The clientele look rich and sleek, the tiles and brass are glossy new and the carp in the water features fat and happy. The air-conditioning is still winning the battle against cigarette smoke in the gaming room.

In the Wynn Casino, where, hours before his death, McCarthy had been celebrating the end of his season with team mates at the XS nightclub (long queues, celebrities, pool cabanas), there is a splash of glamour about the place. Or at least of serious cash.

It is usual for groups of young men to get separated on the strip, a taxi driver explains. The nightclubs don't let in big groups of young men. So they split up, wandering the footpath along with the tour groups and hen's parties, and parents pushing prams or taking photos of children posing with scruffy super-heroes. There is no suggestion that this happened on Sunday morning.

Drinking on the strip is not just permitted, but encouraged by the shops selling Margaritas in plastic yard glasses equipped with slings so they can be strapped over the shoulder.

Treasure Island still has a pirate show and the Mirage its famous fountains, but walking the strip is not easy. There are few pedestrian crossings and instead the crowds are herded up over–passes [where beggars linger] and often into the casino complexes themselves.

By the time you get as far south as the Flamingo, many of the venues are older and shabbier. Rather than entering via grand driveways, you can walk straight off the street to a bar or gaming table, and on to the next, drink in hand. At dusk, the women working at the gaming tables swap their cotton shirts for hot pants and tight tees or bustiers, and when business is slow their smiles blaze at any eye they catch.

There is an air of dogged enjoyment among the tourists, but for a young man in a certain mood it could be type of paradise – drinks served long as you can stand and speak; a permanent neon-lit crowd.