Instantly, two elderly security guards broke into action. One dragged the dealer away from the table, while the other hobbled to a nearby office where a tank of oxygen was kept for such emergencies. Together they worked frantically over the fallen dealer, one holding his limp body down while the other inserted a dusty mouthpiece and turned on the oxygen. The Castaways is gone now, victim of the times. It turned out the land was worth more than the hotel, and that's the name of that tune.
Memories die hard, though, even in Las Vegas.
It would have been a little more fitting to serenade the Castaways' demise with a somber refrain by Mozart, or even some rip-roaring New Orleans Dixieland. It seemed so cold and impersonal, like tearing down the Alamo to build another shopping mall. In tiny groups the people filed out, while gaming agents methodically taped over the coin slots and men in hardhats began hammering posts along the property lines. Inside a car, a woman cried. Then she slowly drove away, past where the Bonanza used to be, past where the Thunderbird used to be, past where the ElRancho used to be.