by Aaron Cohen
When that happens, I tend to become still, not even participating through nods, merely taking in the words being thrown at me, until the person becomes so flustered or confused that they simply walk away. It shakes their expectations for how humans interact with each other.
That is my super power. Not my height, not my weight, nor my strength, which is great. My power is silence. It is a magnet; it is a lie detector; it is a test, and when I need it to be, it is a weapon.
At least that’s what I tell myself. I can’t speak and it sucks. I make the best of it. What else am I supposed to do?
Chapter Twenty
Luke, Ben, Artie and Cecil cruise down Industrial Road, the road that runs parallel to the Las Vegas Strip both physically and spiritually.
The Las Vegas Strip represents the glamorous public face of Sin City, the face represented in glitzy TV commercials, a well-scrubbed face that makes it seem like there is nothing more wholesome and American than slipping your paycheck into a slot machine while getting free drinks.
Industrial Road is a dark reflection of The Strip, seedier, hornier and hungrier, a kind of evil twin who knows that the “good” twin is just as evil as she is, but better at hiding it.
The Strip’s casinos, when not offering the entertainment of spandex-clad, chain-smoking, anorexic French Canadian acrobats for $250 a ticket, often feature statuesque showgirls that parade on massive stages with their sequined boobs exposed. That is how Strip resorts fulfill the male urge to look at pretty women. Once the show is over and the need to see boobs has been satisfied, the resorts want the audience to leave the theater and get back to gambling, the real business.
The worship of boobs is the real business is on Industrial. Along it and its side roads, clubs both grand and sleazy (well, they are all a little sleazy) feature girls of all shapes and sizes parading on runways, sliding up and down brass poles and gyrating in the laps of men who think $20 for three minutes of physical contact with a hot girl is a good deal.
Every night hundreds of cabs ferry thousands of horny men to the lap dance palaces, neon-lit stages, $100,000-sound systems and girls who will laugh at a man’s every joke, listen with rapt attention to every story, and compliment him until his ego is as stimulated as his libido…until the $20 bills run out. Then she moves on to the next lap.
Luke and his crew park at The Booby Hatch, one of the more notorious clubs in Las Vegas, almost always under investigation by the district attorney, and always coming away untouched, its liquor license and adult business license remaining intact.
“Al Duran owns a lot of titty bars, but this is his crown jewel,” Ben says. “This club makes more money than any club in Vegas, maybe the world.”
“I am a fan of its delectable lunch buffet, which includes king crab legs on Fridays,” Cecil says.
“If you are eating a meal in a strip club, you have a problem,” Artie says.
“I enjoy good food. I appreciate the female form, what is the problem?”
“Finger foods and titty fondling don’t mix.”
“As I was saying,” Ben says. “Because it makes so much money, and advertises relentlessly, The Booby Hatch is a constant target of the DA’s office, and would now seem to be a target of Empire’s.”
“What laws are being broken?” Luke says. “It’s boobs, beer and rap music. It’s innocent.”
“The District Attorney’s office…You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy,” says Ben. “They send in undercover cops to get their jollies rubbed. They try to trick the girls into offering sex for money. They send in undercover narcs to sell drugs. They are shameless.”
“Seems like a lot of work just to prevent a few lap dances,” Luke says.
“The corporate casinos, who own the county commissioners, don’t like the strip clubs and think of them as taking money that should rightly be lost in video poker machines. The politicians like to grandstand and play to the churchgoers, and Vegas is full of churchgoers.”
“I’ve done my share of praying in Vegas, but never in a church,” Cecil says.
“I prayed for an inside straight once, and got it,” Artie says. “I’ve been a believer ever since.”
“When the attacks come, Al and the other club owners fight back with their own lawyers and their own contributions to politicians, otherwise known as legal bribery,” Ben says. “When the dust settles, the clubs stay open and everyone lives to fight another day. Meanwhile, the county commissioners keep their re-election accounts flush with cash.”
“And all to allow a man the chance to have boob glitter applied to his face,” Artie says. “I love Las Vegas.”
“Let’s go talk to Al,” Ben says.
They get out of the SUV and walk to the bright blue building. The sun is almost down, making the sky a blaze of pink and purple. The club’s neon sign, tall enough to be seen by three different freeways, pops on. Two well-endowed, smiling women burst out of neon eggs, their arms thrown into the air in celebration of freedom. They go back into their eggs and will escape again every 15 seconds for the rest of the night.
Inside, the four of them head past the doorman and wade into darkness and pounding rap music. The smell of stale beer and cheap perfume hangs in the air. The crowd is mostly men lounging in chairs and sipping drinks, and the rest is scantily clad women in tall heels, short skirts, bikini tops, and big hair.
It’s a typical crowd for the early evening, white collar guys in khakis on their way home from work, rougher looking guys in jeans and T-shirts who are probably construction workers blowing off steam after a long day, all mixed in with a few lone males sitting in the darkness and staring.
On stage, a tanned, athletic blonde displays her ability to hang upside down from a brass pole using only the strength of her thighs. She slides down the pole slowly until her hands touch the stage. With shocking gracefulness, she flips over and moves into a split, her legs splayed at right angles to her body. It looks painful, but she flashes a neon smile like she just performed a magic trick.
“Wait a second,” says a deep voice right behind Luke.
They turn to see a giant Asian man wearing a gray sports jacket that looks ready to burst at the seams every time he breathes in.
“We don’t serve their kind,” he says, and points at Artie and Cecil.
“Dwarves?” Artie asks.
“Distinguished older gentlemen?” Cecil asks.
“Pimps,” the bouncer says. “The last time we saw you guys, you were recruiting for that piece of shit brothel you work for. Get the hell out.”
“Come on,” Artie says. “We were just talking to those girls…”
“You want to walk out, or fly out?” the bouncer asks.
Artie’s eyes squint, and his lower lip trembles in anger. Cecil knows that means Artie is about to get in a fight with a man who could practically put his little friend in his pocket.
“Why don’t you boys keep an eye on the car,” Ben says, putting his hands on the backs of Artie and Cecil. “We won’t be long, and as you know, this is not a pleasure trip.”
“Yes, splendid idea,” Cecil says. “We’ll be in the car.”
They walk back toward the door.
“That shithead is lucky I’m on a mission, or I’d be using his balls as a punching bag,” Artie says.
“What was that?” the bouncer calls back at them.
“Nothing!” Cecil calls back. “He said nice jacket!”
They walk out the door and into the cool desert night.
Ben turns to the bouncer and asks, “Is Al around? We need to talk to him.”
“Oh yeah? And who are you?” the bouncer asks with a good amount of attitude.
“I’m Ben Two-Cans.”
The bouncer’s eyes go wide with surprise.
“Tell Al I’m here,” Ben says.
“Yes, sir,” the bouncer says and scurries off.
“Didn’t know you were famous,” Luke says.
“I’ve got to see a man ab
out a horse,” Ben says. “Don’t go far.”
He heads off to the men’s room and Luke heads to the bar. He could use a drink, a long, strong one. He orders a Jack and coke, downs it. Orders another one. Downs it.
His options are limited. The police are in on whatever is going on. Can’t call them. Who else could he call? Where else could he go? Hopefully this Al Duran will have some answers, know a way out of this. The guy is famous for being rich and ruthless. If anyone can go toe-to-toe with Empire, it would Al Duran.
He orders a Jack on the rocks, no Coke, downs it, feels his throat burn and his head get lighter. He hasn’t eaten today. He really should have, but he cannot even think of food, not with his aunt and uncle missing. He has to get them back, make them safe. He owes them that.
They had done nothing but show a little kindness, only to have their good deeds punished with bullets and blood. Empire Resorts. Bastards. Corporate rats, looking to own Las Vegas, crushing everything in their in way.
The whisky in him fuels his fire. It feels good, takes the edge of off his fear. He orders another Jack on the rocks.
Chapter Twenty-One
Brandi grinds her ass into the crotch of a man named Roscoe, who sits in a plush chair and grins like he won the lottery and used the money to buy a lifetime supply of Oxycontin. He has Brandi’s full attention, until she sees the tall, blond hottie at the bar, a guy who makes her pussy tingle just from looking at him. That rarely happens to Brandi and never at work.
Brandi has given a couple thousand lap dances and has the routine down. You pay attention, you smile, you flirt, you let them touch you, but not too much. Mostly, you make the customer feel as if he is the only man in the world for the length of one song. And then you ask him if he wants another one. If you’ve done your job, of course he does, and he’ll keep giving you $20 bills until he’s out of them. Brandi is rarely distracted from her work.
But now she is. Something about that boy at the bar makes her heart break. Big and strong, with a great face, a little on the pretty side, and blond hair a little on the shaggy side. More than just being good looking, something seems innocent about him, sweet, something she rarely sees in The Booby Hatch. He also looks troubled, sad, like he is lost. What can he be thinking about? Girl problems maybe. He isn’t even looking at all the tits and ass around the room. He is looking into his drink, thinking hard about something…
“Where the fuck is your mind?” asks Roscoe, annoyed that Brandi’s gyrations on his lap have ceased.
“Nowhere, baby,” she says, trying to recover, get her man under control again. “Just on you. Just on you. I’m so glad you came in today.”
“Who the hell is that? Old boyfriend?”
Roscoe is a grouchy drunk and has quite a few drinks in him. Brandi leans forward, pressing her breasts into his face, putting a nipple on his lips, hoping to distract him.
“He’s no one, baby,” she says.
“The fuck he is,” says Roscoe and shoves Brandi off his lap. She lands on her bare ass, and shudders to think that she is now in direct contact with perhaps the most disgusting carpet in existence.
***
Luke feels a paw on his shoulder, a paw that pulls him around on his barstool to face a truly ugly, angry man. Luke is drunk, annoyed and grossed out by the guy’s beer breath.
“She don’t like you,” the man says.
“Sorry to hear that,” Luke says, and turns back to the bar.
The man pulls Luke’s shoulder again, turning Luke back around.
“I don’t like you either,” the ugly man says.
What is with this idiot? Does he really think I’m dumb enough to throw the first punch? Beer and testosterone don’t mix.
“I’m not so crazy about you,” Luke says angrily, knowing it wouldn’t be a good idea to punch this guy in the face, and also knowing how good that would feel.
Ben appears behind the man, smiling that soft smile, looking kind and grandfatherly.
“My friend, what’s the problem?” Ben says to the ugly man. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“I don’t want a fucking drink!” the idiot screams and swings at Luke, a big looping right cross he telegraphs so obviously Luke almost has time to order another drink before ducking.
A fist as big as a cement block flies over his head, the man’s arm landing on the bar.
Without thinking about it, Luke reaches out and pins the arm to the bar, which forces the idiot to stay twisted, off balance and unsure exactly how to right himself.
Ben pulls his fist out of the front pocket of his jacket, a fist now armored in brass knuckles. Ben punches down into Roscoe’s elbow, like a Karate master breaking a board. There is a muffled crunch, and the arm bends in the middle, as if the man’s elbow was installed backwards. The dumbass issues a scream from his very soul and drops to the ground.
The brass knuckles disappear from Ben’s hand. He says to the Asian bouncer who trots over, “This poor man needs some help! Seems he had too much to drink and has fallen.”
The defeated idiot is on the floor sobbing, holding his arm, which is bent at an unnatural angle.
“Oh gross,” says the bouncer.
Ben takes Luke aside as the bouncer and Brandi try to figure out what to do with Roscoe, who pulls himself into a fetal position and howls with agony.
“Let’s go talk to Al,” Ben says. “He wants to meet you.”
“Why would he want to meet me?” Luke asks.
Ben looks a little troubled for just a split second, then returns to his smooth charm.
“Because you are bringing him something he’d like to have.”
Luke doesn’t think that is the whole truth. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. He just wants to see what Al can do to help his aunt and uncle. The great Al Duran. It will be interesting to see what the big man is like.
***
Outside the club, Artie and Cecil wait in Ben’s Escalade, watching the front door. An ambulance pulls up, lights flashing, siren wailing.
“I must say, I don’t think I like the looks of this,” Cecil says. “The police won’t be far behind.”
“We’re staying,” Artie says. “Don’t even think about driving away.”
“Not to worry, dear boy.”
“Why is that? Did you suddenly find some balls?”
“Not exactly. I would love to drive away and not deal with this stressful situation anymore, but Ben took the car keys from me.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ben and Luke sit in Al Duran’s office, a tribute to the color red, featuring red shag carpet, red walls, and red velvet couches. In a corner is a brass stripper pole surrounded by a small dance floor of red tile. Mirrors surround that corner. New girls must audition there, Luke guesses.
Al sits behind his desk, staring at his computer screen, looking over the contents of the data stick. For the last ten minutes, he has been clicking away on his mouse and occasionally muttering, “burlap bags of shit” and “fucking snowballs and cocks in hell” and “deep fried rat assholes on a stick.” Whatever he is seeing inspires configurations of profanity Luke has never heard before.
It is hard to believe that Al is Leanne’s father. Leanne is beautiful. Even on the hastily taped video message, she is drop dead gorgeous. Al is not. Ugly doesn’t quite apply, because the guy smiles so much it somehow counteracts his big, lumpy nose, his oversized ears, his bulbous, insect-like eyes, his bumpy complexion, and the absence of any trace of a chin. He looks like the offspring of a fly and a gorilla. How he could have fathered Leanne is a mystery to Luke.
But what a nice guy! Luke had been expecting a smarmy, abusive, womanizing brute. Instead, Al turned out to be friendly, jovial, always grinning, and caring. He asked about not just Leanne, but also Luke’s aunt and uncle, and Luke himself. Al had promised to help in any way he could. After talking to Al, Luke felt for the first time in a while that things might turn out okay.
Al looks more worried every second.
“Alrigh
t,” he says, finally looking up at Luke and Ben. “I get what’s going on. We’ve known for a long time Empire was looking to open a massive whore house, and at the same time shut down all the strip clubs. They want to own sex in Las Vegas. If someone cums in Nevada, Empire wants a taste of it.”
Ben laughs at that. Luke sees no humor in anything at the moment.
“How can that be possible?” Luke asks. “This is Las Vegas. The town runs on sex. How can one company think they can own it?”
“We knew David was throwing around a lot of money,” Al says. “Empire has been busy, donating hundreds of thousands of dollars to religious groups, and, get this, hardcore women’s rights groups. Sometime soon, right outside my front door, you are going to see feminist lesbians picketing side-by-side with bible-thumping preachers and little old ladies in their Sunday best. Should be quite a show.”
“You’ve withstood these kinds of attacks before,” Ben says. “You’re still here, and once the latest tide of moral indignation fades away, you’ll still be here.”
“What we didn’t know was how much illegal shit he was doing. Bribery. Blackmail. There might even be a murder or two. This is evidence that not only shuts Empire down, it puts David in jail for a long time.”
“What are we waiting for?” Luke asks. “Let’s go to the FBI. They’ll take things from here. Let’s bring that fucker down.”
“I’d love to,” Al says. “But I haven’t heard from Leanne.”
“Last we saw her, she was back at the Bunny, with David,” Artie says.
“She isn’t picking up her phone.”
“David has her,” Ben says. “That’s his play. We are stuck. There isn’t shit all we can do until we hear from him.”
“In the meantime, I have to wait for my ass fucking,” Al says. “The County Commission votes tomorrow at 10 a.m. That vote is going to get a lot of publicity. Expect a circus with church groups and women’s groups screaming into whatever microphone is available.”
“What about your lobbyist?” Ben asks. “You can still put up a fight.”
