Luke - Sex, Violence and Vice in Sin City

by Aaron Cohen

  The houses, with their stucco walls and red tiled roofs, all look alike, built in a rush by contractors who couldn’t build them quickly enough during the boom years of the 90s. Today, they are worth less than what their owners paid for them, but at least most of them have pools.

  The high schools they pass are massive cement blocks with iron gates for doors and bars on the windows. They look like prisons, except for the mascots painted on their sides, snarling panthers and cowboys riding bucking broncos.

  Close to the center of the town, they pass dozens of apartment complexes, the new ones looking like mid-priced hotels with palms trees and gated entrances. The older ones look bleached and tired, their pools long since emptied so that liability insurance would not be required to cover the possibility that drunks would drown in them.

  These are the rings of Las Vegas, and Luke knows them well. He has a theory that a Las Vegan’s life cycle can be measured by how far away from The Strip he lives.

  You start work in the casino business as a dishwasher or a roulette dealer in a shitty downtown casino in the middle of the valley, the center ring. You walk to work, maybe take the bus. You live in an apartment built in the 60s. The toilets don’t always work. The roofs leak. You do your laundry at a coin Laundromat. Midnight shift workers sleep during the day with tin foil pressed into their windows, blocking out the sun. Ethnic groups form up cliques and barbecue in the parking lot, Mexicans with Mexicans, blacks with blacks, whites with whites. Not much mixing. Everyone is selling pot or buying pot. You hear gunshots once or twice a month.

  As your job gets better, the farther away from The Strip you move. Your apartment gets upgraded. You get better air conditioning, better plumbing and a pool that looks nice but isn’t worth swimming in because the neighborhood kids are always in it, making too much noise and probably peeing.

  Once you break into management, cracking the $50,000 a year barrier, and if you are married to someone making about the same, you consider buying a house. And if it is somewhere between 1990 and 2007, you get a loan for way too much house for a monthly payment that will stay low for one year and then balloon to the point that it eats three-quarters of your paycheck.

  On the upside, you now have a yard and a fence and you no longer have to listen to your neighbors fucking like meth-addicted rabbits on the other side of a paper thin wall.

  You have a kid or two. You worry about raising kids in Sin City, but you don’t have any options. You are in the casino industry with skills that aren’t transferable except to other casino cities, and who the hell wants to live in Biloxi or Atlantic City?

  You get older and older, the years flying by. If your career hits a plateau, the way it does for pit bosses and restaurant managers, you don’t move. You stay in your house and watch your kids do all the same shit you did, skip school, smoke pot, go to football games, get good enough grades to pass, and hopefully, God please, avoid meth.

  Eventually they move out, either getting out of the state and away from the Vegas craziness, or getting sucked into the same cycle, starting at Ring One, a job on Las Vegas Boulevard at a shitty downtown casino living in a shitty apartment.

  If you do work your way into middle management at a high-level resort – a Caesar’s or an MGM or a Wynn – you upgrade your house, head to a gated community, which will keep out at least some of the drug dealing and the general moral decay that hangs in the air. Still, this is a town where there are slot machines in grocery stores and strippers make more than doctors. Gates only keep out so much.

  You get older and might make one more move, to the outskirts of Vegas, into a 55-plus retirement community, where there isn’t a moving car on the street after 8 p.m. and children only visit for a few hours a day and then have to leave, per the rules of the homeowner’s association.

  Your kids, if they stay in Vegas, are right behind you, following your life’s trail through the concentric rings of Las Vegas, starting in the center, working their way to the outer ring, stepping in your footprints.

  The Stork, in all its rusted, bullet-holed glory, slices through the dawn-lit streets, heading to the center of town, but not The Strip.

  To the southwest there are gleaming new glass office buildings, home to the accountants, stock brokers, insurance agents, advertising agencies, and PR firms. In modern Vegas, this is where the business of conducting business is done. They are the most un-Vegas of buildings, and would look at home in any city around the world where new money has sprouted and is need of white collar workers to tend to it.

  Luke is sleepy, forcing his ever heavier eyelids to stay open. He’ll be able to sleep soon. Once he delivers the package, it will all be over. And then what? He has no idea. Go back to mowing grass with illegals? Take over the family business? Grow old, retire, and die. Isn’t there more to life?

  The Stork pulls into a parking lot, a lake of smooth black tar that looks freshly poured. The landscaping is cacti, desert brush and low-water plants. The building is seven stories of carved stone with ribbons of green glass in between the blocks. It tapers from the bottom to the top, giving it the look of a Mayan temple, the kind that used to host the sacrificing of virgins. Luke considers his compatriots. I think we are safe from virgin sacrifices today.

  Inside the building, on the top floor, they walk into a glass barn of a room, filled with natural light and controlled chaos. Two dozen or more people, half women, half men, most of them in their 20s or 30s, all in business suits, are busy in a way Luke can’t quite get his head around. They are moving, talking, typing, presenting, writing, all at a pace that seems about 25% quicker than the rest of the world. It looks like a movie being played on fast forward.

  Desks and chairs are scattered around seemingly at random, but mostly people are standing. A few small groups of these caffeinated people are in front of white boards, making notes with markers. A few others are in the corners talking on their cell phones. A few others are typing away at laptops, their fingers a blur, their eyes focused.

  These people are into what they are doing. The buzz sounds productive. Luke feels awake again, the energy of the room bringing him back from the edge of sleep. Something is going on here that he likes, but he has no idea what it is they are doing.

  The oldest man in the room, and the tallest besides Charlie, leaves a group in front of a white board and approaches Leanne with opens arms and a big grin. He’s in his late 40s, bald, puffy around the neck and belly, but he was an athlete once, moves with confidence. He sports a dark blue suit and a bright pink power tie. His smile makes him look handsome. Without it he is the definition of plain.

  “Leanne!” he says cheerfully. “So good to see you!”

  Leanne opens her arms and walks to him, gives him a big hug. She looks both happy and relieved to see him.

  “Willard,” she says warmly. “You guys look busy! How’s it going?”

  “It’s going, well, so so. I was sorry to hear about your father. They just destroyed him, descended right out of nowhere. There was nothing we could do. I’m so sorry.”

  “I think we have what we need to take The Dark Star down, but we need to be fast. I think we were followed.”

  “We aren’t being followed, princess,” Hank says, annoyed. “By the way, my name is Hank.”

  He extends his hand and Willard shakes it.

  “This is Luke,” Hank says. “And Cecil, Artie and my partner Charlie.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Luke says, liking this man, Willard. There is a spark in his eye, a positive vibe. He has a contagious energy. Just shaking his hand is like drinking a Red Bull.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, who the hell are you and what is going on?” Hank asks.

  “Charming,” Leanne says. Luke wants her to sound annoyed with Hank, but she doesn’t. She sounds amused. Goddamn it.

  “My friends, this is Media 4 Masses, and I am its humble CEO,” Willard says and waves his arms proudly at his people as they continue to work away. “We are a full-service lobbying, pub
lic relations and marketing company. We shape opinions. We tell people what to think and why. We make the masses like things they don’t like, and politicians support projects they once rejected. We are enlighteners.”

  “What is the enlightenment of the day?” Hank asks.

  “In two hours, at 10 a.m., the Clark County Board of Commissioners will vote to end all strip clubs and at the same time legalize prostitution so long as it takes place within a 10,000 room hotel. In short, they are going to take a billion dollars away from strip clubs and legal brothels and give it all to your friend David.”

  “That does seem kind of shitty, but why do you care?”

  “Leanne and her friends in the adult entertainment industry are paying me to care. And you, I’m told, have brought me evidence that the entire scheme is built on felonies, bribery, extortion, perhaps even murder. We plan to win the day, thanks to you.”

  “Well good luck with that. And speaking of Leanne…when am I getting paid?”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  On the top level of The Dark Star, in David’s office, he and Tarlik look at a computer screen. There are blips on a map, blips that have stopped moving.

  “What’s there?” Tarlik asks. “Why did they stop there?”

  David brings up Google Maps and does a quick bit of searching.

  “They are at Media 4 Masses, a lobbying group and PR firm.”

  “They plan on influencing the vote.”

  “And I’m sure they plan on reaching out to the press. I have both eventualities covered. Soon, they will feel the power of Empire Gaming and everything they have worked for will be lost.”

  “You better hope so. Today has been one giant fuck up after another. Bullet holes up and down a brand new hallway, the FBI storming the building, trucks exploding. David, resolve this.”

  David resists reaching over and choking Tarlik until his face turns purple and his eyes pop out of his head. He has wanted to do that for a long time, but never quite found the right opportunity. He needs to correct that once the Leanne problem is solved.

  David almost smiles. Almost.

  ***

  Luke can tell Willard is used to speaking to a crowd. He’s as good as any politician, better even. The business-suited people sit in a circle around their leader. He’s giving a briefing/pep talk to his troops. He looks comfortable and confident, his voice is strong but not loud, a smile behind every word.

  “My friends,” Willard says, “our cause is a noble one. The forces of Corporatocracy are moving to destroy perhaps the most honest profession one can have…stripper. She exchanges a few moments of feminine attention for a few dollars and all parties benefit. He leaves a little happier and she a little richer. And now, the mammoth Empire Gaming plans to outlaw the tease and legalize the whore.”

  Willard winks at Leanne and mouths the words, “No offense.”

  She winks back at him.

  How does that guy rate a wink? Didn’t I just pull her out of a building filled with people shooting at her?

  Willard continues…

  “Here is our plan of action. First, offense…We are going to broadside Empire with a large piece of bad publicity. Our new friends here have with them some information that will more than do the trick. It will likely land several Empire executives in jail. But justice is slow and how the evidence was gathered is, shall we say, legally problematic. We must be delicate.

  “Second, we must counter their religious attack. They have managed to forge together a coalition of bible thumpers and god botherers. We have assembled our own righteous group, good Christians who want nothing to do with a giant brothel set to open just a few miles from their homes. They will soon make their debut.

  “And third, we will send our ace, the king of convincers, Bobby Biggs, to meet with the chair of the Clark County Commission, Exa Porter. She will be at her office promptly at 7:30 am, and Bobby will be waiting. Bobby is going to convince her to vote our way, aren’t you Bobby?”

  A handsome man with long dark hair standing in the back of the crowd winks an eye and nods. The women in the crowd practically swoon. Luke looks the guy over and recognizes a fellow player. That guy gets tail, lots of it. That guy has a great suit, slate gray, sky blue shirt, red tie. That guy has a job that means something, makes an impact, and he probably hasn’t mowed a lawn since he was 12.

  Wait a second…Bobby Biggs…I know that guy. Where from? High school. Holy shit. He was a nerdy little dude. What happened to him? Did he have a third testicle installed?

  Luke had been captain of the baseball team, a starting wide receiver on the football team and had bedded every homecoming and prom queen that had been crowned in his four years at Las Vegas Central.

  Bobby was the smart guy who jocks went to for tutoring or to have a paper written. Luke never cared about grades and never paid for a nerd ghost writer.

  Now the nerd is a prince, and Luke is a landscaper.

  Luke is jealous of Bobby for a second, but then realizes that it’s fine, perfectly acceptable. Luke had been a waste in high school, lazy and uninspired. Bobby had earned this, earned the respect of his peers, this job, that suit. Luke had wasted a lot of time, too much time, wielding a weed whacker. It is time for a new job, and if talking a woman into doing something was a job, he could do it, probably better than Bobby. Time to get reacquainted.

  ***

  David hangs up the phone, finishing his conversation with a Judas who came cheap. All will be well. The day is won.

  He looks at Tarlik, an old man whose time has come and gone, a guy who better retire soon and get the fuck out of David’s way. After today, David will be ready to take over Empire Gaming.

  “It’s done,” David tells him. “Today is going to be an historic day. Today is the day we become the owners of Las Vegas.”

  “For your sake, I hope so,” Tarlik says.

  David is truly tired of not having the last word with this fucking guy. A mouth full of cement would shut him up. They were pouring the concrete for another pool tomorrow. David might have to make arrangements for Tarlik to spend his retirement underneath it.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Leanne follows Willard to a small meeting room, down the hall and away from the crowd.

  “Caution is the word of the day,” Willard tells her. “We are in a bit of a gray area morally… and frankly … legally. Take no unneeded risk.”

  “Thank you for your help,” she says. “We wouldn’t have a chance without you.”

  “Normally, I would be with you during an interview like this,” he says. “But because of the nature of the material, and the way it was obtained, I need to leave it in your capable hands.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she says.

  “This reporter, he is not the journalist I would choose to write this story. Because of the problems with how the evidence was obtained, I had to choose someone willing to not ask certain questions.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Do not underestimate this young man,” Willard says. “He’s ambitious, young, and ruthless. He’s been dominating the front page for months, pissing off all the old hands. We have a productive arrangement, which has benefited us both, but he would push me down a flight of stairs for a good story. Understand?”

  “I’m sure I’ll find him charming. Thanks, Willard.”

  Leanne opens the door. In the room sits a small man, young, awkward, nerdy, his shirt too big and his tie too long. He’s wearing khaki pants, the worst pants ever for a man. It’s almost like they were invented to make men look thick-legged, unimpressive and difficult to take seriously. Has anyone ever made khakis look good? Even Brad Pit would lose 20% of his sexiness in khakis.

  This young man, he is doing himself no favors. There must be a “no-jeans” dress code at his newspaper, along with mandatory tie wearing. Business attire rules applied to the unfashionable always results in fashion disaster.

  The disaster stands and extends his hand.

  “I’m Joe,�
� he says.

  She shakes his hand, his limp, wet hand, and says with a smile while trying to not let her revulsion show, “I’m Leanne. So nice to meet you.”

  “What have you got for me?” he asks, expectantly. He seems excited by the idea of getting a big story.

  She holds up the thumb drive, such a small piece of plastic to contain such a big bomb.

  ***

  Luke walks up to Bobby.

  Is he going to recognize me?

  High school ended 13 years ago after all, and Luke barely knew the guy, so probably not.

  Bobby’s eyes light up and he looks delighted.

  “Luke!” he says cheerfully. “Luke Cielogirello!”

  Bobby throws his arms around Luke and gives him a big friendly hug. Luke hesitates, not sure why the big hug, but gingerly hugs back, not wanting to be rude. It’s always weird hugging a guy, they are hard in the wrong places, feel too solid.

  “Hey Bobby,” Luke says. “How’s it going?”

  Bobby lets Luke go and takes a step back, looking him up and down.

  “You haven’t changed at all,” he says.

  Luke looks at Bobby and thinks just the opposite. You are an entirely new person.

  “You look good, Bobby,” Luke says. “Seems like a great job. How did you end up here?”

  “You mean, why am I no longer the nerdy little newt you once knew?”

  Luke had to laugh. Bobby was right. That is exactly the question Luke wants to ask.

  “Something like that,” Luke says. “You look like you’re king of the castle.”

  “Because of you. I owe you.”

  “Me? What?”

  “At Harvard, no one knew me. No one knew what a little geek I was in high school. So I got to re-invent myself. I got to pick the me I wanted to be.”

  “That’s cool, but what does that have to do with me?”

  “This is going to sound weird…but…I pretended I was you. I talked like you, walked like you, dressed like you, grew my hair out like you. I modeled myself after you.”