by Craig Birk
Chapter Twenty
Primping + Taxi Ride
9:22 p.m.
“I see you wear braces . . .
I wear braces too.”
– Butt-head, Beavis and Butt-head do America
Alex self-parked the BMW in the garage in order to save the valet fee. He popped the trunk and all four doors opened simultaneously. Everyone stood up and stretched. All were happy to be out of the car, though they remained bonded by a shared sense of anticipation. Roger rolled his latest spitter, a twenty-ounce Sprite bottle, under the blue Ford pickup truck parked immediately to the right. The truck, with Nevada plates, had a bumper sticker that read, “I Love Animals. They’re Delicious!”
Gary reached into the trunk and distributed the four similar-looking black duffle bags inside to their respective owners. He unzipped his briefly to insert the Bag O’ Tricks and the group moved toward the entrance of the hotel.
In the next sixty-seven minutes, much was accomplished:
Alex checked into a standard room with two queen beds
They stopped in the sundries store and bought eight Heinekens, four Dasani waters, one pack of Big Red cinnamon gum, one pack of Orbitz mint gum, one pack of Marlboro Lights, one pack of Dunhill Milds, and two sticks of cherry flavored Chapstick
Each showered
Alex shaved his chest and armpits
Roger sent five hundred dollars from his online sports book account to Alex’s PayPal account in exchange for five hundred-dollar bills
Gary stepped out of the room into the hallway and had a six-minute phone conversation with Blair
Roger ordered twenty-four hours’ worth of continuous porn on pay-per-view
Each dressed
Seven Heinekens were consumed
Gary won $12 from Roger playing $1 hands of blackjack on the bed
Highly satisfied with themselves, the group left the room and took the elevator down to the main floor. Each wore similar variations of modestly faded jeans with black shoes, though Mike’s were half-boots while Alex donned pointy-toed Salvatore Ferragamo loafers with no socks. Mike had on a white button-up shirt with small red vertical stripes, successfully completing the default outfit for all twenty-five- to thirty-five-year-old males in Vegas in 2006. Gary donned a bright red satin button-up shirt with large blue buttons and small blue vertical stripes in the front. The back featured a large image of Papa Smurf, who was giving a thumbs-up signal and had a big smile under his white beard. Gary bought this particular shirt on Melrose in Los Angeles a year before he met Blair. He had only worn it three times, all in Vegas. Based on the earlier conversation in the car, it provided a round of laughs when he emerged from the bathroom wearing it. Alex had selected a patternless, canary-yellow Prada cashmere sweater he purchased a few weeks ago at Saks while visiting New York. The Elvis sunglasses were back on his face. Roger wore a shiny black-collared short-sleeved shirt that he used for most occasions requiring something more formal than a tee shirt.
Inside the elevator, Sheryl Crow informed them that love is a windy road. The walls in the elevator were mirrored, giving the group a final chance to check their look before heading out for the evening. They approved of themselves wholly, though Alex slightly modified his hair. At the ground floor, before the doors had fully parted, Roger slipped out and was quickly two paces ahead of the group, heading directly toward the $25 blackjack pit. Gary ran to catch up and subtly steered him away from the tables, convincing him of the merits of waiting until they got to the Hard Rock before gambling.
Alex, who rarely smoked outside of Vegas, lit a Dunhill and then walked briskly to join the group. The four headed toward the main exit of the casino side by side. Had anyone been watching from the door they may have been reminded of a softer, yuppie version of the walking scene from Reservoir Dogs.
Outside, the air was considerably cooler than in the casino, but just as smoky. Taxis and limousines, half of them bright lime green with the Palms logo on the side, swarmed around like bees outside a nest. High-heeled twenty-something girls in miniskirts and small dresses walked speedily in every direction. An even larger number of men, nearly all wearing jeans and light colored button-up shirts, also milled about but somehow seemed more stationary.
A mixture of people of all ages formed a taxi line that snaked to the left for about eighty feet. Alex quickly estimated it would take at least fifteen minutes to secure a cab in this fashion. He found this to be an unacceptable solution. Without saying a word to anyone, he dropped his cigarette, cut his way through the line, and walked briskly away from it toward the direction most cabs were approaching. Ninety seconds later, after guaranteeing the driver a twenty-dollar tip to skip the normal taxi line, Alex returned to the main entrance in the back of a yellow cab, waving the others in.
Gary hopped into the front seat and Roger and Mike joined Alex in the back, with Roger in the middle. The cab reeked of cheap perfume. Roger, Mike and Gary simultaneously took a few seconds to appraise their new driver. She was attractive, in her early thirties with long dark hair featuring voluminous bangs supported by a lot of hair spray. She was quite obviously Russian. Gary confirmed this by checking her cab license which identified her as Svetlana Federova. She looked much better in person than in the picture. She became universally more attractive once she began to speak. “Sooo, boyszz, veer do vee go on dis night?” she asked slowly in a thick Russian accent, treating each word as if it were its own entity.
“Anywhere you want,” Roger answered stupidly.
“Hard Rock please,” Alex overruled.
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like the cab driver from Pulp Fiction?” Mike asked tentatively.
“Ahh, yez. Many times,” she purred slowly. Continuing, she asked, “and, you, vat do you sink?”
“I think you are way hotter,” Mike said.
“Tank you, tank you veeery much,” she offered.
Sadly, no one had any ideas on how to spur additional conversation with their new friend. Instead, they sat in silence and awkwardly fastened their seatbelts while she navigated the taxi across Las Vegas Boulevard and into the entrance to the Venetian. This led to a back exit with direct access to Koval which quickly led to Paradise Drive. Ultimately, they began to discuss amongst themselves the details of the arrangements for the night and clarified who was covering which expenses. Alex instructed everyone to make sure they were together and ready to go into the club no later than midnight.
Two minutes before arrival at the Hard Rock, their sexy escort began to speak again. “So, boyzz . . . do zou know vaaht Teeeger Voods and Meeekel Jagzzon haaav in couwmmon?” she asked, again nearly purring.
It took everyone a second to realize she wanted to tell a joke. Gary, being in the front seat, felt obliged to act as spokesman. He remembered this joke and recalled that the punch line would be that they both liked to play with little white balls. “No. What is it?” he asked anyway.
“Zey are both neeeegers,” she said even more slowly, her accent deepening. She took a few seconds to let the answer sink in, then coyly looked around the cab for a reaction. A childish smile crept onto her mouth and into her eyes.
There was a moment of stunned silence followed by a simultaneous eruption of laughter. “No fucking way,” Alex said to no one in particular, though he turned his face toward Roger, eyes wide, and began elbowing him lightly in the ribs.
One minute later, the cab came to a rest immediately in front of the main entrance to the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino. Alex, who had finished laughing but was still smiling stupidly, handed the driver two twenties for the eighteen-dollar fare. Three doors opened and the four exited the vehicle. Roger, still chuckling lightly, was the last to get out of the cab.
Inside the hotel, Fly Away by Lenny Kravitz was playing loudly, overshadowing the buzz of the crowd and the incessant jingle of slot machines.
