Ang poked his finger up his nose and stuck his teeth out over his bottom lip. “Dong dong dong,” he said. He didn’t speak any of their dumb dialects.
The kid frowned and turned away from him.
Ang was American. Grew up in Boston. He liked big tits and bare ass. Pot and beer. Red Sox and ultimate fighting. Watched pay-per-view porn. Tailgated hybrids with his SUV. He didn’t rock the vote.
In fact the only thing he liked that was Chinese was the #17 lunch special at the chink take-out joint down the block from his apartment. He didn’t know squat about General Tso or what war he was in, but damn, that guy made good chicken.
Never having met his parents, Ang was adopted as a toddler by a couple of rich Internet investors looking to save a foreign kid to get them into Heaven. They bought him toys and gelled his hair and dressed him in cashmere and Reeboks. Sent him to private schools and enrolled him in photojournalism classes, probably because they figured all Chinese kids liked cameras. He used his newfound skills to sneak pics of the neighbor’s teenage daughter trying on her training bra and developed them in the darkroom Mom and Dad had built for him, which turned out to also be a great place to masturbate. They never came in there, so he did, frequently.
He grew up loaded and spoiled and was still pretty loaded and spoiled, even with the dope and the hookers and the gambling. Every picture was worth a thousand words and about ten thousand bucks, if it was the right kind of picture. And most of his pictures were the right kind, even the first one he ever sold. He was seventeen and wandering a private beach in the Hamptons, avoiding his parents and sneaking shots of hot chicks napping in the sun. All of sudden he spotted Shayla Cole. She was wearing shades and a baseball cap and a bikini, but he knew it was the girl from the popular TV show his parents watched every week. He followed her, camera at his side but lens pointing at her rear end, pressing the button over and over. Then she jogged up the beach and ducked into the clubhouse restrooms. Without even thinking about it he went right in after her. Her stall door was closing. There was a fat lady primping herself in the mirror and she didn’t even turn around. He ducked into the stall next to Shayla Cole. Waited until he heard her peeing. Stood on his toilet, stuck the camera over the connecting wall, snapped a picture, jumped down, opened the door, and ran the hell out of there. He sprinted down the beach, heart pounding, grinning like an idiot. He ran all the way to back to their rented beach house and went into the bathroom and looked at the picture. She was sitting on the toilet, legs open, bikini bottoms around her ankles. He masturbated four times in a row. A month later he sold the picture to a website called Celebritease and got a check in the mail for a thousand bucks. After that he never did anything else.
He was no dumb chink, he just acted like it. Using the no-speaky-English routine had gotten him out of ten arrests in five different countries (none of them China) and fourteen lawsuits. He had an outstanding warrant here and there that would catch up with him eventually, but with a big payday he could buy off whoever he wanted. Being the infamous internet paparazzo the Kamikaze Cam made him a target for every celebrity lawyer in Hollywood trying to kill the freedom of the press. They want their celebutantes pictures kept out of the magazines they should tell them to stop getting out of limos with no panties and attacking innocent bystanders after an all-night bender.
The brat was staring at him again. Probably wondering why he was following them. Ang tugged down his baseball cap and flipped the kid off.
Rude gestures were his only second language.
The Vietnamese army huddled around a door at the end of the hall as they tried to figure out how to work the key card. Ang hung around a second or two, playing with his cell phone to look like he was doing something. He scanned the hallway. No other guests and his newly adopted family were ignoring him. He put the phone to his ear, faking a call, and casually walked towards a door marked Employees Only. He pushed through it, ripped the matchbook out of the doorjamb bolt plate, stuffed his cell in his pocket and waited ten minutes. If anybody from security barged in on him he would make dong-dong noises and play dumb Chinese guy. He waited another ten minutes. A couple doors in the hall opened and closed. Nobody came to get him.
So far the hunt for a good Shanndon shot had been one long waste of time. First he’d spent all that time and energy getting into their suite only to be attacked by a maid with a spray bottle. He didn’t know how much water he’d splashed onto his eyeballs but they still burned and his mouth tasted like tangerine. Then after that he’d checked his pockets and found his hotel receipt missing, which meant it was in the suite where the jerk in the tuxedo probably found it. He’d taken a last ditch effort at the limo arrival, hoping for a nice up-skirt shot of Shannon with no panties or a thong, and gotten locked into the stretch by the tuxedo again, who was quickly turning into his arch nemesis. He’d spent forty-five minutes in that limo while he had banged on the partition and just kept circling the casino until he’d had to piss so bad he’d threatened to do it on the leather interior. Finally the guy had dumped him off at a gas station three miles up the road and he’d had to walk all the way back through the woods. Gave him time to think, though. Come up with a plan.
So far it was working out. Nobody had seen him come through the Employees Only door. Surveillance was probably zooming in to look down girls’ blouses on the casino floor. He knew a guy in Vegas who worked the cameras. They really did that.
He hit the lights. Steel girders sprayed with heat retardant framed in a high-ceilinged storage area. Desk chairs, end tables, coffee tables, armoires, nightstands, side tables, dining room chairs, mattresses, bed frames, headboards, and bubble-wrapped artwork filled the room. This was the place the hotel staff referred to as the attic, a furniture storage room, even though it wasn’t on the top floor of the hotel.
He walked down the cramped makeshift aisles and saw the storage cage that was outfitted with metal tool cabinets, long work tables, and busted furniture in various stages of repair, all clamped, glued or varnished. He saw the broken chair from his own room waiting by the door with a note card taped to it. Broken by guest, Rm. 1823.
That had been part of Plan B. Break some furniture in his room so the employees would have to take it to a storeroom to either get fixed or replaced. He’d only had to hang around in the stairwell for twenty minutes until he heard grumbling housekeeping employees lugging furniture from his room. He’d followed them, ducked into another stairwell, and when they came out of the storeroom he’d opened up the stairwell and just gotten to the attic in time to stick his foot in and stop the door from closing. A matchbook shoved into the bolt plate stopped the lock from engaging, and he had himself a hidey hole. He’d taken the stairwells all the way down to the lobby level, then followed the crowds to the parking garage, taken the stairwells again (there were hardly ever cameras inside of stairwells,) and gotten his duffel bag of equipment from his rental car.
He knew once Shannon got into the suite there would probably be security posted in the hallway. He also knew if the tuxedo had his room receipt, they had his name, and they would kick him out. Maybe ban him for life. Not that he cared; he still had work to do.
Walking through the jumble of furniture he found a dark corner walled in by dusty armoires. He kicked one of them. Stinking torture chambers. He would never look at another one the same way. A few more minutes of searching found a small cage where they kept replacement lamps. This was what he wanted, somewhere there was an outlet. Had to test the lamp before you took it out of here, right? He found a few extension cords just for that purpose, already plugged into a wall outlet, loose ends coiled on the floor. He dropped his duffel and went to find some furnishings, settling on a nice velvet wingback and a leather ottoman. Out came the laptop from the duffel. A handful of Slim Jims and a warm Dr. Pepper. Leather gloves. One hundred and sixty-five feet of kernmantle rope. A nylon climber’s harness and some complicated doodads the guy at the recreational store said were called SRT ascenders.
Laptop hot, he scrolled through his documents and chewed on a Slim Jim. He found the file he had downloaded from the internet a few days before, just in case things got complicated.
He clicked on the document and the page came up, titled Rock Climbing Equipment and Techniques.
“Time to get Kamikaze on your ass, tuxedo boy,” he said, ripping off a hunk of beef jerky and leaning forward to read.
Chapter Nine
“If you want my sex in your sex then your gonna hafta put a hex on me. Baby. You gotta wait ‘n see. How big. My sex is gonna be.” Brandon thumbed the digital voice notes app on his iPhone, his right leg bouncing up and down to keep the beat bouncing up and down in his brain. Head bouncing up and down he clicked on the app again to record. “Bouncing up and down. You gotta get on down. Get up get down. Downtown. Riding on my little mound. Ah shit no.” He snapped off the recorder, muttering under his breath as he peered out the window of the limousine at the passing Connecticut night. “Down. Frown. Town. Noun. Drown. Aw yeah.” He thumbed the touchscreen and picked up the beat. “Bouncing up and down. You’re gonna wanna drown in my sex! That’s hot!” He thumbed off the app. “Marty did you hear that track I just laid down? That was fuckin hot.”
His tour manager, sitting on the limousine side seat bent over his laptop, face washed in blue light, said, “I heard it. Fucking hot.”
“No, no man.” Brandon shook his head. “You’re too old to say fuckin. You say it like fuck-ing. Sounds weird.”
The forty-year-old tour manager, who was also Brandon’s Uncle Marty, looked up and focused through his Hilfiger eyeglasses. He said, “Fuck-in.”
Brandon barked out a laugh. “Just say it quick. Fuckin.”
“Fuck-IN.”
“No, no, listen to me.” Brandon leaned forward. He shot his hand out and snapped his fingers. “Fuckin. Like that.”
Marty snapped his fingers. “FUCKin.”
“Fuckin forget it, man.” Brandon was cracking up. He stuffed his hand under his ribbed tank and rubbed his hand over tattooed abs. “You say it like get the fuck IN here or some shit. You can’t even say it. Don’t say it. I can’t take it anymore.” He coughed out laughter and turned to the dark window. “Are we in a tunnel or something?”
“It’s nighttime in the backwoods of Connecticut.” Marty had refocused his laptop. “Native Sun Casino. You’re playing the nightclub.”
“Nightclub? Will there be chicks there?”
“No,” said Marty, taking a sip of his Scotch on the rocks. “Girls don’t go to casinos. Old people go to casinos.”
“The BranFans will be there. Bet on it.”
“I already made the call.”
“Why am I doing a show for old people?”
“Because,” said Marty, looking up from the laptop and sighing. “Those old people spend lots of money on presents for their teeny-bopper grandkids, all of who want your albums.”
Brandon slapped his hands together and trilled out a high-pitched laugh. “You said albums you dumbass. You’re so fuckin old Marty. Hey, hey.” He leaned forward and smacked the back of Marty’s laptop. “Did you call that chick? The head of my fan club?”
Marty adjusted his laptop screen. “Vanessa.”
Brandon snapped his fingers. “Yeah. She coming?”
“Where’s the Scotch?” Marty found a bottle in a panel bar and refreshed his drink. “Yes, she’s coming.”
“She ain’t yet but she will be – damn! Did I show you the pics of her?” Brandon held out his cell. “Her nipples are like, perfect.” He stared at the screen. “I’ve never seen anything like that. Makes me want to drink my milk, know what I mean?”
Marty grimaced, shook his head, and went back to work.
“I can’t even talk to you about this stuff.” Brandon sank back into his seat. “You’re like a fag or somethin.”
“Delete that picture of the slut,” said Marty. “Before Shannon finds it on your phone.”
“Oh thanks for the advice Uncle Marty,” said Brandon. He reached down and grabbed a handful of the front of his pants. He scrolled through the pictures. “I’m gonna bang that shit again. Make her bring some BranFans with her. Spank her this time. Make her cheeks all red.” He scrambled around on the seat until he found his iPhone again. “Beat. Beat. Feel my flow.” He bobbed his head and stomped his foot. “I’m gonna spank ya red and make ya wish ya said you wanna bang me in dat bed!”
“Sounds like date rape.” Marty sipped more Scotch and wondered how long Shannon Moon, beautiful young starlet, was going to put up with his white trash pop star of the month nephew.
Marty had watched them together over and over, trying to figure out what his nephew had done to deserve such ridiculous luck.
A high school friend of his broke out for one single, a DJ remix for a popular artist, and brought Brandon along to a party held by the record label. Brandon, drunk or high or both, pants hanging down so low only his ball sack was holding them up, grabbed a microphone and started doing some freestyle with his DJ buddy. What was that idiot’s name? DJ Benji. Jesus. So the record company people start to realize how awful DJ Benji was, but they have some studio time booked, so they bring in Brandon in the hopes that together they won’t suck so much. Brandon, young and cocky with a crooked smile, a skinful of vulgar tattoos, and killer abs, got booked on one of MTVs break-out artist shows and his single got highest download that following weekend. Pretty soon iTunes picked him up for an exclusive. Youtube was bombarded with homemade karaoke versions of the song. Ring tone rights were sold. Facebook page blew up. Nationwide radio picked up the single Sexybitch. He was off and running, lucky little shit. And his Uncle Marty, after having struggled his whole life as a middle-class CPA in a Midwest accounting firm, now spent all of his time babysitting the kid that everyone had tried not to strangle to death at family get-togethers.
And even with all the blind stupid luck in the universe, when God sneezed and the flem of fate struck an Eminem wannabe called Jerry Gertler (Brandon was his middle name) and made him famous, plus tossed in the unbelievable bonus of bumping into Shannon Moon during what must have been an amazingly needy and vulnerable time in her life, the kid just kept doing his best to screw it all up by screwing every female fan that landed in his lap.
Of course Uncle Marty enjoyed a few of them too, but his wife was in rehab somewhere in Ohio so what the hell. He had to get something out of this for having to put up with Brandon, and that something was the occasional secondhand BranFan, along with all the money he siphoned into his own personal accounts.
Power of attorney was a beautiful thing.
Brandon’s cell emitted a ring tone of his newest single Money Stank, which was going out on wide-release within the month. He slapped the seat, shouted something unintelligible, and then put the phone to his ear while he kicked Marty repeatedly in the leg. “Hey hey hey baby wassup? I was just talking ‘bout you. No shit. No shit.” He showed Marty the picture ID on his cell phone. It was the nipple shot again. “’Course I know this is you Vanessa! How could I forget my number one BranFran baby? You at the casino? Whatchu wearing?” Brandon dug his hand into his crotch again.
Marty tuned him out and balanced his personal accounts on the laptop. They were getting five hundred a minute for the nightclub show. If he could keep Brandon in there for a couple hours that would be sixty grand. He’d shove forty into their production account, put twenty into his personal account, and then go back and pay himself again out of the forty grand in the production account. Maybe even negotiate an autograph signing after the nightclub show, or get the casino to put on an after-party and pay Brandon the contracted rate for however long he could stay there before running off to stick his erection into somebody.
Brandon tossed the phone onto the seat and said, “I can’t wait to bang that bitch again.”
“Use the upstairs guestroom in the suite. Lock the door. There’s condoms in the nightstand.”
“Raspberry?”
“Yes, Bran,�
�� said Marty, pouring himself more Scotch. “Fuckin raspberry.”
Brandon smacked his hands together. “Hey! You said fuckin right!”
Marty smiled and moved around a little more of his nephew’s fuckin money.
Chapter Ten
They stepped into the elevator and Antonio pressed the button for the Ballroom level. Above the button panel there was a six-by-six LCD screen advertising the Million Dollar Texas Hold ‘Em Tournament. After a few seconds it dissolved into Brandon’s appearance at Twilight.
“We have to lie,” said Antonio.
“About what?” Max tugged at his shirt collar. It felt damp.
Sonny said, “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m quite serious,” said Antonio. “We have an extremely high-profile celebrity guest who is making a personal request. We’ve accommodated stranger things in the past. You might recall Alice Cooper’s boa constrictor.”
Sonny winced. “It swallowed most of my hand before you got to it.”
“Also the celebrity that requested we all convert to Scientology before she arrived.”
“I still have the lapel pin,” said Sonny. “And a headache from listening to all those audiotapes. Sometimes at night I still dream about aliens.”
“The movie director that video taped every move we made.”
“Every morning we got our lines in envelopes and had to memorize them. I had to speak in a French accent.”
“The young heiress who had affection for call girls of a rather burly persuasion.”
“I still can’t believe the nineteen-year-old Norwegian beat me at arm wrestling.’
Antonio nodded. “You see. Fulfilling this odd request for Miss Moon will simply become an anecdote of our profession.”
CASINO SHUFFLE Page 7