by Dale Wiley
In Vegas, if you were desperate enough, you could just snort the rugs.
Paolo was the night manager at Oscar’s. He loved to introduce Caitlin to high-rollers. She came to understand, if not necessarily embrace, her occasional role in showing them around town. Her olive skin and jet black hair made her stand out even in the most enviable crowd. Caitlin possessed a lilting laugh and didn’t carry herself like a mindless plaything. She didn’t live in the gym, but she looked like she did, with long legs and perfectly crafted store-bought breasts to complete the picture.
She was stunning. And Paolo knew that once she started tying one on, she was utterly unequipped for stopping. It made for very happy customers, most of the time. Caitlin was the part of Vegas they would most remember—if they could remember at all. Paolo probably bought the shots and was keeping just close enough watch to make sure she wasn’t getting raped. She hated him. But, she had to admit, he hadn’t brought her at gunpoint. At least, she was pretty sure he hadn’t.
Her head felt like hot asphalt. Her breath smelled like a fisherman’s ass. What the hell happened?
The last thing she remembered was the official determination, made by her, that Britt was most likely a homicidal psychopath or sociopath. Caitlin couldn’t remember the difference between the terms. She would have to look up the distinction later. But he was crazier than a monkey screwing a football, and she was pretty sure he was going to pull some major shit today. He made the mistake, as men often do, of thinking she was fifty percent more stupid than she was. Problem was he could still think she was brilliant and be wrong on that calculation. She put the pieces together over a period of weeks, and, finally, when he summoned her to his mansion in a lovey-dovey voice, she did not want to hear from him. She took smart girl lessons and didn’t go.
She ran to Oscar’s, which she was pretty sure he didn’t know about, and let her hair down. Evidently, all the way down. She could boast armed guards and Mafiosi to protect her. What more could a girl want?
She checked and noticed that all he had done was pull up her dress. Panties were still in place. Shoes were close by. She found a mirror in the corner, wiped the marching powder that was still clinging to her nose, and headed for the door. “Nice to meet you. Clean up before you leave.”
The cowboy looked crestfallen. She doubted he really thought he was going to make it with her, legally anyway. She opened the door and saw Paolo, Jenna, all of the Oscar’s regulars and employees in the main room watching a single flat-screen TV. It told a story of devastation and showed bloody, wailing figures—not those from some distant, unpronounceable country but from America. Plumes of smoke, broken glass, fire, blood and tears streaming down the faces of mothers and children were all caught on film in that ultra-bright cinematic fashion Caitlin remembered from 9/11.
The announcers spoke in the voice they reserved for these occasions, as if they were simultaneously trying to read the news and take a poop. That voice meant bad news. This was easily the most significant attack on America since September 11, which happened many years before.
Caitlin stood stunned, trying to catch her breath as much as whatever drugs she took would allow. Despite their physical effects, she was sober now. If her meeting with the Cowboy hadn’t done it, this certainly had.
She watched those images burn themselves into her mind and wrestled with a horrible, sinking feeling. She felt like she was going to faint. Caitlin was pretty effing sure her new boyfriend was behind the attack.
Five
Naseem gunned the Jet Ski. It was still early on during the extended holiday weekend everywhere but Party Cove, so he didn’t have many other boats to contend with. He flew up the cove, the Jet Ski skittering over the calm Thursday waters, having become familiar with it over the past weeks, and tried to think.
He felt he found himself and lost himself in London. He found a purpose that was for a greater good, not just him and his needs. America was so untidy and so awesome. The positions he took in the radical schools where he went were much more understandable. They were saner. He understood who he was and what he needed to be.
But upon his return, freedom, American style, was a bigger rush than he expected, even though he lived it for years. Here people were not robots. Americans had eyes, mouths, hearts, souls, and genitals, and they used them all. What was he killing these people for? So he could be sent to the Promised Land? For seventy-two virgins? They might not add up to one Ashlee. And what about Ashlee and the others? Where was he sending them? For what crime was he willing to play their judge and executioner? Those were questions never answered in London. In London, there were no distractions and no realities. For someone brought up by people who loved the land despite its flaws, those questions were proving harder to take than he expected.
Two hours. He could tell the girls they needed to board another boat, make up some story about safety, and then give them some cash to get them to do it quickly. He could drive the boat to the least offensive spot on the lake, take the Jet Ski far away, and then call in a bomb threat to the police, so they could evacuate the area from all of the shrapnel and plastic explosives he had been planting for weeks. That would jeopardize his skin, but he was ready to do that anyway. At least, he thought he was.
He stopped the Jet Ski, killed the engine, and considered all of this. Sighing deeply, he prayed. The best prayer he could muster anymore. “Allah,” he asked, “what do you want?”
As if on cue, he got a text. He pulled out the plastic bag and stared at the phone.
702-555-2312: ALL RIGHT THEN. LOOKS PERFECT. MOVING UP THE SCHEDULE. DON’T WANT ANY CHANGES OF HEART. I REALLY HOPE YOU ENJOY THOSE 72 VIRGINS. BET THEY’RE NOT AS GOOD AS THE ASS ON THAT BOAT.
Naseem stared at the phone. He didn’t need to look up, but he did in time to see the explosion before he heard it. The boat raged out of the water, and all of the secondary explosives, put in strategic places he designed, went next. He heard the nails and other detritus whistling through the wind like the Grim Reaper’s advance guard. Then he heard the screams—adults sounding like children and wounded dogs. Those sounds carried, vibrating across the surface of the lake. He let the noise tear into his brain for a second. He was the cause of this. It did not sound like triumph. Oh, to never be a failed martyr.
Naseem started his Jet Ski. He took out for the next cove. He knew what he needed to do. He just hoped he could avoid being seen doing it.
Six
Pal Joey rolled everything big—big joints, big butts, and, mostly, a big entourage. Childhood friends, neighborhood pals, cousins, and half-brothers now shared in his success. His three albums and dozens of flows on other records skyrocketed him to one of the five or ten most famous rappers on the planet, and even getting to a gig was akin to moving a battalion across a river.
Hairdressers, make-up artists, logistics, sound, lighting—Pal Joey found a job for all his boys. And they all came along when he performed, even for a simple—and hella early—gig like the one today at one o’clock in the afternoon. Who up at one p.m.?
Joey adopted Lil’ Wayne’s six figure rule: don’t go out or flow for less than six figures, and don’t pass six figures up. So he was getting paid $100,000 for just showing up and flowing three songs—only THREE songs. He couldn’t believe it. It was all to promote some movie called Sabotage which was using one of his tracks.
He was told the show needed to start at one p.m. sharp. All his people nodded when the promoters said this, but it signified nothing. They didn’t say anything, but nobody told Pal Joey when the fuck to start, even if they were paying.
Five limos pulled up to Hollywood Boulevard, just up the block from Grauman’s Chinese Theater. No doubt, many tourists, who would normally be boarding tour buses and putting their hands where Marilyn Monroe put hers, would be put out by all the commotion. But the thousands of people who came were a testimony to Joey’s star power. His fans traveled. They made it out to see him that day, and what a day it was—a bright, high-sky LA day,
the kind where sunglasses are necessary just to get out of the car, a beautiful day, like something out of a movie.
Joey wasn’t in one of the five limos. That was too ordinary for this event. He was being flown in alone in a Sikorsky S-76 helicopter. It was giant, much bigger than needed, and fast as anything. Its wingspan was so big it required a clearing on Hollywood Boulevard which would normally be reserved for a head of state.
Joey got out of the helicopter, head down, and making the walk. He heard on TV about Elvis’ thousand-yard walk before concerts and how it got him in the right state of mind. That’s what he thought about as he walked down the boulevard through all of the fans. People who didn’t even know who he was were still awed by the entrance. Both sides were barricaded off, and Joey practically bounced down the road. Man, he rolled with some swag.
The people who didn’t know about the helicopter were on the other end, making their way to the front of the stage. It would soon be time. Already on stage was one of Pal Joey’s up-and-coming acts, Manda, over-emoting her first single. She was trying to channel Whitney and Aretha but sounded more like the cousin who did their nails. Still, it was just the kind of act Pal Joey wanted to add to his Straight Up Cash label. The bitch could sing, thought Joey, and do other things as well. Maybe the latter clouded his artistic opinion somewhat.
Three minutes. He was close to being on time. He was now backstage and exchanging handshakes with his boys. Joey would try to make it on time and do them proud. Maybe they’d give him a bonus or something. He was standing next to Raylon, his confidant, his best and oldest friend. Raylon’s phone rang; he looked annoyed. Joey asked him what was wrong.
“Man, this the third time in twenty minutes. Damn promoter is blowin’ up my shit.”
“Yes,” he told him again. They were ready. “Yes,” he told them as soon as the song was over. He snapped his fingers and fidgeted. “Yes, Pal Joey will be on the stage in two minutes. Promise.”
He closed the phone and threw it down. This mug was getting on his nerves. “Shit, man,” he said to himself. He promised to do this, and he knew about the timeframe. “Let’s get it on and get it gone.”
But in the brief time that Raylon averted his eyes from his charge, Joey was half into a limo. There was a vision standing just outside the door. A blonde-headed, big-breasted vision with an ass the size of a horse farm. She was a Becky, slang for a white girl who loved black men and only black men. But oh, she was a fine-looking Becky. Raylon hated these distractions, because, most of the time, he was playing traffic cop instead of getting to enjoy the goods. He got paid very well so that Joey got to hit that shit, but that didn’t make it any less fun to see your bro taking that all for himself. And she was fine. Raylon would have been tempted to sample that ass himself and ask for forgiveness later.
Joey was clearly introducing himself to this young lady.
“Yo, Joey.” Raylon tugged at his shirt. “Come on. This shit can wait. She’ll be here after you’re done. Three songs. Where you at?”
‘Yeah, I know,” Joey said, turning to glance at Raylon with the slanted eyes of a serious dope smoker. The entire entourage smelled like a Thailand grow farm.
“We’re supposed to be on now,” he said, hoping to talk one more problem out of the way, knowing he was going to fail.
“I’ll check witchoo in a few,” he said. “Send the hype.”
Big Brooza was his hype man. This was not what he was supposed to do, not at all. They were going to deviate from the plan so that Joey could get laid.
But hell, he thought. He’d be giving the audience more show. Joey would do his three. They certainly wouldn’t complain about a longer show.
Brooza had seen this before. He admired Joey’s new friend and nodded at Raylon with the look they gave when a classic piece of ass came Joey’s way. Shit, Brooza was happy. He could plug his own release, out next week, on Straight Up Cash with plenty of guest appearances from his boy.
Raylon nodded and sent Brooza toward the stage. Roger that, thought Big Brooza. He was gonna rock this shit. Raylon pulled a walkie talkie from his pocket and asked the stage crew to go to Plan B.
“What’s up, Callllllli?” Big Brooza hit the stage, plenty happy to fill the time.
“Y’all know me. From da SD. 619 baby comin’ up da coast to fuck witchoo!”
The crowd, emerging from this rather impromptu setup, cheered wildly. Pal Joey was big and getting bigger. Brooza got his drops on the records, and most kids knew him. This was big stuff.
Joey introduced himself to his new playmate, although he obviously needed no introduction. She looked upset and put off as he took her hand, and they got into Limo Number Four, a white stretch limo which had no current occupants, Joey’s only requirement right now. The exterior was ho-hum, but the interior made up for it. It looked like a neon fairy cut an artery.
“Hi, Becky. I’m Joey.”
“That ain’t my name, boo.” She put her hand on his neck and teased him. She didn’t like being called a Becky, even though she clearly knew she was one.
“I know, but I ain’t gonna rememba ya name anyway. Let’s just keep it simple. You a fine lookin’ Becky, but you a straight Becky.”
The girl wanted to be offended and tried her best, but she couldn’t be. This was one of the world’s most famous rappers. This was her chance. All her friends and Facebook friends would soon know of her encounter. She snuggled closer to him, smelling his Versace cologne and the heavy scent of marijuana. Joey closed the limo door and moved to the back. Becky followed. She kissed him and undid the top button of his Coogi shirt. He kissed her back hard. Joey’s pal Big Brooza made his case from outside the window, firing everyone up.
Then they heard it. A loud noise, like ten thousand concerts. It wasn’t a gun. No gun sounded that big. It was a bomb or an earthquake. Then they heard a whistling, followed by more explosions. It sounded like fucking Full Metal Jacket. Two wheels of their limo tipped off the ground. Becky screamed. This limo was originally made for a presidential candidate and was perfect for a man who went straight from dealing drugs to selling records. He was as protected as a low-rent dignitary would be, and he needed the protection. He said that from day one. Half of 619 still remembered Pal Joey from when he was a civilian, a crack dealer. He could think of plenty of enemies. Was that what this was about? No, it couldn’t be. This was way bigger than his sins.
The bulletproof limo sped off, not asking for directions, carrying only Joey and Becky. The driver locked the doors. If that bomb was meant for him, Joey should know better than to look out the window, but he just had to.
As they pulled out, he turned and cracked the window. He saw bodies. He saw blood. He saw his boy Sarge grabbing what looked like a stump for a leg and screaming like a girl. His best friend, mentor, partner-in-crime Raylon screamed from just outside his window.
“Please stop for me, please stop for me!”
Raylon didn’t cry like that. This was bad. Their eyes connected for a moment and the pleading in Raylon’s was unbearable.
The driver took that decision out of Joey’s hands and sped up. Joey didn’t complain. And that fact made Joey feel like a punk.
Seven
Caitlin forgot about her aches and pains. She quit trying to reconstruct her night. She now felt this destruction. She rolled these concerns around for weeks and strong suspicions for days. It just still seemed so dumb, though. Not dumb enough that she was still with him but just dumb enough not to call the police.
What would she have said? I’ve seen the maps that look like they’re planning a military campaign? I hacked into his e-mail and saw messages that said some shit was going down on July 7 even though that shit appeared to be regarding a movie premiere? No, it was way too speculative to talk to anyone else. At least, she convinced herself of that.
The life had been sucked out of the room. Even Vegas, known for its decadence and its complete lack of connection to the rest of the world, was really composed of people from
all over, and, at this moment, they might as well have been at home, looking at the screens and seeing their hometowns in flames.
The anchors were cutting between multiple locations—New York, Chicago, Atlanta, Miami, Missouri. There were reports that something just happened in LA. So far, nothing had happened in Vegas, at least that she could tell.
Well, if Britt were still here, that would make sense. She saw dozens of cities mentioned in that last e-mail, the one that scared her. If the e-mail was correct, there were more events to come.
Paolo saw her and seemed surprised. “I thought you left,” he said, looking down at her and sizing her up, somehow simultaneously. “That’s what I told your friend.”
The unease intensified. “What friend?”
“The Guido-looking guy.”
Caitlin glared at him. That didn’t exactly narrow it down in Vegas.
“You know. Your friend’s boy. I saw you two at Bellagio a couple of weeks ago.”
Shit, it was Tony, Britt’s muscle. How did he know about Oscar’s? How did he know about Paolo? She vaguely remembered seeing him that night.
She looked puzzled. “How did he know about this place?”
Paolo shrugged. “I gave him my card that night.”
Of course, Caitlin didn’t remember. She had been drinking and left all of her senses at the bottom of her third drink. This is why she shouldn’t drink or do drugs—ever. She forgot things. She missed details. Sometimes she missed entire nights and their inevitable early mornings that followed. She always kept Oscar’s as her safe haven and didn’t let anyone know—until now.
“What did you tell him?” He could hear the note in her voice.
“I sent him on his way. I didn’t like his look. I would have covered you either way. I suggested he check the high stakes rooms at the Wynn. He bit.”