I’ve agreed to scope out one of Mr. Cool’s operations. He picks me up at my home in a long black Cadillac. He tells me, “I want you to know that all of the guests you will meet tonight own mountains. In fact, the gentleman whose place we are going owns the mountain where the games are being held.”
I know that “owning mountains” is a euphemism for people that are very, very wealthy; and such is the case tonight. The owner of this palatial estate has a driveway to the main house that spans what seems a mile or more, and halfway up there is a two-story guardhouse, complete with lookouts on the second floor. The lookouts, presumably armed, are there to intercept unwanted guests and escort them off the property, or more importantly, to warn if there’s a cop raid coming their way. We are waved through, and when we reach the main house, I see the shadowy image of a giant structure with a pitched roof.