Dr. Sorani had just ordered a small drink at the bar in the Las Vegas motel when a lean young stranger with sun-bleached golden hair and tanned cheeks took the stool beside her. After asking for a gin and tonic, the sunburned young man nodded toward the gaming tables.
"Name's Alan Silver," he said genially. "It's sure great to be back in civilization and hear money talking out loud."
The renowned detective introduced herself. "You spent some time in the desert?"
"Got back yesterday," said Silver. "Washed the dust out of my ears, had a real live barber shave off seven months of whiskers and beard and trim this mop of wheat. Then I bought a whole wardrobe on credit. All I had to show was my assay report. Boy, am I ever ready to celebrate."
"You found gold?"
"That's right. Hit pay dirt." Silver stroked his bronzed chin thoughtfully. He lowered his voice confidently.
"Listen," he said. "If I can find a backer, I'll take enough out of those hills to buy ten pleasure palaces just like this one. "Of course," he added apologetically, "I'm not trying to interest you, honey. Still, if you know somebody who'd like to get in on a sure thing, let me know. I'm staying in room 210. Can't give out details here, you understand."
"I understand," said Sorani, "that you'd better improve your story if you want to part some sucker from his money."

What is wrong with Silver's story?