It’s hard to say what goes through the mind of a man who’s lived the last ten years of his life alone on a fake hill overlooking a fake sea, tormented by all-too-real sorrow. It may have been that the Positano reminded him of the happiest years of his life, when the world was like exotic clay in his Brooklyn-born hands. It may have been that he wasn’t yet ready to give up on his vision of Las Vegas, which to him had always been more than just a business but a dream come true, an idea and a hope for a better world. Some say that it was simply that Al Wiles, of all people, belonged to that rare breed of multibillionaires to whom money never really mattered, to whom love and care were the only tangible forces a man could cling to in the long, confusing project of life.