Luke - Sex, Violence and Vice in Sin City

by Aaron Cohen

  “You see it?”

  “Oh my goodness,” Cecil says and looks up at Charlie in admiration.

  Charlie grins, leans back into the couch, which creaks in protest. He puts his hands behind his head and beams with pride.

  “We’re almost there,” Hank says. He pulls the RV over to the side of the road, about a quarter mile away from the entrance to The Dark Star.

  He looks up at the 120-story tube of shiny black glass rising out of the desert and thinks it looks like a finger, a middle finger.

  “Holy fucking shit,” Luke says. “How big is that thing?”

  “It’s like they want to poke God’s eye out,” Artie says.

  “If you look a little closer, you’ll see that the architects had something else in mind.”

  They take a good long look to see what he’s talking about. It takes a few seconds, but then they see it.

  On one side of the main tower is a huge globe crisscrossed with neon lines, a 3D movie theater that will seat 7,000, making it the largest movie theater of its kind in the world.

  On the other side of the tower is another giant sphere, this one with a map of the world outlined in neon. It will house a massive restaurant facility, which will feature the offerings of famous chefs from around the world and what will be the biggest food court in history.

  In the middle of those two spheres is the black tower, a large tube with a domed top where the high roller suites are housed, along with David’s corporate offices.

  “My word, that is as subtle as a street whore,” Cecil says.

  “That’s what a couple billion dollars looks like when it’s spent by a man with erectile dysfunction,” Ben says.

  “You guys sure you want to do this?” Hank asks.

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Luke says.

  Just then, on the TV, Al Duran is taken out of The Booby Hatch in handcuffs. Ben shakes his head.

  “It’s all over for Al, for now,” Ben says. “He’s done, destroyed. Hopefully we can keep that from happening to anyone else. Let’s go over the plan.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  They all stand in the middle of the RV, now parked on the side of the road, and go through the plan again. Ben has repeated it twice. It’s sinking in.

  They get it, Ben thinks. This is dangerous, but doable. Everyone is motivated. There is money to be had. We are doing a good thing for good people. And if some bad things are done to some bad people along the way, so much the better.

  Ben looks over his new crew, smiles. He has had worse gangs than this one.

  During his long life of crime, he tried to work with smart guys, guys with level heads, but it is hard to put together a perfect crew. Even when you think you have quality guys, put the pressure on and soon you know who you are working with.

  Shit happens. The cops show up. An alarm goes off. Suddenly, a guy you thought was cool starts pissing his pants and crying about going back to jail. Loose cash is around, and a guy you thought you could trust steals from the take, just because he can’t help himself. Another guy might seem bright, but come game time, he locks the keys in the getaway car or forgets the oxygen tank for the blow torch after, which is a fucking awful thing to find out once after you have trudged through three miles of shit in a sewer to get underneath a bank vault.

  It’s a wonder Ben survived his younger days. Robbing banks is fun, breaking into strip mall jewelry stores pathetically easy, and robbing the rich and famous while they are on vacation entertaining, but these are not long term occupations. These are for quick cash, bill paying and seed money.

  When he was younger, his plan was to become the man who set up businesses for The Organization, who trained the young up-and-comers, who weeded out the no good. He believed in The Organization, in rules, in doing things, including illegal things (especially illegal things!) with professionalism, thorough planning and care.

  The Organization – once so powerful, so influential that it could select presidents, so rich it could buy entire cities (well, small to medium sized ones) – is now a mere shadow of its former self, a bunch of old men in nursing homes yammering on about the good old days.

  Corporations took over gambling, painting it over with the glossy veneer of “entertainment” and combining it with free drinks, massive hotels, swanky nightclubs and food offerings from the best chefs in the world and from $4.99 buffets that feature food a notch below the average elementary school cafeteria.

  Porn became the domain of every smart guy with a fast internet connection, a web cam, and a girl willing to take her clothes off for a few bucks. The drug trade fell into the hands of amateurs and subhumans. When retarded hillbillies can cook up meth in a bathtub and any hippy with a ultraviolet light can harvest enough weed to supply every pothead within shouting distance, what’s left?

  The Organization is all but dead, but The Code, that Ben still believes in. To him, it is as real and true today as it was when he was 12 years old and Manny “Ham ‘n Eggs” Mantusco told him that there is a set of rules that only the good guys knew and followed.

  Ben believes that The Code is more than a set of rules, but an accurate, insightful take on how the world works, how men work. Not so much women, who are tougher to figure, but men, what they want, what they need, and how money can be made from those wants and needs.

  “At some point, we are all working for our vices,” says The Code. And Ben believes it.

  “Making something illegal doesn’t eliminate the appetite for it,” says The Code. “It does, however, increase the cost, and therefore the profit, of it.”

  And Ben knows that to be true.

  “A man can deny his wants, but he can’t deny his needs. Be in the business of satisfying needs.”

  Ben has made a lot of money thanks to that bit of wisdom.

  He meant what he said to Luke. He lives by The Code. No fear. No anger. No greed. No ego. Have a vision for what you want. Make a plan for getting it. Be professional about it, and you’ll be fine.

  He sees his profession as noble. In his view, The Organization for decades served a crucial role in the progress of humanity. Men should strive to be virtuous, upstanding, and honest. However, men have needs, base needs. Men have weaknesses. Men are going to sin. Each man carries within himself the seeds of self-destruction.

  That’s where The Organization comes in. It gives men outlets, relief from the pressure of temptation so they can lead otherwise good lives. A little gambling, a little whoring, a little drinking (back in the days of prohibition), these things a man needs. These things, in small doses, keep society thriving because they keep men sane.

  When the corporations took over, that was when Ben said enough. Time to retire. The government had hounded him and his brothers like animals, but corporations, those assholes, get a free ride. They get to write the laws, make all the money and get billion-dollar bailouts when they shit the bed.

  Which one is worse? A nice little massage parlor on the dingy side of town where a man can get a rub-n-tug for a reasonable price, or the giant, $2-billion phallus Ben now faced? How is a man better served? By occasionally giving in to temptation and keeping it hidden, or by publically wallowing in every legal vice, becoming more addicted to them, with more paid to the corporate sin factories?

  Corporatized vice made Ben sick. The whitewashing of it, the marketing of it, the mainstreaming of it, making it the norm, instead of the occasional hidden pleasure.

  This is what The Code says: “We all have our vices. They are part of life. But they shouldn’t become your life.”

  What the corporations are doing is selling vice as a lifestyle, Ben thinks, as a life unto itself, where there is nothing more than getting laid, getting drunk, eating like a pig, and paying for the privilege. It makes Ben want to puke.

  What Ben wants now, in some small way, is to strike back. And these guys, his weird little crew, are giving him that chance. He is thankful. He has a buzz going, just like the old days. Turns out that Ben�
��s vice is danger, a vice he hasn’t tasted in quite a long while. He has missed it.

  “How big are these smuggling holds?” Luke asks, unsure of the plan. “Are we going to fit? Is Charlie going to fit?”

  “He’ll be in the one under the bed,” Hank says. “And yes, you guys will fit. I can haul a half ton of weed in The Stork. It won’t be comfortable, but…” His eyes trail up and look out of the windshield in the front. “Uh oh. What the fuck is that?”

  Outside, a vehicle in the distance approaches with blue lights flashing. The lights aren’t cop lights, Ben knows. This is private security.

  “We’ve got company,” Hank says.

  “David is sending us an escort,” Ben says. “I should have expected that. Hide!”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ben slides in behind the wheel, which is about the size of a trash can lid. It’s been about 30 years since he drove a stick. Clutch in, break off, gas on, put it into first gear. Is that how it works?

  “You might need a new clutch tomorrow,” Ben says to Hank, who is busy tucking Charlie into a storage hold hidden below the king-sized bed in the back.

  “Fantastic,” Hank says. He holds the bed up while Charlie lies down in the hold. His belly peeks up over the edge of the compartment. The bed will press his stomach down when lowered, flattening him like a big piece of dough. It isn’t going to be comfortable.

  “You want a pillow?” Hank asks.

  Charlie does not look happy. He is a giant in a giant coffin. His eyes are huge with fear. His arms are folded over his chest. He nods. Hank tosses him a pillow.

  Meanwhile, Luke crawls into a space underneath the couch he was just sitting on. The couch is bolted to the hinged lid of the storage space. He pulls the couch back over himself, closing the hatch with a gentle click.

  It’s pitch black. He can smell nothing but pot residue, reminding him of pool parties and camping in the desert with his friends from high school.

  His phone rings in his back pocket.

  Shit! Who the fuck is that!

  He pulls it out and looks at the number. He doesn’t recognize it, and it’s from an Arizona area code. He assumes it’s another goddamn telemarketer. He makes a note to remind himself to change his number soon. He blocks the call and puts his phone on mute.

  He can hear complaining just outside. Artie and Cecil don’t seem happy.

  “We can’t argue about this,” Hank says. “You two are going to be roomies. Just shut up and get in the hole.”

  “They are pulling up right in front of me!” Ben shouts. “Let’s go!”

  Artie and Cecil ease themselves into the smuggler’s hold. Cecil, his arms cramped, puts his arms around Artie so they both fit.

  “Always with the cologne,” Artie says. “You smell like a French whore’s cunt.”

  “Truly I find snuggling with you no more desirable,” Cecil says. “But I do have a new appreciation for your minuscule size.”

  Hank slides the kitchen cabinet over them and it clicks into place. Then he pulls up the carpet in the middle of the RV, opens a hatch, slides into the space and closes the trap door. But he has forgotten something.

  “Ben!” he yells through the floor. “The carpet!”

  “Got it!” Ben yells.

  Hank hates confined spaces, but decides to be thankful he’s not a 300-pound Samoan or holding a grumpy midget in his arms. Things could be worse.

  He hears the carpet rolling over the door and the old man tamping it down with his feet. Sounds like someone walking on my grave, Hank thinks then tries not to think about it.

  Ben slides back behind the wheel, and watches the rent-a-cop car pull up in front of The Stork. Two buzz-cut, muscle bound, uniformed security goons are in the front seats. They get out and walk toward the side of the RV. Ben smiles and waves, trying to look like a friendly old man. The goons ignore him.

  One of the them pounds on the side door like he’s trying to knock it in.

  “Open up!” he yells.

  “Coming,” Ben calls cheerfully.

  He opens the door and smiles at the two goon clones dressed in blue and tan security uniforms, one standing behind the other. The one in front seems to be in charge. They are both wearing fully equipped police belts, with guns, Tasers, nightsticks and pepper spray canisters. Ben wonders if all that hardware is just for show or if these guys actually know how to use the tools of their trade. He might have to find out soon.

  “Can I help you guys?” he says.

  “We’re here to drive you onto he property,” Goon One says. “Mr. Vaddio’s orders.”

  “Is that right?” Ben says. “I think I prefer to drive.”

  “Why are you stopped?” asks Goon Two, who seems to be the more inquisitive of the two.

  “I had to take a leak. I’m an old man for God’s sake. I pee every 30 minutes.”

  “I don’t give a fuck,” says Goon One. “Just get out of the RV.”

  “I think I’d rather drive myself,” Ben says. “You’re welcome to ride with me if you like.”

  “I don’t think so,” says Goon One. “We have strict orders to handcuff you and drive you to the property.”

  “And what if I say no?”

  “Then we’ll be forced to force you,” he says.

  “You’re going to be forced to force me which will in turn force me to force my foot up your ass.”

  Ben slams the door shut and turns the crank of the deadbolt.

  Ben knows this is truly no normal RV. The door is reinforced steel. The entire thing is armor plated. The windshield looks to be bulletproof. You can tell from its thickness and how the light dims when passing through it. In all, The Stork, as shitty as it looks, is an armored car with a bed and satellite TV. Not to mention a Mack truck engine. Ben is starting to understand Hank’s affection for the vehicle.

  Loud pounding on the door. The screaming and cussing of goons.

  Ben slides behind the wheel, starts up The Stork. The engine rumbles to life and begins its loud purring.

  The two goons walk in front of van. They shout various profanities. Ben waves at them and smiles.

  “I’ll be there in a minute!” he calls out cheerfully, while stepping on the clutch and grabbing the stick shift. This is always the tricky part, if he is remembering right. He eases up on the clutch until the transmission catches and the axles begin to move.

  He eases up too fast and the RV lurches forward, almost flattening the two goons who for a second look ready to crap their pants. Ben smashes the clutch and brake, stopping before actually running them over.

  The goons pull their guns and point them at Ben. They continue shouting.

  Now Ben knows they are idiots. All they have to do is shoot out the tires, cripple The Stork, and this confrontation it over. Instead, they seem to want to shoot Ben, a guy who their boss wants alive, at least long enough for a short, intense conversation.

  Goon One stops shouting and takes aim, directly at Ben’s head.

  Ben takes another look at the glass. Is it really bulletproof? Maybe it’s just thick? No, it must be bulletproof. Of course it’s bulletproof. Isn’t it?

  Goon One pulls the trigger twice and two bullets smash into the two-inch bullet-resistant glass, leaving two white divots in front of Ben’s face.

  “What the fuck is going on out there!” Hank yells from his hold.

  “Everything is fine!” Ben shouts back, while waving at the goons and smiling.

  Ben eases up again on the clutch and The Stork lurches forward, but this time keeps on moving, quickly. The two goons jump out of the way.

  Ben aims for their little piece-of-shit rent-a-cop car. The cast iron re-enforced front bumper of The Stork smashes into the plastic bumper and shatters it. The smaller car pushes backward with almost no resistance until it hits a phone pole, at which point it compresses like an accordion. The screeching metal makes the car sound like it’s dying a painful death.

  “The fuck!” Hank shouts from his hold.


  “All is well my friend!” Ben shouts. “All is quite well!”

  The Stork rolls onto the highway and gives a belch of black smoke from its exhaust pipe as Ben shifts into second gear.

  I forgot how much fun it is to drive a stick.

  A few minutes later, he is driving The Stork through the construction gate of The Dark Star, which seems bigger, uglier, and meaner the closer he gets to it. Waiting for him at the loading dock, at the rear of the building, are four security cars with blue lights flashing and headlights on. Ten armed security guards are standing there, ready for action, a couple with billy clubs in their hands. They looked pissed.

  “Hey gang!” Ben yells behind him. “Things could get a little ugly. No matter what you hear, DO NOT make your presence known. Got it?”

  “Ben, what the hell?” Luke shouts from in his slot underneath the couch. “Do you need help!”

  “No! Now shut up!”

  He stops The Stork, turns the key to off, and the engines coughs and wheezes for a few seconds until it’s finally quiet.

  A furious pounding on the door begins.

  Ben shakes his head. Might as well get this over with.

  From Charlie’s Notebook

  On Being Fat

  I’m Samoan. My people are big. My dad and mom were so big that I find it amazing I was conceived. I try not to think about it.

  I used to be a fat Samoan chef in France, and people liked that. Chefs should be fat. The French constantly reminded me never to trust a skinny chef. I did meet a few skinny chefs, and they seemed like nice guys, but they never acquired the local notoriety that I did. I was Le Somoan Gigantesque, and the bigger I was the more the French seemed to like me and my food.

  Now I’m a pot smuggler. My partner handles the business part, and I handle the muscle. I don’t have to do much. When a deal goes down, all I have to do is I stand, not smile, and be the largest person in the room, perhaps the largest within a 100 miles.

  A year or so ago, a deal was going down, and the guy we were trading with had a bodyguard who was almost as tall as me, but thin and muscular. If I had tangled with that guy, I would have had my ass handed to me.