Luke - Sex, Violence and Vice in Sin City

by Aaron Cohen

  “My aunt and uncle wouldn’t kill anybody.”

  “You’ve seen that big hunk of blubber bleeding in your front door, right? He wasn’t taking a nap.”

  “I saw him.”

  “And you know that at one time your uncle was connected to an organized criminal enterprise?”

  “Way back in the seventies he worked in a few casinos that may or may not have been connected to something. Everything in Vegas back then was connected to something.”

  “The best thing for your aunt and uncle, the best thing for you, is for you to tell me where this Artie is.”

  “Who?”

  “Very funny.”

  “You seem to know so much. You tell me what happened.”

  “Either your aunt and uncle had a reason to kill or they didn’t.”

  “They didn’t.”

  “You give me Artie, and I’ll cut your aunt and uncle a break. I’ll call it a misunderstanding that got out of hand.”

  “A misunderstanding?”

  “You don’t give me the item, then I’m going to assume that your beloved Uncle Owen and Aunt Beri killed to keep it, and I’m going to charge them with murder. They’ll be in jail the rest of their lives.”

  “You’re quite a detective. You’ve got this whole case all figured out.”

  “I’m waiting kid, but not for long. Are your aunt and uncle going to jail or not?”

  “How much is Empire paying you? Is it on the books, so it looks legit? Maybe you’re a security consultant? Or is it all under the table in cash or maybe casino chips?”

  “Now you’re getting on my nerves.”

  “You’re just cleaning up Empire’s mess. You’re a janitor.”

  “Kid, you’ve got one more chance, and after that, you are in cuffs and heading downtown where we can have a more intimate talk. What will it be?”

  “Make a call downtown, release my aunt and uncle, and maybe we’ll talk about a few things you might find interesting.”

  Luke thinks as fast as he can, but he can only think of one thing, stall. He doesn’t want to give up Artie and Cecil. He knows it would be the sensible thing, the action that could erase all this trouble. What did he care about them anyway? His aunt and uncle are in trouble. He can get them out of it.

  “That’s not the way this works,” Jones says. “You give me what I want first, then I release your aunt and uncle, then we all get on with our lives. Where is Artie?”

  Luke can’t trust this cop, this fat fuck, this tool.

  “I want to talk to whoever you’re talking to at Empire,” Luke says.

  “What?”

  “You aren’t calling the shots. They are. Let me talk to them.”

  “That does it.”

  Jones stands. He reached behind him and pulls a set of cuffs from a belt holster.

  “Stand up and turn around, hands behind your back,” Jones says.

  “Every minute we spend on this is a minute Artie gets further away from Vegas. You want him, you put me on the phone with Empire. Tick tock.”

  Jones freezes. He thinks. Luke watches the fat detective’s forehead twitch, trying to figure out what to do next.

  A car horn blares somewhere near the house, short, loud blasts.

  Jones looks annoyed at the distraction. Luke wonders what’s going on. Is Ben up to something?

  A loud POP echoes through the air, a gunshot, just a few feet away.

  Jones pulls out his Glock and looks pissed.

  “You stay the fuck here,” he tells Luke. He jogs out the front door, a kind of girly trot, a silly look for such a big tough guy. Luke watches Jones go around the pool and to the side gate.

  ***

  A few minutes earlier…

  Ben has his little noisemaker in his pocket. The device is unreliable, dangerous and unpredictable, but in prison, where men were forced to improvise, where toothbrushes are turned into stilettos and moldy raisins brewed into a sweet, yeasty wine, improvisation is what keeps boredom at bay.

  What he did was take a bullet, wrap it in a book of matches, then wrap that into another book of matches, then tightly bind the bundle up with two rubber bands. He liked to think he invented it, the thing he called a Magic Bullet, something he thought of when he wanted a gun, but could only get bullets.

  Bullets are far easier than guns to get in prison, easily slipped into an orifice normally reserved for condoms filled with heroin.

  You want to cause a little commotion, make life a little more interesting for the guards or your least favorite prison gang? Then make yourself a Magic Bullet. It makes a loud bang, and the bullet, not having a gun to direct it, probably won’t kill anyone. But it might hurt someone unlucky enough to get in its way, maybe take out an eye.

  In the front right pocket of his track suit, Ben holds a bundle of cardboard, rubber, lead, copper and gunpowder. A thin sliver of cardboard hangs out of it, serving as a fuse. In his left hand he holds a match and matchbook.

  He lingers at the edge of the crowd, drifting casually to the side of the house, where he won’t be seen.

  He looks to the SUV and wipes his brow, the agreed upon sign. Cecil, behind the wheel, nods. Cecil presses the alarm button on the Cadillac’s key fob. The thing goes crazy, headlights flashing, horn blaring. The crowd and cops turn to look, wanting to see the source of the new commotion. Cecil, now acting, looks embarrassed, fumbling with his keys, looking like he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

  With his left hand, Ben pinches a match against the sandpaper strip of a matchbook. He squeezes hard, lights the match. He pulls out the Magic Bullet, lights the fuse, and tosses it over the fence into the backyard. No one saw. Everyone is busy staring at the loud SUV and the idiot who set off his alarm while sitting behind his wheel.

  BANG!

  Perfect. Sounded just like a gunshot.

  Women in the crowd scream. Some spectators dive for cover while others look around, confused, not sure what they heard. Was it a firecracker? Cops pull out their guns and look for anyone armed. A baby cries.

  Cecil turns the key, hits the gas and the SUV takes off. He drives to the designated spot, nervous after attracting so much attention from the boys in beige.

  The cops head to the left side of the house. Ben, trying to look like a frightened old man, drifts to the right, against the tide of people. He breaks into trot, heads through the side gate to the pool, heads to the pool house. He sees Luke through the glass, who looks up, surprised, and then gets it. He’s being busted out. He nods and smiles. Bright kid. Catches on quick.

  Luke springs to his feet and darts out of the pool house.

  “Ben, what the hell? What are we doing?” he asks.

  “Over the wall,” Ben says and points to the back wall, about six feet high, painted a sandy off-white. Over that wall is a neighbor’s yard and just beyond that Cecil will be waiting. But they have almost exactly zero time.

  Luke nods okay and heads to the wall, is about grab the top and hoist himself over.

  “Me first, shit head,” Ben says. “I’m an old man, for Christ’s sake. Help me over.”

  Luke shakes his head and looks exasperated with himself.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Step here”

  He bends forward and links his fingers, palms up, ready to be Ben’s spring board. Ben steps into Luke’s hands. Luke notices the orthopedic tennis shoes with Velcro straps instead of laces. Why do old men wear those? At some point in life, do you just decide you’re sick of tying your shoe laces?

  He lifts the old man who slides over the wall more gracefully than Luke expects. It seems this isn’t the first wall Ben has climbed over.

  Luke follows with ease, his thick arms pulling him over with minimum effort.

  “Show off,” Ben says as they run around the neighbor’s pool and into the front yard. Sure enough, there is Ben’s SUV with a grinning Cecil behind the wheel.

  ***

  Off they zoom, Cecil smashing the gas pedal to the floor.

  �
�Slow down, moron,” Ben says. “Don’t attract attention. No one is chasing you so don’t drive like it.”

  “Apologies,” Cecil says. “Feel free to replace me as team chauffer for my indelicate driving habits.”

  They roll past the mini-mansions, past front yard fountains wasting gallons of water, past improbably lush green lawns, past a home inspired by a Spanish fortress complete with actual turrets, past a giant, three-story red-brick box with white shutters, past a home sporting Greek columns and marble walls, perhaps a salute to the Lincoln Memorial.

  Artie whistles at the absurd architecture found in well-to-do suburbs of Las Vegas and says, “Sometimes, I think it might be possible to have too much money.”

  “Bullshit,” is all Ben has to say about that.

  “Oh bloody hell,” Cecil says.

  A cop car pulls into the intersection, its lights flashing.

  “Just stay calm,” Ben says. “He’s not chasing you. He’s setting up a road block. Just drive up like you don’t have a care in the world.”

  “Quite right, not a care in the world, and not three or four bench warrants with my name on them, nothing to see here!” Cecil says.

  The cop, standing in the middle of the street, holds up his hand signaling stop, as if he’s just directing traffic.

  He walks up to the passenger side of the SUV. Cecil rolls down his window.

  “Hello officer, beautiful day, isn’t it?” Cecil asks. “What can we do for you?”

  The cop leans his head into the open window, looks at Luke and Artie sitting in the back seat. He looks at Ben, who wears an amiable, harmless look on his face.

  “Who are you looking for, officer?” Ben asks in a kindly grandfather voice that could be used to sell oatmeal, motorized wheelchairs or sexual dysfunction pills.

  “Funny enough, I’m looking for a tall blond guy and a midget. Why don’t you guys get out of the car?”

  The officer pulls his weapon and pokes it directly into Cecil’s temple. Cecil becomes a statue, eyes wide.

  Ben lifts his right hand and with an almost imperceptible flutter of his fingers, produces a $1,000 bill. Sleight of hand was something else he taught himself in prison.

  The cop sees it, sees those zeros. Ben reaches slowly to the right and drops the bill out of the window.

  “This isn’t the blond guy and midget you are looking for.”

  Ben’s right hand flutters again and another $1,000 bill appears.

  Luke wonders where they are coming from. Up his sleeve? Did the old man keep money up his sleeve?

  “Nope, must be some other blond guy and midget,” the cop says, still watching the second bill.

  “We can go about our business?” Ben says, waving the $1,000 bill.

  “You can go about your business,” the cop says.

  “Thank you, officer,” Ben says and drops the bill out of the window. “Drive please, Cecil.”

  The gun recedes from Cecil’s temple. He slowly drives away. Two green bills on the asphalt are quickly scooped up by an officer still in search of a midget and a tall blond guy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When did things go all fucktarded?

  David sits in his office and tries to think, tries to push back the anger and hate and sheer annoyance that cloud his thoughts. He takes a hit off his asthma medicine inhaler, sucks in hard, feels his lungs open up.

  There is a corpse now. Manny, fucking idiot, got himself killed by a couple of civilians. Dumbass. Where is the midget now? Where is the data stick? Owen and Beri are now loose ends. What to do with them? In the old days, loose ends were tied up and buried. These days, in the days of being legitimate, laws aren’t for breaking but for hiding behind. You don’t call killers, you hire lawyers.

  David hates lawyers. He hates making simple things complicated. He hates going slow when he wants to go fast.

  He unlocks the bottom drawer of his desk. It contains a .38 special, a half-gone pint of 50-year-old Scotch, a black leather address book of friends and enemies, and a burner phone he bought six months ago at a convenience store.

  He turns on the phone and dials a number from memory, as he was advised to not write it down. He has never dialed it before.

  The service he calls is one he secured in case a high-minded politician or do-gooder journalist or bought-off cop grew a conscious.

  David gets a generic answering machine message. The party he wishes to reach is currently unavailable. He leaves a message: “Mr. Whither, this is Mr. D, client code Drego. Give me a call back.”

  The cell phone rings after five minutes. The voice on the other end is a computerized whisper, mangled by electronics, untraceable to its owner. Could be male or female, young or old, just about anyone.

  “Mr. D, are you having a problem we can help with?” the distorted, computerized voice asks.

  “Yes,” David says. “Yes I am.”

  “Details please,” the voice says.

  ***

  A half hour later…

  David is not feeling better. Worse in fact. Variables are accumulating. Chaos is emerging out of the order he worked so hard to build, order he has paid for.

  Knowledge is what he needs. The unknown worries him, keeps him awake at night. If he could define a few of the variables, isolate the true from the imaginary, he could relax a little and get back to work making the world a better place, back to creating a wonderland of legalized vice, where men and women can indulge in their every whim, live their most decadent fantasies in a safe, elegant setting, and have a five-star meal afterward.

  Why are people making it so hard to build that?

  He knows the world is ready for his revolutionary idea, ready for a place where a rich man (or woman) can pay an exorbitant fee to sleep with an honest-to-goodness super model, or a movie star, or a pop singer, or a sexy news anchor, or anyone else he or she might fancy. Wouldn’t it be lovely if a rich middle-aged woman who hasn’t felt that special tingle in years could not only enjoy a Chippendale’s show, but then enjoy the company of one or two of the oiled boys and their well-defined abs in the privacy of her suite? How much happier would a man be (and thus, the world) if he could, every once in a while, escape the bonds of his boring, obligation-filled, stressful life and live for a weekend like a porn-star god, with maybe 36-holes of golf mixed in.

  Gambling, once considered an immoral scourge, is legal in almost every state. What was once vice is now a legitimate night of entertainment for most of America, not to mention a healthy source of tax revenue for debt-ridden local governments. If games of chance were liberated from the prudes, moralists, and prohibitionists, why not sex? Why not the grand old art of prostitution? Do people enjoy sex more than gambling? Yes! Are they willing to pay for it? Yes! So what the hell is the problem?

  It wasn’t David’s first idea. His first idea was actually a marijuana-themed resort he tentatively called Grand Amsterdam, which would feature a wide assortment of different herb from around the world, along with exotic hashes, magic mushrooms and perhaps smokable opiates. He launched some research into the concept, and the team of Harvard MBAs who worked on the project for six months came back with a surprising finding: Drugs were already effectively legal in America. Anyone who wanted to get high could get high with minimal effort and little money. David would build a billion dollar resort based on smoking world-class ganja and end up competing against the local high school drop-out who sold mind-blowing weed he grew in his garage with sunlamps.

  Disappointed because he really loved the idea of TV ads ending with the tagline “The Mellowest Place on Earth,” David pressed on, and moved onto the next logical idea…prostitution, illegal in every state except one, and almost every country. People paid for sex everywhere, but because it is illegal, it is dangerous, scary and often harmful to both the john and the pro. The demand is there; the supply is there, and so, the market is there. Opportunity is not only knocking, it has a hard on.

  Strip clubs fill a little of The Horniness Void, mak
e it legal for attractive women to make big money giving desperate men boners in a safe environment. The men never get to finish, yet still, they happily pay for the privilege of getting blue balls, delivered via pole dancing, lap dancing, table dancing, vibration dancing, shower booths, and endless variations of the champagne room. It must be remembered, as the comedian Chris Rock wisely said, “There is no sex in the Champagne Room. Oh yes, there is champagne in the Champagne Room, but there is no sex.”

  What if there actually was sex in the champagne room? What if a man of means could enjoy the company of beautiful, charming women and not have to finish the evening all by himself, just him and his hand and his lotion? What if he could have a legal sexual experience to completion without having to drive for more than an hour into the middle of the Nevada desert to a piece-of-shit re-modeled house with cheesy wood paneling and worn red velvet couches?

  Even better, what if a man of real means — an internet billionaire or a lottery winner or the dictator of some exotic republic blessed with massive oil reserves — desires to bed the model on the cover of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition, or the winner of the best actress Oscar, or the latest pop sensation? If a man wants to spend $1 million, or $10 million, on a night of sex, why can’t he?

  Thus was born The Dark Star Resort, and soon after construction began. Sex experts and workers from all over the world were consulted. Every type of fantasy, every position, every personality, every color of hair, ever style of dress would be accounted for. If it causes blood to engorge the privates of man or woman, it would be featured on The Dark Star’s menu of delight.

  David is particularly excited by the idea of developing a female clientele, truly an untapped market, as prostitution almost always services men, leaving women to stay home with their “back” massagers and fantasies about the male leads in TV medical dramas.

  He wants this miraculous idea to be blessed by politicians, embraced by the laws of the land, which he would soon have re-written. Money would have to be liberally spread around, but legally, in most cases, and illegally, in a few special cases. Politicians aren’t so much bribed these days as bought outright through campaign contributions and support from “grassroots” organizations that are funded with corporate money. Money David has plenty of.