Luke - Sex, Violence and Vice in Sin City

by Aaron Cohen

  Chapter Seven

  See, this is the kind of shit that makes me want to move out.

  Luke is mad, mad about begin taken for granted, tired of being treated like an employee and not a family member.

  Artie’s filthy clothes – coated in desert grime and dwarf sweat – are on his bed, which now needs to be fumigated.

  How am I supposed to sleep here tonight?

  Uncle Owen, always Mr. Nice guy, said, “Yeah sure” when the two dusty weird dudes asked to clean up.

  “Why not?” Owen asked, without bothering to consult Luke.

  And now steam pours out of the bathroom door. Artie sings happily, sometimes whistling, enjoying his shower.

  Luke wonders why his shower? Why not in the main house? Because the main house is just so sacred. Oh no, let the guys shower up in the pool house. It’s not like Luke has lived there for nine years and thinks of it as his own.

  “You alright in there?” Luke calls out.

  “Just fine!” Artie says and whistles a cheerful note.

  “Terrific,” Luke says and walks back into what he thinks of as his living room, even though he is reminded constantly that nothing about this place is truly his.

  Not mine. On loan. Property of Uncle Owen. I’m just the employee who lives here.

  A huge picture window overlooks a giant kidney-shaped pool. Cacti, bushes, flowers, and decorative rocks have been artfully placed, creating the look of a welcoming desert oasis, one that Luke has been trapped in for too long. At the far side of the pool, a waterfall created from round stones and miniature palm trees pours water into an expanse of rippling aqua. It is a beautiful view, and Luke gets sicker of it every day.

  On the walls that aren’t glass hang framed posters from his favorite movies: Goodfellas, Murder Inc., Public Enemy, Miller’s Crossing, and, of course, Godfather and Godfather II. Luke would rather sleep with a horse head in his bed than hang a poster for Godfather III, but if you ask him in a weak moment, maybe after a few beers, he’ll have to admit, it wasn’t that bad and he’s seen it maybe 10 or so times.

  He lives in Uncle Owen’s pool house. He doesn’t pay rent, because he busts his ass 12 to 15 hours a day working for the family landscaping business. The way he sees it, it’s his pool house and he has earned his privacy. He isn’t 16 years old anymore, sneaking girls in and smoking weak grass and covering the smell with cherry air freshener.

  Now he’s 30 and he doesn’t sneak girls and grass in because he doesn’t have to. He can have girls, pot, porno, a keg of beer or whatever, whenever he pretty much wants.

  That’s the way it’s been since he turned 18 and his uncle said: “You’re a man now. I’m not going to tell you what to do. Be at work on time, work hard, and the rest of your time is your own. Keep in mind that if you ever do anything to bring the cops into my house, I will tear your nuts off with a pair of pliers. Capece?”

  Luke doesn’t feel like a man. He feels like a slave, kept in a lavish slave’s house and fed delicious slave rations. He is trapped, chained by his duty to his Uncle Owen and Aunt Beri. They took him in as a baby, raised him, fed him, clothed him, and were always decent to him. Yet, they never, ever, called him “son” or even pretended that he was anything other than a semi-close relative. He is introduced to others as their “nephew,” not their offspring.

  “Your parents?” his Aunt Beri said with a shrug of her shoulders about a decade ago. “Who is to say where they are? We don’t know. But they were nice enough to give us you. That’s something, right?”

  That was all she would say about where Luke came from.

  He stares out at the beige, two-story mini-mansion his uncle and aunt live in and wonders when and how he will be able to make his escape. Then again, what is keeping him? He can get in his car and drive away right now, get a real job, build his own life.

  Who am I kidding? I’m not going anywhere.

  “You have superb taste in motion pictures,” says Cecil, startling Luke out of his daily debate with himself.

  Cecil is looking at the framed poster of Goodfellas, studying it, giving it some thought. He looks a little wistful.

  “Goodfellas in particular is a realistic depiction of what those times were like,” Cecil says. “And you might say to yourself after seeing the film, ‘Those guys certainly were assholes.’ To make the record clear, the word ‘asshole’ isn’t strong enough to describe a few them. Still, glorious days, glorious, glorious days…so long ago, when we were young.”

  “You knew those guys?” Luke asks, now far more interested in the weird old man than he had been.

  “Knew them?” Cecil asks. He turns and looks at Luke with a smile in his eyes. “I’ve testified on several occasions that I didn’t know them. Why should I change my story now?”

  “Did you work in The Organization? Did you know anyone? You know, back when Vegas was Vegas?”

  “Yes, Vegas isn’t quite herself these days, true. And yes, in those days, there were a few people of worth whom I did know.”

  “Who do you know now?”

  “As I’m fairly certain you are not a member of law enforcement, I’ll assume your question is out of mild curiosity and I’ll forgive it. One doesn’t talk about the people one knows to one he doesn’t know.”

  “My uncle was almost a connected guy, way back in the day, but never worked his way up the ladder. Said the business wasn’t for him.”

  “You say that like you think the business might be for you.”

  “I…well…I have an interest. I’m just not a go-to-college, work-in-a-cube guy, you know?”

  “Would you like my advice?”

  “Sure.”

  “My best advice to you, my boy, is to go to college and work in a cube. These days, that’s where the money can be found…”

  “Not for me. I want to make my own way…”

  A women’s voice shouts from Luke’s bedroom.

  “And hurry, we are running out of time. Ben Two-Cans, you are our only fucking hope,” she says and her voice disappears.

  What the hell? Luke thinks.

  He heads to his bedroom followed by Cecil. He sees Artie at his computer, naked but for a towel wrapped around his waist, clicking away on the keyboard. On the screen is the frozen face of a gorgeous brunette, great lips, seems vaguely familiar.

  “What the hell are you doing on my computer?” Luke asks.

  Artie pulls a data stick out of the computer and palms it, pretending as if no one saw.

  “Nothing! Just checking the weather,” Artie says. “It’s going to be hot!” He whistles like a kettle just reaching a boil.

  “Seriously. What were you just looking at?” Luke asks.

  “Nothing at all. A little YouTube. A monkey washing a cat, a dog riding a skate board, that kind of thing, you know?”

  Cecil says, “My little friend, let’s see that video. I’m curious myself as to what mission you’re on and why we risked our lives.”

  “Mission?” Luke asks.

  Artie’s towel looks like a floor length skirt. His thick arms and barrel chest ripple with muscle hard muscle. The guy is built like a fire hydrant, and looks to be as hard as one.

  “Any chance my clothes are washed yet?” Artie asks. “We need to get going soon.”

  As if on cue, Aunt Beri walks into the pool house and calls out cheerfully: “Hello! Laundry service!”

  She has Artie’s clothes in her arms.

  “Luke,” she says. “Your uncle needs you in the house. And you, Mr. Artie, here are your clothes.”

  “We aren’t done here,” Luke says and walks away, out the door.

  Artie takes his clothes from Beri.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Indeed, thank you so much for your hospitality,” Cecil says.

  “Always nice to have company,” Beri says.

  “Always nice to be treated with such graciousness,” Cecil says.

  Beri giggles. Artie slips on his shirt and ponders how it is that C
ecil can say a few words and have this otherwise sensible seeming woman giggling like a horny school girl.

  Chapter Eight

  Inside the house, Luke and Owen sit at a long dining room table covered in stacks of papers, folders and legal pads.

  “One more year, Luke,” Owen says. “Just give it one more year, get us through this rough patch, and then I’ll give you enough money to go to any college you want.”

  “I don’t want to go to college. I’m too old for college. Who wants to be a 30 year old freshman? I want to meet a few of your old friends from The Organization.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about. It’s not a movie. Never was. And it’s shittier now than it was back then. You know what The Organization is into these days? Dry cleaning, trash collection, and payday loans. Maybe strip clubs and escorting if you’re lucky. Adult bookstores with peep show booths. You want to mop those floors? Seriously, it’s not what it used to be, kid.”

  “I don’t want to work for them. I want to write about them. It’s an incredible story.”

  “Screenplays again? Come on, Luke. Be realistic. You are wasting your time.”

  “Not a screenplay, but maybe a story, or book. Or something. I will make it work.”

  “You said the same thing about being a singer, then about being a guitar player, then about writing a novel, then it was DJing. These are not careers; these are hobbies. You don’t seem to know the difference.”

  Luke has heard this speech before and doesn’t feel like hearing it again. What’s happening now, right in his home, feels like a movie, feels like something that wants to be written about. His uncle wouldn’t understand. This feels special. Then again, so did the first time he sang in front of an audience and the time a short story he wrote was published in a small literary magazine. But the band broke up after that one gig and he never sold another story. Failure and defeat follow his every success.

  This feels different. Something is new.

  “You just want me to mow lawns the rest of my life,” he tells his uncle. “I’m a hired hand. You just pay me better than the Mexicans.”

  “Luke, that is not fair. This could be your business when I retire, and that’s not so far away. Even if you don’t want it, you could show a little gratitude.”

  “Thanks for paying me for working my ass off.”

  “I give you a paycheck? Is that all I’ve given you? A job?”

  Luke forces his mouth shuts because if he says the words in his head, he will do damage that won’t be undone.

  There it is, one more time, thrown back into my face. You took me in, you raised me and I am not your son. I’m your charity case. Well fucking thanks. And now go fuck yourself. I’m out of here.

  He breathes, lets it go, decides to change the subject.

  “Have you ever heard of Ben Two-Cans?” Luke asks.

  Owen is silent for a few seconds. When he speaks again, all the anger and preaching is out of his voice. It is humble, almost reverent.

  “I haven’t heard that name in a long, long time.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A made guy, a big deal back in the day. One of Las Vegas’ celebrity gangsters, sold himself off as some kind of Robin Hood, a gangster champion of the working class and the poor. Fucking guy. He was something. Why do you ask?”

  “Artie and Cecil, I think they know him.”

  “Then they are two people you shouldn’t know. I’ll call them a cab and they can get out of my house right now.”

  “I’ll give them a ride,” Luke says and springs out of his chair and out to his pool house.

  Owen sighs. He thinks to himself, The kid has his father’s crazy blood in his veins. He is either going to be rich or get himself killed. That would be a shame. The kid has potential.

  ***

  “Where did Artie go?” Luke asks Cecil, who is lounging out on Luke’s leather couch. Aunt Beri sits next to him, blushing, with a smile on her face Luke has never seen before.

  “He seems to think he has pressing business with Ben Two-Cans,” Cecil says. “I decided it was wiser to stay here and wait for his return.”

  “How is he getting there?”

  “Your aunt, such a gracious woman, called him a cab. If she wasn’t married to your charming Uncle Owen, I’d be of a mind to…”

  Aunt Beri giggles.

  “Oh stop, Cecil,” she says. “Luke, I’m sure everything is fine. Cecil is more than welcome to stay. If you want to catch Artie, I’m sure he’s still at the front of the house waiting for his cab.”

  “Cecil, let’s go.”

  “I assure you, we are much better off not interfering in his business. Some of the people involved seem to have guns. I’ve met them.”

  “Get your ass up and away from my Aunt or the next thing I do is drag you back out into the desert and leave you there.”

  “Luke, no need to be rude,” says Aunt Beri.

  “Indeed my boy, no need to rush after my miniscule friend,” Cecil says. “He can fend for himself.”

  “He’s delivering something of value to Ben Two-Cans, one of the richest, most successful criminals in Las Vegas history. You don’t want to be there for a share of the reward?”

  “You make a valid point, an extremely valid point.”

  ***

  Luke drives his shiny red Mustang. Cecil rides shotgun and Artie is in the back. They roar through the desert to southwest Las Vegas where millionaires and billionaires make their homes behind gates, brick walls and armed guards. Here are the homes of boxing champions, rock stars, box office idols, movie producers, hedge fund managers, casino moguls, pharmaceutical salesmen (legal and not), porn stars, porn producers, and many others who find themselves with too much cash and a need to be close to their vices.

  Even though these exclusive communities are carved out of a lifeless, inhospitable desert, they often have names that make them sound submerged, names with words like lake, brook, river, ocean, bay, and shore. These moist words are combined with words that imply an Eden-like fertility, words like green, forest, meadow, valley, woods, willow, oak and pasture.

  Should you want to name a new housing development in Las Vegas, choose one word from the first list and one from the second. You may start immediately your development plans for Green Lakes, Forest Brook, River Meadows, and Willow Shores.

  The richest residents of Las Vegas sometimes live in gated communities set within gated communities. It might seem a little odd that after you pass one guarded gate and move through a paradise of tastefully designed homes that you come to another guard and an even more impressive guard shack. The ultra-rich seem to need to guard against the semi-rich.

  Past the two guard shacks are huge homes designed by the world’s greatest architects, exclusive golf courses, swimming pools and tennis courts meant only for people in the very highest of tax brackets (almost none of whom actually pay taxes).

  Getting past the first guard shack isn’t hard. Luke enters a four-digit code on a key pad to lift the gate, a code Artie knew to lift the gates of many Las Vegas apartment complexes and gated communities: 2121. Double blackjack.

  The guard in the shack doesn’t seem to notice. He is watching a small black and white TV and pays no mind.

  “Works almost every time,” Artie says.

  The second gate, the gate to the inner sanctum of Las Vegas luxury living, is going to be more difficult. No key pad. A real guard. With a real gun. A sturdy looking gate set within concrete posts. Driving around it, and even ramming through it, isn’t an option.

  They would have to talk their way in.

  “We’re here to see Ben Costa,” says Luke to the guard with a smile.

  The grim looking guard – with his buzz cut and crisply ironed uniform – seems to take his job more seriously than the guard at the outer gate.

  “You aren’t on today’s invite list. Shall I call Mr. Costa? Whom should I say is calling on him?”

  “Uh…Well…A couple old friends of h
is…”

  “That’s not going to be good enough. How about a name?”

  Artie yells out, “You tell him Leanne has a message for him, and he needs it right now! Chop, chop!” He issues a piercing whistle like he’s hailing a cab three blocks away.

  The guard peers in at Artie and squints his eyes.

  “You don’t look like a Leanne.”

  Luke says, “My name is Luke, and these are my friends Artie and Cecil…”

  “Okay, sir. Let me call Mr. Costa and see if you are welcome.”

  The guard steps into his shack and dials the phone. He keeps an eye on Luke, who tries to hold his friendly smile.

  The guard hangs up after 30 seconds.

  “Mr. Costa doesn’t seem to be at home,” he says.

  “Fuck this guy,” Artie says. “I’m out of here.”

  Artie climbs over the seat and tumbles out of the window, lands on his feet with surprising grace, and makes a run for it.

  “Hey!” shouts Luke.

  Artie trots as fast as his legs will let him. He passes underneath the traffic gate barely needing to duck.

  The guard dashes outside his shack and sees the galloping little person invading the territory he has sworn to protect.

  “Breach! Breach!” the guard yells into his collar mounted walkie-talkie as he takes off after Artie. He leaps over the gate, catches up to Artie in four strides, extends his foot, hooks it around Artie’s left ankle. The midget on a mission tips over and slams into the asphalt.

  The guard reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a set of handcuffs.

  Luke runs toward them.

  “Hey! That is not necessary. He didn’t mean any harm.”

  “Sir!” the guard says. “You are trespassing and if you don’t return to your car, I will take action.”

  “What are you going to do? Shoot me because I stepped over a gate?”

  “Sir, you have been warned.”

  The guard places the handcuffs back in his holster and pulls an 8-inch black metal rod out of his belt. With a flick of his wrist the rod triples in length. He waves the thin iron cudgel in front of him in a figure eight. It makes a whooshing sound as it cuts through the air.