by C. F. Waller
“Right, I keep forgetting,” he smirks. “Just a delivery man.”
Chapter Two… present day
Arron Wessker
Crowds of people line the sidewalk around the lagoon in front of the Treasure Island Casino. The worn wooden walkway over the moat is divided by ropes into six lanes, leaving a decent view of the ships on either side. On my right, sits a mighty Pirate ship with a black skull and crossbones flag. On the other side of the wooden walkway, sits a moderately accurate replica of an English Frigate more commonly referred to as Ship of the Line. This bit of information comes directly from a video game I favor, not from any actual maritime knowledge. For the record, I have never been on anything bigger than a speedboat.
Turning sideways, I slip past tourists of all shapes and sizes. working my way to the casino doors. Six times a day the Pirate show lights up the strip, drawing the tidal wave of humanity to the front doors. When the first cannon blast echo’s in my ears, I abandon hope of getting inside. Finding a spot to the left of the mob, I lean on a light pole. The show runs about eighteen minutes, so I’ll wait them out.
I don’t actually have to be anywhere specific, but I had planned on playing some blackjack before heading to work. This would be much easier if I could play at my place of employment. Unfortunately, the Imperial Palace has a strict policy about employees playing the table games. On the up side, it gets me out of that dump. If allowed to play there, it’s unlikely I would ever leave. I’d say it wasn’t due to laziness, but that would be a lie.
A finger taps me on the shoulder giving me a start. Behind me, a young couple stands, hands linked, huge smiles on their faces. Pale skin and shopping bags with Caesars Forum Shops as a dead giveaway they are tourists, although watching the show is also a clue. After an initial pause, the young man asks if I would take their picture. While annoyed at first, I acquiesce and use their phone to snap a nice shot of them hugging and grinning in front of the spectacle of cannon blasts in the background. Before giving the man back his phone, I suggest that he should be more careful handing it over to anyone. This is Vegas and it’s not unheard of for less than honest residents to offer to shoot a pic and then run off with the victim’s phone. The man nods understanding, but I doubt he is taking my advice to heart. The two lock hands and push off into the crowd.
“Two furry bunnies walking through a lion’s den,” I whisper to myself.
As the sea battle rages on, I have the sudden feeling that someone is watching me. A quick scan around the assembled tourists reveals all eyes on the show. On a second pass, I don’t notice anyone at first, but then find a set of eyes to my left, watching me. A man stands just outside the crowd, hands in his pockets staring at me. He wears a blue suit jacket, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The cuffs of his white dress shirt are rolled over the ends of the jacket in a casual way. The image brings to mind the leading men in any number of nineteen eighties John Hughes movies.
I glance away, not wanting to get caught staring, but look back after a moment to check on him. This time he nods, obviously not shy about his interest in me. All around me, the people focus on the performance, but he is watching only me. I look away again, but when I peek back he is gone. Overcome by curiosity, I step back and look down the sidewalk that runs along Las Vegas Boulevard, but can’t find him. The show ends abruptly and I am caught up in the flow of tourists as they flee in all directions. Checking my watch, I see it’s still early leaving me plenty of time before work. My mind quickly resets its ambition to well drinks and card games.
I shouldn’t drink before my shift, but it’s free, so I indulge in several rum and cokes at the Blackjack table. I know Tiffany, the scantily clad waitress, and tip her well in hopes of drawing her interest. I had once pondered asking her out for a drink, but she’s probably in her twenty’s, at least a decade my junior. Weighing the pros and cons of a possible dinner invitation, I watch her move gracefully about the room.
She smiles at a much older gentleman, her hand on his shoulder as they kibitz. His hand brushes down her side as she stands next to the table chatting. A feeling of insecurity rolls over me as I judge his suit to be worth more than the three hundred dollars listed on my last bank statement.
As she draws back from the table, he holds out several casino chips as a tip. She fakes embarrassment at the size of the tip, but then clearly earns it as he leans in and whispers something into her ear. I’m adept at reading expressions and hers indicates whatever he whispers was indecent. Clutching her tip in one white knuckled hand she winks at him and slips away to deliver a drink to another table. The man leans around another blackjack player and watches her backside until she’s out of sight. He then wags a thumb in her direction and mouths something to the man next to him that I guarantee was lewd.
My first instinct is to walk over and grab the man by the scruff of his neck and drag him off his stool, but I don’t. A vivid fantasy about such a confrontation plays across my consciousness. I wonder if doing so would get Tiffany to notice me? More than likely it would infuriate her as future tips would be lost. In all honesty I am just not that guy.
“What type of guy are you then?” I mouth silently, lost in my own dark thoughts.
I should just ask her out, but were I rebuffed it might make me the butt of inside jokes among the staff here. Thusly, I am relegated to the Acquaintance Zone; I spend my time fantasizing instead of actually talking to her. Ruminating in my sorrow, it dawns on me that I’m not an acquaintance. In reality, I am an ATM. Bring the drinks, cash out a tip. My mood darkens a hair more at this reality check.
The Black Jack goes badly at first, but then after the dealer re-shuffles the cards I get a decent count going. While I am no MIT professor counting cards with savant-like precision, I have lived here long enough to get fairly good at it. It’s no guarantee of success, but it lowers the house advantage and other than rolling the dice, it’s the closest you can get to even odds against the casino. I play for two hours and leave the table up about forty bucks, plus the free drinks. This is the life of the bigtime Vegas gambler. Check that, this is my life.
I chew half a pack of gum to cover the rum smell on my breath on the walk back to work. The bartender uniform is black slacks, white shirt, black vest and a cartoonish red bowtie. The tie is embarrassing, but over time I have stopped thinking about it. When asked about my job I always infer something less menial.
“Shirt and tie kind of job,” I chuckle, thinking this always makes me feel less pathetic.
It’s the land of the dead today, but then again, it’s only 4 PM. The Imperial Palace isn’t like the big boy casinos. So many tourists come to stay at Caesar’s or the Mirage, that the time of day becomes a non-issue as the bars and slots are busy virtually around the clock. Who wouldn’t want to stay in a pyramid or a palace? Business here will pick up after 9 PM, so I try not to fall asleep as I dole out drinks to the wait staff.
At this time of day, my job consists primarily of making cheap well drinks that we give away for free. The booze is so cheap that the casino easily gets its money back in poor decisions by gamblers. I was expecting my friend, Jonas, to swing buy for some complementary over poured drinks this afternoon, but he hasn’t made an appearance yet. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him in at least a week. I have never been good at keeping friends. I’ve become an unintentional lone wolf.
“Or lone bunny in my case,” I whisper, recalling my reticence to defend Tiffany’s honor.
I had forgotten all about the guy staring at me on the street until Darla orders a premium drink, not offered for free. An odd occurrence at this time of day.
“I need three rum and cokes, a seven and seven and a double McCallen Twenty-Five on the rocks,” she recites, standing across from me at the service bar. “Rocks glass, four ice cubes.”
“That’s a twenty-dollar drink,” I smirk. “Someone’s either winning big or losing big.”
“I don’t think he’s playing.”
“Wait, you said a
double,” I correct myself. “That’s forty.”
“If you say so,” she replies setting down her tray, then tugging on her short skirt.
“You sure he’ll be there when you get back,” I warn, “They like to order the expensive stuff and then disappear.”
“I don’t take this one as a flake,” she mumbles, turning to scan the expansive casino floor. “No, he’s still standing over there by the cashier.”
Finishing the pour, I set the glass on the bar top and gaze across the floor toward the cashier’s cage. There, looking the same as before, leans the man who was watching me. He nods and stares back. Even from twenty yards away I can see his calm smile.
“That’s forty-up front on the premium,” I mutter, hand out for Darla to pay. “How long has he been here?”
“Just saw him,” she replies, then hands over the money for the drink. “You know him?”
“Not sure,” I admit, my eyes fixed on him.
“I hope he tips like he orders” she sighs as she balances the rocks glass across from the cheaper drinks on her tray and turns to go. “Wish me luck.”
“Luck,” I say under my breath, watching her balancing the tray as she leaves.
Darla and I dated briefly last year, but it ended badly. Soon after we became exclusive, she ran into an old high school flame. He was only in town for a three-day weekend, but after talking on Facebook, Darla agreed to have dinner with him. This turned into a weekend disappearance that did not go unnoticed here at the Hotel. She might have passed it off as a bad cold, but her Facebook profile was tagged on some embarrassing pictures. One in particular featured her sitting in his lap at a strip club. She went out of her way to apologize to me, but our budding romance ended there. Where our places reversed, I have no doubt she would never have spoken to me again. I can’t say for sure why my reaction was so forgiving, but in truth I’m not too fond of confrontation. Shaking this off, I try and focus on the now.
I watch as she files past the slots and passes out several free cocktails. Another waitress stands at the service bar tapping her foot impatiently, but I ignore her, transfixed on the cashier’s cage. Darla glides up and exchanges the drink for payment, then turns in my direction. With her back to the stranger, she winks at me indicating a nice tip was tendered. The mystery man raises his glass and takes a drink. Should I know this guy?
“Can you tear yourself away from gawking at Darla’s ass or should I come back there and pour my own drinks?” Cassie snarls at having been waiting longer than she thinks is permissible.
“I’m not staring at…,” I grouch, but decide not to bother explaining to Cassie. She’s unlikely to be happy with any excuse that entails she wait any longer. “Yeah, what do you need?”
When I’m finished servicing Cassie, the man has disappeared into the sparse crowd. I ask Darla where he went, but she can’t recall seeing him again. The night drags on, leaving me somewhat obsessed with my stalker. My thoughts run from a guy waiting to make a homosexual pass at me, to the possibility that he intends to do me harm.
During a smoke break in the alley behind the Casino, I bounce my theories off a friend who works in the kitchen. I have known Harold for years and consider him a friend, even though we don’t run in the same circles. Harold, a mid-30’s man of color, is openly gay.
“I think you’re overplaying your sex appeal to a gay man,” Harold explains as he smokes, pointing his cigarette to emphasize his point.
“Just because you’re not into me, doesn’t mean he isn’t” I argue in jest. “I tend to be an acquired taste.”
“Arron,” he grins and pauses. “You’re not hiding your light under a basket, are you?”
“No,” I chuckle. “Still straight.”
“Just checking. Sometimes you white boys get confused.”
“Listen Reverend Al, don’t turn every situation into a racial thing,” I accuse, exhaling a stream of smoke into the alley behind the hotel.
“Wait, now I’m confused. Did you want him to be into you or are you just defending your attractiveness in general?”
“Neither, but wouldn’t you worry about a guy following you around?”
“Depends on the guy,” he grins, taking a deep drag. “Depends on the guy.”
Chapter Three
Dominick Dunn
Cars come and go in front of the hotel. Valets put people’s baggage on carts and sweep it away, pausing to accept tips exchange and room numbers. I can’t be sure who’s coming to get me, so I watch each car closely. I was forced to catch a taxi from the airport when no one showed up with a hand-written sign and a private car. Its assumed there is supposed to be a driver waiting, thus I find this unacceptable. Suffering a bout of crabbiness, I wait here in the humid warmth of mid-day. Between looking at my watch and wiping sweat off my forehead, I find time to scroll down my phone, but see I have no missed calls.
“Five more minutes and then I’m going for a drink,” I groan as a silver sedan cruises into the circle drive and just misses hitting one of the valets.
The cars windows are dark, but after a brief pause by the valet stand, the driver must notice me. The car pulls forward and lands at the curb near my feet. The door opens and over the hood of the car I see a woman hidden behind huge copper framed sunglasses. The lenses are blacked out, but she pushes them up on her head leaving me surprised.
“Ronnie?”
“It’s Rah-nee,” she replies sharply. “Get in.”
How long has it been since I have seen Rahnee? Counting back in my mind I venture a guess that it’s been possibly a decade, but probably less. My employer had used her on and off as an asset, but there was a regime change about five, maybe six years ago. I haven’t worked with her since. Reunion aside, I am not sure if I am pleased or not by this turn of events. When I don’t start for the door immediately, she drops her sunglasses back down and slides inside the car, slamming her door. A few more seconds pass and she revs the engine impatiently.
“Some things don’t change,” I chuckle, opening the door to join her inside.
Before I can get my seat belt on, she rockets out the drive and goes left past a strip of retail stores that line the road. A British voice emanates from the dash telling her to go straight for four miles and then turn right onto Route 65.
“Out of curiosity,” I query, pulling my belt on. “Are you a licensed driver in the United States?”
“You getting out if I say no?”
“Probably not,” I answer.
“Then no.”
“Right then,” I shrug, thinking that question might not have needed asking. “Nice car.”
“American cars are too big,” she smirks. “Like driving a truck.
On the dash are the words Chrysler 300 imprinted over the air bag. It is a big car, but not even close to a truck.
“Where is she?”
“Not far, but there has been a snag,” she informs me, her voice dropping off at the end.
“Not a huge fan of snags. What’s the problem?”
“We found her place, but she got away.”
“She what?” I sputter.
“Got away,” she answers calmly. “Was I somehow unclear?”
“They told me you had her in your possession,” I state for the record. “As in to possess something.”
“We did.”
“How does that happen?”
“I’ll take you to her place,” she assures me, seeming to ignore my last statement.
“I don’t care about her place. They aren’t looking for her place,” I whine.
She doesn’t take the bait and ignores me for the next hour as we drive out of New Orleans into the outlying area. Seeing the radio is on, but has no volume, I turn the dial. A skull pounding rock song fills the car and I immediately turn it down. She glances at me and then turns it back up, using the button on the steering wheel. It’s not so much Heavy Metal as underground Goth music. I push the button to turn the stereo off and she shakes her head, eyes never leavin
g the road.
Before either of us think of something sarcastic to say, she hangs a hard right and pulls up to a house. I use the word house quite loosely. It’s a wooden shack with a sharply angled metal roof. The whole thing sits up on two foot posts the diameter of an electric pole. The dwelling is constructed as if the entire building was on a dock over water, which it is not. There are no men present in the yard and no other cars. I hop out and eye her over the roof of the car.
“Where are your guys?”
“It’s just me,” she replies and heads down the gravel driveway, leaving me standing by the car.
“Why just you?” I ask, pulling up short by the nose of the car to take stock of my situation.
My spider senses are tingling here. Rahnee always has at least three guys with her. It feels off for it to be just her. It’s not lost on me that she brought me out here all alone or that I have not seen her in a very long time. I assumed she was the one that was sent to pick me up, but that may not be true. My ride from the airport never showed up, then Rahnee pulls up and I was stupid enough to get in. Even worse, I am unarmed since I just gotten off a plane. In my line of work people go missing all the time. I begin to sweat through my white dress shirt as the possibilities swirl around in my head. Did they send Rahnee to get rid of me?
Once at the pile of cinderblocks and knotted boards that pass for a front porch, she turns and puts her hands on her hips. I’m frozen, still unsure what this is.
“You coming?”
“Where are your guys?” I repeat, stalling to think.
“This is the sort of thing you have to see for yourself,” she fires back, taking a step toward the car. “Come on you’re wasting time.”
“That’s okay. I don’t need to see it,” I croak, stepping back and fumbling for the door handle.
Shaking her head, she starts moving my way. Just before I pull on the handle, the lock clicks. I see her walking with the key fob held up in one hand. Scanning around, I find nowhere to run. There are several other broken-down houses, but I have seen Rahnee shoot and it’s a moot point to run for it. When she gets to the front of the car I hold up both hands.
