Luke - Sex, Violence and Vice in Sin City

by Aaron Cohen

Joe takes the thumb drive from his pocket and hands it to David.

  “Welcome to Empire Gaming,” David says. “Thank you for accepting our offer. Your official title is Press Relations Director, and your salary is $250,000 a year. Please stop by the Human Resources office tomorrow at 9 a.m. to sign some papers. Do you have any questions?”

  “No,” Joe says. “Thank you for this opportunity.”

  “Don’t fuck it up,” David says, turns and walk back to his SUV.

  Joe stands there, not sure what to feel. He got what he wanted, a real job for real money.

  That is what I wanted, right?

  He day-dreams about Brian Williams once more…

  Williams asks: “Is it true Empire Gaming offered you a job with a huge salary if you would cover the story up?”

  “That is true,” Joe tells him. “I told them no thank you. People needed to know what was happening. The story was too important.”

  “You are a true journalist,” Williams says. “You sir, have done our profession proud.”

  “Just did my job,” Joe says. “I’m just glad I was able to do some good.”

  Joe shakes his head, turns, walks back to his 1987 Chevette with the bad transmission and leaky radiator hose.

  Think I’ll buy a Porsche.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  There is a war raging in front of the Clark County Commission building.

  Willard watches the warring parties through binoculars from the top of his building, which is directly across the street.

  On the south side, pacing in slow lines back and forth, are 200 marchers from an organization called Keep Prostitution Out, Willard’s idea, a brilliant one if he did say so himself.

  They are a mix of churchgoers (a wide range, from old folks to young adults to teenagers, all of them with the look of Strong Belief in their eyes, a look that meant they could not be talked out of anything), feminists, strippers (who picketed in tight jeans or mini-shorts combined with running shoes) and moms (who wore mom jeans and T-shirts). Some of the moms had men with them, men who didn’t look thrilled to be there.

  One of Willard’s gifts is bringing people together who don’t normally like each other. In the world of politics, introducing strange bedfellows to each other and escorting them into the bedroom is common and profitable. He is particularly proud of KPO, as its members would normally hate each other. Today, however, the issues they are passionate about bring them into an uncommon and convenient alignment.

  The church goers don’t like the idea of legal prostitution (or anything sex-related), and love walking around with signs declaring their opposition to anything that makes God mad.

  The feminists had been a tougher sell. They are mostly for legalized prostitution because the laws against it unfairly target the workers and not the customers. Also, they hate the government telling women what they can and cannot do with their bodies. Feminists resent that idea at a primal level.

  However, this new law is not the kind of legalized prostitution they are looking for. The way the law is written, the girls (and a few guys) would be prisoners of The Dark Star for months at a time, owned, in the literal sense of the word. It would be work for Empire Gaming or work nowhere. If prostitution were going to be legal, it needed to regulated, fair, and favor the workers, not a single corporation, according to the feminists.

  The strippers are maybe the most fired up group. They aren’t always crazy about their job, but their job doesn’t require them to have sex with the men they danced for. They like things exactly as they are, a lot of clubs competing for the best dancers, a lot of male tourists who want their laps danced upon, and the freedom to make as much money as they want while they are young, sexy and look good in a cheerleader outfit.

  And then there are the moms, who constantly worry about the sex industry seducing their daughters. They are sick of constantly competing against the message “sex equals happiness.” The strip clubs are bad enough, but now this Dark Star with its promise of making easy money on your back with your legs spread, it is just too much. The mothers had been an easy sell.

  The members of KPO march with their signs and chant: “No Pros, No Hoes, No Way.”

  Their signs read things like:

  “Would you want your daughter to work there?”

  “Dark Star = Dark Day 4 Women.”

  “Legalize Prostitution, Not Slavery”

  The other group, about 250 strong, marching on the north side of the street, surprise Willard. He hadn’t expected another group to show up protesting in favor of the new brothel law, especially a church-based group, but that’s definitely who they are. Some wear crosses. Some actually carry bibles.

  From what he can see, they are protesting in favor of outlawing strip clubs, but don’t actually seem to know about the part of the law that legalizes prostitution.

  The group is also much older than his. Maybe it’s the congregation of a single church. Some of them are marching around with oxygen tanks, pushing them with one hand and holding signs in the other. Protesting seniors always make for good TV. And they aren’t working for him. Damn it! I should have added a group of seniors to my crew. Rookie mistake. Always bring a seniors group to a political fight.

  A lanky man leads them, seems to be in charge. His hair is perfectly coiffed. His suit is sky blue, his shirt white and starched. This man is a preacher, but the kind that is either on TV or wants to be on TV.

  This is bad. Willard wants the news cameras to film a single righteous group marching for their cause. He wants council members to walk through a crowd chanting “shame, shame, shame.” More importantly, he wants it all on the news. What a story! Strippers and church goers and moms all united against a single law!

  Now the effect will be ruined. Two sides arguing will make for compelling TV, but if two sides argue on camera, neither side wins the news cycle.

  His phone rings. The screen tells him it’s Biggs.

  He answers and says, “Did she cancel the vote?”

  The news is bad.

  ***

  Luke waits. He keeps himself occupied by reading an article about 100 sex tips “that will drive your boyfriend wild” in Cosmopolitan.

  Why do women think we are so complicated? To please a man in bed, you need to do just three things…1. Want to fuck. 2. Enjoy fucking while being fucked. 3. Let a man go to sleep once the fucking is over.

  Bobby emerges from Exa’s office and looks shaken, upset.

  “Let’s go,” Bobby says.

  “What happened?” Luke asks.

  “Crashed and burned. We’ve got to move.”

  Luke follows him out, down the hall, into the elevator. The doors close.

  Bobby says: “We were talking, and then I was supposed to call the reporter, put Exa on the phone and let him start grilling her. I dialed, and it rang, and rang, and rang. No answer. No reporter. The vote is moving forward. We are fucked.”

  “The reporter is gone, with the data stick?”

  “No idea where he is. After that vote, we are done. We lost.”

  As soon as the elevator doors open, Bobby calls Willard with the bad news.

  ***

  Leanne talks to Willard, gets the bad news, hangs up.

  “We lost,” she says.

  “What?” asks Artie.

  “You must be mistaken,” Cecil says in his lilting British accent. “Everything has gone completely according to plan. You delivered evidence to the reporter and he will begin tearing down Empire for good.”

  “No one knows where he is. Bobby called and there was no answer. The vote is going to happen.”

  They are in the recreation room of Media 4 Masses. Cecil is nestled into a big leather EZ chair with a bottle of 12-year-old Scotch. Artie is embedded in a large, red bean bag chair. Leanne is stretched out on a red leather couch.

  The room is filled with toys, a pool table, a Ping-Pong table, a 65-inch flat screen TV, numerous video game consoles and a massive stereo system with speakers almost
as tall as Charlie.

  Men. Men and their toys, their games. Constantly needing to indulge their inner child. Look at this room. This is a place of business. People are paid to do serious work here, to influence the government, get laws passed, affect real lives. And what is this room filled with? Toys. It’s like an eighth grader’s bedroom.

  Yes, okay, there are some good men. I was just saved by some good men. But who did they save me from? Other men. And what’s going on now? My fate is being decided by various swinging dicks who are greedy, horny, vain, impulsive, aggressive and dishonest. Why must I always be surrounded by men?

  She picks up a NERF gun lying on the floor next to the couch. It is loaded with foam bullets. Foam bullets she doesn’t mind. The real ones from a few hours ago, those she could do without.

  “There has to be something we can do,” Artie says, faithful Artie, always looking to help, always positive.

  “Perhaps we start over,” Cecil says. “Travel to someplace a little more friendly. Las Vegas has been bloody mean lately.”

  “Where?” Leanne asks. “Where else are we going to have it as good as we have it here. Where else is our business legal?”

  “Amsterdam is lovely and is home to the Van Gogh Museum,” Cecil says.

  “It’s freezing in the winter,” Leanne says. “And do you want to have to compete against every girl who can stand in a window in a bikini?”

  “Thailand?” Cecil asks.

  “Hot and humid, like living in a bowl of soup. And the bugs, the biggest bugs you have ever seen.”

  “Germany?”

  “Oh please. You’re going to make me listen to that language all day long?”

  “Maybe we could, you know, do what we did before,” Artie says. “Open a little place in a big city where pros are not exactly legal but just close enough.”

  “Fuck that,” Leanne says. “Dodging cops, blowing cops, bribing cops, negotiating with cops, worrying about cops. Fuck that in the asshole.”

  “I’m feeling out of options,” Cecil says glumly.

  “Yeah, me too,” she says. “Thanks for trying.”

  Her island is gone. Her life without stress, without worry, without needing to constantly battle for a little bit of peace and pleasure in this world, that is all gone now.

  She points the plastic gun to her temple and shoots herself in the head with a chunk of foam.

  Men. Fucking men.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  David looks at the tiny thumb drive, slides it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

  Time finish to this. Time to win. He is just a few minutes away from owning sex in Las Vegas. He will be hailed as a visionary, a pioneer in a new entertainment business to be enjoyed by one and all. He is a hero, a humanitarian, liberator of physical pleasure. And if all goes well, he will make a billion dollars from his idea in less than two years.

  It was what, 10 years ago that he was bleeding to death on the floor of an abandoned house, betrayed by his friends, his family?

  It was Ben who had set up that fateful meeting, his mentor, his brother-in-arms. The pain of that betrayal still hurts David, as does the rib that was cracked by a bullet, as does his knee, which someone had shattered with a crow bar, as does his stump of a penis, whenever it tries to get hard and can’t because of all the scar tissue. He knew he was dying as he lay there, that it was over. He remembered praying for the first time in years, telling God to go fuck Himself. Thanks for nothing, for creating such a shitty world, for letting people be such dumb assholes, for all the pain and misery everywhere.

  He still doesn’t know how he survived. He remembers a hospital, waking up and seeing the sun streaming through the window, burning his eyes. His dry throat aching from thirst. He remembers seeing his feet at the bottom of the bed, big, pale and bony, with toe nails far too long. He had known then that he had been out a while, but couldn’t guess how long. Turns out it was 3 months he had spent in a coma.

  When he walked out of the hospital, there was only one thing on his mind: revenge. On Ben, on Leanne, on The Organization.

  Today, he will have that revenge and a lot fucking more.

  He makes a call to the sheriff.

  “Sheriff, David here. I have it from a friend that the vote is going to happen as planned. You should prepare to close down the clubs. Feel free to use as much force as you like … Yes … A pleasure.”

  He hangs up. Starts his engine.

  Along Industrial Road, up and down Nightclub Row, SWAT teams amass around the five largest strip clubs. The cops wear helmets and Kevlar vests, ready for combat. They aren’t expecting much resistance at 10 a.m., but they are ready if things get ugly.

  They await the command to storm in and shut the clubs down. Some of the cops have mixed feelings about that, as they are customers and fans of the art of the lap dance, but orders are orders.

  And really, wouldn’t there always be a way to pay for a few minutes of attention from a sexy woman in a miniskirt and 6-inch heels?

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  The world thinks The Las Vegas Strip is in Las Vegas, but it is not. It is actually in Clark County, not in the incorporated city of Las Vegas.

  That means that the world’s most extravagant hotels, resorts, shopping malls, nightclubs and theaters starring French-Canadian acrobats are under the gentle watch of the seven Clark County Commissioners, part-time, low-paid politicians who have day jobs. They are accountants, lawyers, ranchers, doctors, school teachers, car salesmen, barbers and other normal, respectable professions.

  The city of Las Vegas does have a cluster of profitable hotel-casinos. It is called Downtown, and it is largely a shithole, where one might go for a chewy $2.99 steak, 25 cent roulette or a 20 dollar whore. It is cheap, grungy and features some of the worst lounge singing in the history of lounges.

  If you find yourself Downtown, and are weary of the smell of cigarettes and feel ill because you were brave enough to eat a $1 shrimp cocktail, you will want to drive south on Las Vegas Boulevard, past ancient pawn shops, marriage chapels (yes, you can be married by an Elvis impersonator if you wish), drug stores and adult book stores, until you reach Sahara Boulevard, the official gateway to The Strip.

  If you walk from Sahara (at the north end of The Strip) to Russell Boulevard (at the south end), you will see a rainbow of humanity like no other on Earth. Women wearing $1,000 Louis Vuitton pumps, denim hot pants and giant sunglasses, managing to look both cheap and expensive at the same time. Sweaty men earning minimum wage by shoving fliers into unsuspecting hands, fliers filled with ads for escort services featuring nearly naked women. Male tourists with massive bellies wearing fanny packs and panama hats likes they are in the Caribbean. Frat boys with manicured hair and bulging biceps on the prowl for sorority sisters on a weekend bender. Bored packs of teens, roaming from video arcade to video arcade (yes, they still exist in Las Vegas), looking for places to get kicked out of. Business men in town for a convention, still in suits, taking a stroll after working a booth all day, on the hunt for a cold beer and a cheap lunch. Cowboys wearing hats and boots with no trace of irony and not on their way to a gay nightclub.

  On this street, you will see people weary of reality and delighted to walk the sidewalks of the fakest place on Earth, home to a faux Eiffel Tower, a replica Empire State Building, a glass Pyramid, an animatronic Pirate Ship, and thousands and thousands of manmade breasts, plump and perfect and the subject of much debate.

  Today, those breasts are up for debate inside the Clark County Commission Building, just a stone’s throw from The Strip.

  It is 9:45 a.m. The clock ticks closer to the 10 a.m. vote.

  Outside, the marchers march and chant their chants, both for and against the bill.

  Inside the building, concerned citizens take their seats in the audience. The hearing room where the commission meets is set up like a theater. Cushioned chairs seat 350 people and face the long, elevated desk where the elected leaders of the county sit. Behind that d
esk, an administrative assistant places copies of the day’s agenda in front of each microphone.

  Outside the door, to the left, in front of the elevators, stand Luke and Bobby.

  Bobby is talking on his cell phone. He is upset, disappointed. Luke wishes he could help, but can’t quite seem to figure out how. This is not his thing. Landscaping he is good at. Bringing women to orgasm, that he is good at. He knows a lot about movies, can tell a good story, has an okay golf swing, a head for math, was a lazy student but could get a B in almost any class without working too hard.

  This problem, this is one he is powerless to do anything about. It is politics, people in suits, people with degrees. What the hell can he do?

  His phone buzzes. He looks at it and sees this text message from a number he doesn’t recognize: “Luke, do what needs to be done.”

  What the fuck does that mean?

  Bobby hangs up his phone and says, “We remain well and truly fucked. No one knows where that fucking reporter went. With no story, we have no way to stop the vote.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Luke asks.

  “Tell me you have a copy of the thumb drive.”

  “Why didn‘t you guys make a copy?”

  “Because multiple felonies were committed getting it. Willard wanted it handled like it was radioactive.”

  “Shit. There has to be a way.”

  “Pull a fire alarm and delay the vote by an hour or so. That would be good. Give us a little time to work.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m kidding, Luke. We’re done. Let’s head back to the office.”

  “Wait a second. I have an idea.”

  ***

  Willard, still perched on a rooftop watching the marching crowd below, thinks.

  Options. Options. Why aren’t there more options? There has got to be a way to pull this out of the fire.

  He makes a call to his favorite TV reporter.

  “Hello Jennifer. Are you on your way? Good. Just to let you know, there is a competing group picketing next to ours. I don’t know exactly what their position is. No, I don’t know who they are, but I think they are a church group. If you could, ask them this question…’Why are you in favor of legalizing prostitution?’ I don’t think they know what is in the bill. Thank you, Jenny. A pleasure, as always. Dinner in our usual place? Tomorrow? Lovely. Say hello to Chuck for me”