The
NIGHTLIFE: LAS VEGAS
By Travis Luedke
The Nightlife: Las Vegas
Published by Travis Luedke
Copyright 2012 by Travis Luedke
Book Cover Art by Lisa Strong
http://www.freelanced.com/lisastrong
KINDLE EDITION
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Adult Reading Material
Publication Release Schedule:
The Nightlife Series:
I The Nightlife: New York
II The Nightlife: Las Vegas
The Nightlife: BLOOD SLAVE December 2012
III The Nightlife: Paris February 2013
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
Chapter 1
They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but what the hell do they know? Twenty-two year old Aaron Pilan could testify from experience that significant gambling losses––or winnings––definitely follow you home.
After three weeks of hitting the gaming tables, he was practiced at the fine art of gambling. He knew the truth behind the veil of glamour. As P.T. Barnum said, “There's a fool born every minute.” Many a fool arrived in Vegas with a wad of hard earned cash fantasizing about winning big and coming home to boast of the thousands they reeled in during their brief stint as a high roller.
He joined the foolish masses in their desire to hit it big. He fully intended to beat the odds and walk away from the gaming tables, winnings intact. It looked damn good for him at the moment. Of course, being an exceptionally gifted telepath afforded him a decidedly unfair advantage –– definitely contributed to his good luck.
Another caveat to the Vegas rule would be murder. An untimely death by strangulation definitely puts a kink in the high roller status. Aaron read his opponent Alexander Demarco’s mind as the man contemplated this very thing. Poor Demarco had been suffering the systematic and thorough fleecing of his poker chips. He was a very unhappy man.
* * * *
Demarco envisioned a number of ways to kill Aaron Pilan, starting with the quick and dirty double-tap bullet to the back of the head. Upon further consideration, that seemed almost too merciful, too quick and easy. He graduated to fantasies of Aaron begging and pleading for his life out in the Vegas desert. He imagined Aaron hog-tied at the bottom of a six-foot pit as the dirt hit his face while being buried alive. Demarco had personal experience with both methods of murder.
He finally settled on a slightly more violent alternative. Strangulation would be the most satisfying method of killing the punk. He imagined the strength of his own hands wrapped solidly around Aaron’s throat, squeezing out his life as he flailed about feebly. God I wish I could do it right now. He had always preferred the ‘hands on’ approach.
I know that son-of-a-bitch is cheating somehow. His gut instincts were rarely wrong in these matters. The punk always knows exactly when to fold and when to call, he’s impossible to bluff. He could smell a con from the end of the room. No way could Aaron clean him out so consistently by pure chance.
His intuition was sharply honed from the years he spent hustling on the streets of west Humble Park Chicago, between Grand and Arlington, smack dab in the center of Latin Kings territory. He bore his gangland battlefield scars proudly, a soldier displaying badges of merit. The dog-eat-dog survival-of-the-fittest lifestyle was second nature. He couldn’t enter a building without staring down every person in sight and watching all the exits.
This punk can’t weigh more than a hundred sixty pounds. I could take him any day of the week. He sized up Aaron, measuring him against his own two hundred ten pounds of lean muscle and six foot frame of a professional athlete. Why am I lettin this white devil bitch run the show? I wonder if he’s a Fed? Maybe this is a setup. He had an overwhelming feeling he was being taken for a ride. He much preferred being the one doing the taking.
By sheer luck and opportunity he’d been one of the select few who escaped the Federal Racketeering indictment leveled against the Chicago Latin Kings when he moved to Vegas in 2004, a year before the indictment was issued. Everything changed when he setup operations in Vegas. He graduated from small time movements of heroin and cocaine by the gram to major deliveries measured in kilos. His buddies back in Chicago became the end consumer. Long gone were the days of pushing dime baggies out on the street. Now he sold wholesale, fat transactions with sweet profit margins and far less risk of being snitched out by a punk ass junky popped off for banging a gram in a public bathroom.
And here he was a high roller, a shot caller, a badass, punked-out for thousands of dollars by a pinche gringo white devil with a smug smile. He scowled at the pair of fives in his hand and continued fantasizing about murdering Aaron.
* * * *
Aaron was well aware of Demarco's malicious intents. He read all the sordid details in his mind as he raised the pot, smiling at Demarco all the while. He knew his pair of kings would win the hand unless the last card pulled a surprise. Not having learned his lesson yet, Demarco foolishly called his bet and slid another stack of chips forward on the table.
When the dealer laid out a queen, Demarco's losses tallied up to $26,000. More than enough to justify murder. Demarco had once beaten a man to death over a thousand dollars' worth of cocaine on the streets of Chicago. He now had twenty-six reasons to kill Aaron.
When his hand won again, Aaron knew it was time to leave the table. He bid everyone a good night, collected his winnings, and winked at Demarco. It was the wink that finally did it. Demarco literally saw red. The color of everything around him turned a violent shade of pinkish red as his blood pressure skyrocketed, hitting his temples in a pounding throb. The white devil had given him a migraine. He folded his hand and sat there fuming.
Aaron walked away tens of thousands richer. Worse, a drop dead gorgeous blond wrapped herself around the white devil as if she would bang him right there.
“You left them with their pants?”
“Yes love. Shirts. The phrase is ‘lose your shirt’. I feel merciful tonight. They’re still fully dressed.” Aaron caressed Michelle’s face as she cuddled with him, aligning her curves to all his sharp angles.
Demarco’s mind broadcast clearly as he watched Michelle holding Aaron intimately. Demarco seethed with a rare combination of envy and hatred
. In his opinion, a woman like that deserved a real man, not some arrogant young prick. Back in the ghettos of Chicago, Aaron was what they called soft.
He glanced over his shoulder at Demarco with a look. It was not a soft look. In this one instance Demarco's instincts were dead wrong. He was young, but not soft. Not by anyone’s definition of the word.
He scanned Demarco's mind one last time before walking away. Green-eyed jealousy consumed his every thought. They always want what they can’t have. Aaron had become accustomed to this reaction. He and Michelle were a strikingly attractive pair. He knew onlookers considered his dark haired, dark eyed, five foot eleven frame of model caliber, but Michelle was a whole different level of attractive. If not for her petite five-foot two, she could have been a world famous runway model. Her lazy golden curls framed flawless pale skin and vibrant green eyes. Her shapely hourglass curves could win international beauty and swimsuit contests.
All who crossed paths with the couple felt the effect of the magnetic attraction they exuded. They had a phenomenal stage presence drawing the eye of any observer. As several sets of eyes tracked the couple, Aaron remembered his first night spent with Michelle. Just five weeks ago, he awoke to her angelic face and adorably incomprehensible French accent explaining, "This is the magnétisme animal of the vampires."
* * * *
Chapter 2
Demarco's covetous eyes followed Aaron and Michelle as they left the poker table, heading to the elevators. They obviously had a room at Caesar's Palace. This convenient little tidbit of information was all he needed to know. His partner in crime, James Kramer, ran the security staff at Caesar's. Kramer would have the complete rundown of who, what, where, and why on the smug little punk who walked off with his money.
* * * *
Ascensión Celino Gutiérrez, “Oso” to all who knew him, received a text message from his boss Demarco, interrupting his concentration on video poker.
Demarco: Time to go see Kramer
“Chingao!” He hurriedly texted back.
Oso: Done so soon? Que Paso?
Awaiting an answer that never came, he assumed the boss must not be doing so hot at his own poker game. He sent another text as he walked away from the video screen at the bar, a couple hundred lost to the merciless machine. Dat shit ain’t random, I know it’s rigged.
Oso: Ya me voy
He caught up with Demarco as they headed towards the elevator, “Que Paso Jefe? Cuanto tu ganastes?” How much did you win?
Demarco didn’t bother to answer.
“That bad eh? Maybe you should quit gambling? They say that shit’s an addiction!” Oso’s massive shoulders and man boobs jounced up and down as he chuckled. “Que mala suerte tienes.” What bad luck you have.
Oso was one of the only men working with Demarco who would ever dare tease him. He outweighed the boss by a good hundred pounds. The strength of their five year working relationship could withstand the occasional joke at Demarco’s expense, as long as no one else was around. He began to realize just how pissed off Demarco really was. He’d seen him like this several times before. Somebody’s gettin fucked up hardcore. He wished he’d noticed before he opened his big mouth. He found it unwise to provoke the boss at times like this.
He tried to smooth it over. “Just say the word Jefe, whoever it is, we fuck em up. Whatever it is, we’ll take care of it.” He waited, and waited some more, but Demarco didn’t respond. It must be really bad. He hadn’t seen the boss this angry in a long time, not since that idiot in Chicago tried setting up Demarco in a controlled buy FBI sting. Demarco caught on before it was too late––barely, and authorities found the snitch dead in a dumpster a few hours later. A very convenient overdose.
Oso tried one more time, “Who is he? Who we takin’ down?”
“We’re gonna find out right now Essay!” Demarco growled as he pounded on Kramer’s office door.
* * * *
James Kramer eyed Demarco speculatively, wondering if there was any validity to his complaints about Aaron Pilan’s poker game. He wasted not a second pulling up the five separate security video feeds with various angles of view on Aaron as he played at the same table for the past three hours straight. He zoomed in on Aaron from multiple camera views, checking his ears, hands, eyes, his every move, twitch and gesture. At various points when Aaron turned to gaze at the surrounding room Kramer switched to other camera angles to find a potential accomplice.
“There––see––right there––he looked over there. Check it out.” Demarco hunched over the computer monitor.
Kramer hit three other camera angles in the direction of Aaron’s line of sight. Nothing, no one.
Demarco tapped the computer screen repeatedly exclaiming, “There––check that out!”
No matter how many times they tracked Aaron’s gaze to various parts of the casino floor, the result was always the same––nothing. It appeared Aaron played a straight game, albeit an uncommonly skilled one.
He wasn’t overly concerned. The casino security and surveillance procedures made it virtually impossible to cheat at any game. Probably a combination of dumb luck and some marginal card playing skill accounted for Demarco’s losses.
He had seen it all, having worked in casino security for over twelve years. “I understand how you feel, but so far I haven’t found anything strange.”
However, the blond accompanying Aaron was an entirely different story. She had that unique factor. Kramer enjoyed his share of beautiful women. And like all good things of limited supply, he could never get enough where women were concerned. Women flocked to Vegas pursuing entertainment, sexual fulfillment, romance, riches, work. He could make a list of reasons as long as Vegas Boulevard that kept them coming.
He looked over at Oso, winked, then looked Demarco straight in the eye. “I’ve set up an alert on Aaron Pilan. We’ll be watching his every move. I haven’t seen anything yet, but I’ll have the boys review the footage and see if they can catch something.”
Kramer spent a few more moments digging through data. “He’s not a cop or a Fed. He doesn’t show up on any of my databases. He’s just a kid from New York. Gettin awful lucky though, eh?”
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” Demarco grumbled.
Kramer pointed at the screen. “But check out the blond.” She merited some special attention. “Look at that body. She’s something else. I’ll bet she takes it in the ass, too. That one can handle whatever you dish out. Now, she’s casing the room.”
He had watched Michelle’s comings and goings from the casino floor several times over the past three weeks. She flirted outrageously, and the men flocked to her. She invited it. He had watched her being propositioned repeatedly. He took notice of the one time she followed two men up to their room, leaving an hour or so later. He knew the score. She was up for rent, for sale by the hour, one of the multitudes of escorts found in Las Vegas.
“You want me to give her some special attention? I can hook her if you like.” Demarco offered with a knowing smirk. “She’s just your type, and the new product from last week packs a real punch.” The high purity china white heroin they dealt in was so addictive that a girl could be easily hooked in one or two nights of partying.
Kramer admitted, “Be a shame to let an ass like hers get away. I think that’s a wonderful idea.” He smiled.
Demarco smiled back.
A new agreement had been formed. It wasn’t anything they hadn’t done before. Demarco had hooked several different women at his insistence.
Kramer drummed his fingers on the desk thinking, then shot a look of consideration at Demarco. “How about I invite them to a VIP dinner here at the hotel. Let me get a feel for Pilan. And we’ll go from there.”
Demarco sat up all attention. “And you’ll let us take care of the punk when the time is right?”
He thought long and hard. They shared expenses and profits in the cocaine import trade, but he remained conveniently detached from Demarco’s back-alley m
ethods of problem solving. “I really can’t be tied to that sort of thing.”
“If you want her, you gotta get rid of him.” Demarco stabbed his finger at the image of Aaron Pilan frozen on the security monitor.
“Look, let’s do this a step at a time. We’ll talk about it again after I meet them. Let me find out what makes him tick.”
Demarco and Oso nodded reluctantly in unison. It wasn’t an easy sell. Kramer sensed Demarco’s barely contained rage. But he knew his partner would keep a cool head as long as there remained the potential to get what he wanted so badly.
“I appreciate your help, but I think you’re gonna find out I’m right. And if you want my help with her, I need your cooperation with him.” Demarco had just modified the agreement.
They eyed each other for a moment. We’ll see about that. He felt confident he could work his magic on Michelle and pull her out of Aaron’s sphere of influence without Demarco’s ‘help’. Enough of this shit, on to more important business.
“Alright then, Juan Carlos will be here in two days. We’ve agreed on twenty thousand per kilo. He says its premium grade uncut product. We’ll have to see for ourselves when he arrives, but I think we can trust him on that point. We’re taking delivery of five kilos for now. I assume you can move that all at once with your crew in Chicago?”
“Of course, but we’re gonna cut it first.” Demarco stated the obvious.
“I assumed as much.” Kramer nodded.
“We should get at least eight kilos by the time its cut. If the price is right we can unload it all in one shot. What kinda price did you have in mind?”
He who mentions price first loses. He put it back on Demarco. “What do you think they’ll pay?”
“I’d say we should expect twenty-five thousand apiece if we want them motivated enough to take all eight. That leaves enough value on the table for them. I think we could hold out for more money with a little patience, maybe sell them individually for thirty thousand each.”
The Nightlife: Las Vegas (The Nightlife Series) Page 1