Part II
Las Vegas
11
Leaving Las Vegas
Troy’s Mama always slapped his face when he said anything was a bitch. But there wasn’t a better word for Afghanistan. She never did like cussin’ and because of that, Troy had a habit of exchanging every four letter word he wanted to use with dangit. He thought watching a buddy get his legs blown clean off by a dang IED was a bitch no matter how it got sliced. And speaking of slicing, that’s why he got sent home… a piece of shrapnel from that same bomb flung itself into and almost through his right knee. So, the Army, in their bureaucratic way, had spent millions of dollars teaching him how to fly Apaches and then paid some more to discharge him and send him home. Mostly, he was fine with that.
Only problem was, he didn’t have nowhere to go. He lost contact with his brother, Ryan Bodean, before getting shipped out. He gave a little effort to try and find him after, but he guessed maybe he was still in… or missing… or dead. Troy’s Daddy was long gone from a heart attack. He was only five at the time, so he never got to know the man. And his Mama didn’t last to see ’em come back from the war. Some said she died of a broken heart, but Troy knew more likely it was the meth. So, he did what any vet with a bum knee and no interesting prospects does when they get back stateside… he went to Vegas.
The glory of it all amazed him. Neon lights and pretty girls… all dressed like… well, like they wanted not to be dressed. He rolled into town looking for work flying. There are a lot of whales out there that need private helicopters and a lot of casinos willin’ to foot the bill. But what he didn’t know, is that there are a lot of dudes out there that can fly choppers too. He looked around for something until his belly demanded that he get some money rollin’ in … any money at all.
Working in Vegas ain’t like working anywhere else. Ya gotta know somebody and Troy didn’t know anybody at all. What he did know was that there were a hundred thousand people coming into town every day looking for work and more than half didn’t last a week before they hopped back on the Greyhound bus that brought them in and headed home. He also knew that he’d made it three weeks on odd-jobs and eating scraps with local homeless folks. It’s amazing what gets thrown away behind those casinos out there.
“I think I actually eat better in Vegas than I did in Afghanistan,” Troy said more than once to the workers filling the dumpsters.
However, that ain’t the story I wanted to tell you about old Troy. What I wanted to tell you was how he came to be employed at the glorious Peppermint Hippo … and then how his employment came to a screeching halt. But let me back up. Remember that Greyhound bus I mentioned? Troy learned very quickly that the kind of people that got off that bus more often than not, were young, impressionable gals, hoping to make it big as a showgirl or an actress or something like that. Not many of them did … actually, none of them did. Most of them got chewed up, exploited, abused, and spit out by the flashing Mecca that is Los Vegas. Those that stuck around got jobs serving the steady stream of party seekers that flooded into and then out of the city every day. Some became cleaning ladies, some worked in restaurants or bars, some even maybe got a shot at dealing … but that came with a lot of temptation and most of them left that job with a criminal record. But a selected few got a chance to get on stage barely covering their boobies with flowers, fans, and peacock feathers. Singing and dancing and shaking it up until their bodies rebelled and age caught up with them. With all the temptations of Vegas around—eating, drinking, and doping—the average shelf life of a dancer is something like two years … at best. That’s when they all bailed out. Unless they’d lost enough dignity or just plain didn’t care anymore to head out to the seedier parts of town and dance without the flowers, fans, and peacock feathers.
The music out there was a little louder, meatier, and actually, a little more Troy’s speed. Mostly classic rock, hard rock, and maybe some grunge thrown in for the customers who liked it a little rough. Troy got his job one night when he was foldin’ his last dollar bill and making his own plans to get outta Dodge. He was at a dump of a place called the Peppermint Hippo—46 Hot Chicks and 1 Ugly One. Troy’s kind of place. There were two showers on the sides of the stage with soapy naked chicks at all times. And once they all found out you were a local, they left you alone, preferring the vacationing businessmen with company cash to blow. Or, speaking of blow, they might be scopin’ out drugs, and if you didn’t have any, you didn’t get any … if you catch my drift.
Anyway, a new girl sallied up to Troy on what was supposed to be his last night in Vegas, and started grindin’ all over him. There was an early Aerosmith song playing, so Troy let her do her best. After the dance – which he’d graded a solid B+ for effort—she held out her palm. He looked at it and then slapped her five with his hand. Apparently, this was not the response she was waiting for, so she slapped his face.
“Sweetie,” Troy said shrugging his shoulders, “I’m sorry, but I never asked for that. I figured it was pro bono or whatever.”
“Asshole,” she said, “there ain’t no pro bono bullcrap at the Hippo.”
“Whatever, hun,” he said. “I wish I had somethin’ to give ya, but I’m dead broke.”
He pulled out his wallet, which was completely empty, and showed her the evidence. She huffed and walked away. Troy thought that was the end of it, so he sipped his beer and mentally prepared for his glorious exodus.
But, that wasn’t the end of i t... according to the manager, Troy owed the girl twenty bucks, that just happened to be twenty more than he had. So, he and Troy decided on an appropriate amount of sweeping up the disgusting filth on the floor of the Hippo that would be equal to twenty bucks … about three hour’s worth. The bad news was that Troy vomited once upon discovering a used—well, you know—in the champagne room and narrowly avoided busting in on a couple in the bathroom doing—well, you know that too. The good news was he was there long enough to see the second shift come in.
If you don’t know strip clubs well enough, there’s a few girls that work when it’s still daylight outside. Let’s call that the “B” team. And then there’s girls that only come in after dark when the cash is flowing. Let’s call that the “A” team and I ain’t talkin’ about B.A. Baracus or Murdock A-Team. I’m talkin’ about the difference between having visible scars and drug tracks versus exceptionally smooth skin and no hair sticking out anywhere. Yeah, Troy was there to see the best of the “A” team walk in.
It was common knowledge that the Hippo turned a shade brighter when Gidget took the stage. She never wore anything you could buy at a sex shop, even though she would have it all off before the second minute of her song. And that was another thing she was good at—her dance was a direct interpretation of the song she chose. Her rendition of Hot For Teacher by Van Halen changed Troy’s life. He did indeed have it bad, have it bad, have it bad … She ended the song by flinging her red and green, Tartan plaid skirt on his head as he was sweeping up dollar bills that didn’t quite hit the stage and putting them in a pile by the pole for her.
“Thank you handsome,” she said and scratched his fuzzy chin.
Yeah, so you might not know this, but at that point, the Outback Tea Stained straw cowboy hat hadn’t come into Troy’s life yet. At this point, he was wearing his favorite LSU ballcap.
“Louisiana boy?” she asked as she scooped up the monster pile of singles she had earned with one song.
“Yup,” he said, tipping the cap slightly.
He may or may not have been noticing that she was still completely naked, but he never let his eyes roam. He made eye contact the whole time with her insanely beautiful, shimmering emerald colored eyes. He was mostly sure that’s why she asked him for a lift after work.
The parking lot of the Hippo was a junkyard of crap people threw out of their cars including beer bottles, crack pipes, and used—well, you-know-whats. Apparently, a bottle caught the sidewall of her Mercedes C Class just right and flattened the tire. Tro
y offered to change it for her, but she’d already had a flat earlier this month and didn’t have a good spare.
“Can I bum a ride?” she asked.
Well, seeing as how Troy had sold his car to eat last week … he declined.
“Dammit,” she said, crinkling her nose in the cutest sexy way that he thought was possible. “The dealer can’t get anyone out to pick it up until tomorrow. I guess I can make some calls later and see if I can scare up another ride.”
Troy nodded and tipped his cap and she walked away—cussing his bad luck.
He felt like a teenager, a dang starry-eyed teenager. He wanted an excuse to talk to her again, so he worked out a plan. Get a cab for her. That was the big plan. As he swept the floor, he began to notice random dollar bills with no particular girl attached, so he started stuffin’ ‘em in his shirt pocket. By midnight, he had a grand total of seventeen dollars. As Troy finished off his twenty-dollar payoff shift, the music abruptly stopped. There were no records in those days, but he almost imagined the needle scratching itself off the record. The bouncer suddenly came rumbling down the stairs from the D.J. booth holding a scraggly looking dude by the shirt collar.
As he dragged the guy to the door and hurled him out into the parking lot, he pointed after him.
“And don’t ever freakin’ show your face in here again!” he yelled in a distinctly New Jersian accent.
The bouncer walked back in the club and tugged on his collar to fix his suit jacket. He stopped right in front of Troy and used one hand to slick back his hair. It had several rings on it that matched the gaggle of gold chains around his neck.
“So, whataboutit?” he asked, pointing a finger into Troy’s shoulder.
“Beg pardon?” Troy didn’t know what he was getting at, but he figured it couldn’t be good.
“You ever work a booth?” he said pointing up to the D.J. balcony above the dance floor.
“I, um—” Troy started to say, but the guy interrupted him.
“Thirty an hour—cash. Plus youse can use the apartment upstairs,” he said quickly. “But there’s two rules that our previously employed jackass didn’t seem to want to follow. Don’t mess with the girls and don’t do no blow on company time. Capiche?”
Troy held up his hands to protest. The guy grabbed one and shook it.
“Okay, then, it’s settled,” he said. “Now get your ass up there and make some money for deez girls.”
Thirty bucks an hour was more than Troy had made at anything in Vegas. And he had a place to crash, to boot. He decided he’d give it a try for a few days. He could always stock up enough cash to get on a Greyhound out of town. But that wasn’t exactly how it went down.
At the end of the night, she—Gidget—popped her head into the booth.
As Troy was tucking AC/DC’s Dirty Deeds back into its sleeve she said, “I overheard Vinnie sayin’ you were the new D.J. guy.”
“Yup,” he nodded.
It was at this point that he realized she was still beautiful, even though the house lights had been turned on. Her skin was flawless, no evidence of a previous baby, heroin habit, or appendicitis. Clean. Very clean.
“And you’re stayin’ upstairs?”
His skin tingled. He wasn’t sure whether or not it was because he knew what she was going to ask and was excited about it. Or whether he realized he was about to break one of the only two rules Vinnie had laid down in the employment agreement just a few hours ago.
“Yup.”
“Look,” she said, maybe sensing his hesitation, “I ain’t no hooker and I don’t do drugs and I sure as hell don’t screw the help.”
“Ouch,” Troy wondered if she knew she was failing miserably to make her case for staying.
She laughed, “I’m kidding. I mean, I’m not gonna screw you, but I can’t get a ride. I’ll sleep on the floor. Hell, we don’t even have to speak if you don’t want to.”
Troy nodded in the direction of Vinnie who was counting a ridiculous pile of cash down on the bar.
“What about the boss?”
“Oh, trust me,” she winked and said, “he ain’t the boss. Nah, it’ll be just fine.”
She stuck out her hand. Troy took it and shook it. Soft, crazy soft.
“If you say so, Gidget.”
He had heard her stage name a few dozen times as desperate men and women hollered at her across the room.
“Debby,” she said smiling. “Call me Debby. And you are?”
“Troy Clint Bodean,” he said, like his mama always taught him. Gentlemen always used their full names. “But you can call me Troy.”
“Alright, Troy,” she said, “I’ll meet you upstairs in a few. You like Corona?”
The tingling came back and he just nodded.
“I like mine with orange slices,” she said as she climbed out of the booth. “Hope that’s okay.”
“That’ll do,” he said, and wondered how many of the rules he was breaking already.
The next morning, Troy heard the flatbed truck rumbling in to pick up her car. They hadn’t slept at all. Nothing really happened—just talking and drinking a few beers. Troy began to feel like they had a lot in common. Not that much in common, but he figured it was enough.
She grabbed his phone as she stepped up into the cab of the Mercedes dealer’s tow and punched her number into it. In the space of twenty-four hours, Troy had gone from leaving Las Vegas to holding down a good job with benefits, namely, a sweet apartment and a sexy as hell girlfriend. Or, that’s what he thought at the time.
12
Not A Date
You know, you might be surprised how fast a man can run with only a towel around his waist and not end up parading through the lobby of the MGM Casino in the nude. And you might be surprised to find out that Debby’s husband, Teddy—yes, her husband—looked like a character straight out of the Sopranos. But now that you know that, you might not be surprised his two thugs, Vinnie and Louie, decided Troy was leaving town immediately—as in, don’t worry about grabbing your clothes, just get the hell outta dodge. And it’s all way more innocent than it sounds. So, here’s how that went down.
Troy called Debby after work one night. Up to this point, They had chatted on the phone a few times and had a few beers together. Aside from an occasional peck on the cheek, she hadn’t so much as rubbed his back in a strongly suggestive way—though Troy had thought about that more than once. He thought she sounded a little different this time, her voice took a tone of fear. He wasn’t sure what that was all about.
“Are you okay?” he’d asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said quickly, “I’m good. But I can’t talk right now.”
“So, you’ve been off for a week,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”
“Missed me?” she blurted out a laugh, “you hardly know me, how could you miss me?”
Troy wasn’t sure why she had said that, but he was slightly offended.
“Alright,” he said, not bothering to hide that he was miffed, “guess, I’ll check you later.”
She paused for a second and he could hear a door sliding open and the wind rush against the receiver. It sounded like maybe she’d stepped outside or something like that.
“Hey,” she said quietly into the phone. “I was just kidding. Can you come see me later?”
“Um, sure,” he said, wondering why the sudden change of heart. “Where?”
“At home,” she said.
“Well, that all depends,” he said. “Where is home?”
She paused again, “The MGM. Top Floor. 1013.”
“Whoa,” he whistled. “The Hippo’s been treatin’ you good, eh?”
She laughed nervously but didn’t give any explanation.
“What time?”
“After ten,” she said, “gotta go. See you later.”
“Okay, then,” he said, but she had already hung up.
So, his radar was definitely on full alert. He wasn’t sure what was up, but he knew he wanted to see her. As you
already know, he didn’t currently have a vehicle situation, so he took the city bus. They’re plentiful and cheap in Vegas.
Minutes later at the MGM, he stepped into the elevator with a group of poorly dressed, highly intoxicated frat dudes who were obviously living on the promise that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. He moved to the back of the elevator and just kept quiet until they reached the tenth floor. As he got off, Troy decided to offer the young men a piece of advice—advice that he would someday look back on as ironic.
“Boys,” he said sagely, “I know you’re just havin’ a good time, but remember this. Anything you get caught doin’ tonight will be with you for the rest of your lives. Good evenin’.”
As he said that, they all started laughin’. Oh well, you live and you learn.
He walked down the hall and rapped on the door marked 1013. She opened it in a whoosh and pulled him in quickly. Looking left and then right, she slammed the door and hurried him into the living room.
“Holy dangit, Debby,” he said, as he got a better look at her place.
It was all white marble and white leather and white rugs—hell, everything was white.
“I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Troy said.
She laughed, “it’s just a rental. I haven’t been here for long. I’m actually thinking about leaving it.”
“Hell, I wouldn’t leave a place like this,” he said. “Oh … unless it’s a money thing. Heck, I ain’t got a dollar to my name.”
She gave him an odd look and smiled.
“You want a drink?” she asked, walking into the white kitchen.
“Sure, how ‘bout a beer?”
“Red wine okay? That’s all I’ve got,” she said as she clinked a couple of glasses out of the cabinet.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 5