BLACK Is the New Black

by Russell Blake

  None of which put him in a very good mood. He peered at his gas gauge and made a mental note to fill up before hitting the freeway east, and then had a depressing thought. He called Roxie back.

  “What. Already miss my unique charm?” she asked, deadpan.

  “Can you look for hotels for tonight? It just dawned on me that they could be sold out, too.”

  “I wasn’t going to bum you out, but I already did. You’re hosed.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Even the crappy ones. And I do mean crappy.”

  “So what am I supposed to do? Did you look at Henderson?”

  “Yup. Nada. Nothing. Zilch.”

  Black groaned inwardly. Or so he thought.

  “You’re groaning again,” she said.

  “Oh. I thought I was using my inside voice.”

  “Nope. Long groan.”

  “Noted.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “I guess I’ll drive there and look around in person. There has to be someplace with a vacancy.”

  “Good luck. Sounds like you’re going to be sitting up at the blackjack table all night. Wanna bet ten bucks you start smoking again?”

  “Thanks for all the positive vibes, Roxie.”

  “I live to pump you up, boss. Call me anytime. Except tonight. I’ve got a show. I’m leaving early for sound check.”

  “Won’t that cut into your doing a bunch of personal errands on company time?”

  “Nah. Sounds like I’ll have all day tomorrow to do them while you’re hung over in Vegas.”

  “I think you’ve got a really twisted idea of what I’m going to be doing there.”

  “Ten says you smoke again.”

  “I’m not going to bet you on something like that.”

  “Figures.”

  “Will you at least do the background work on Costa?”

  “I’m already on it. You’ll have it when I have something.”

  “Any idea how long it will take?”

  “Two hours, twenty-seven minutes, eighteen seconds.”

  Black groaned again.

  “You’re groaning again.”

  “I know. This time I meant to.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “So you don’t know how long it will take?”

  “Good guess. Think of this as a chance to work on your Zen-like patience.”

  “I don’t have much Zen at the moment.”

  “I got that. Have a nice night, boss. Remember that not all the ladies in the bars there are nice girls.”

  “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”

  “In fact, not all the girls are even girls.”

  “Even better.”

  Chapter 16

  An endless procession of tail lights, strings of glowing red fireflies in the night, crept over the final pass before Nevada. As Black had feared, the trip had taken forever. The road was clogged with vehicles, and the occasional accident or breakdown caused bottlenecks that slowed traffic in either direction for miles. He glanced at his fuel, which was reading only a few scant notches above empty, and resolved to pull over at the state line – as bizarre a place as ever existed with its garish neon glow lighting the sky from afar and its tawdry carnival atmosphere.

  He had his window down. The cool high desert air felt good after hours battling the hot Santa Anas as he made his way east, the winds in some areas so powerful that tractor trailers had chosen to pull off the road and wait them out rather than risk being blown out of control. The radio had said that in the mountain passes gusts were topping ninety miles per hour, carrying the effective wallop of a category two hurricane minus the rain.

  Now, at 9:20, he was only an hour out of Vegas, with any luck at all. He pulled off at Primm, with its freakish roller coaster blinking at the moon, a faux castle on one side of the freeway, an Old West-themed monolith on the other, and was struck by the incredibly bad taste on display. Primm seemed to want to up the ante on cheesy, raise the bar on gauche, and it did so unapologetically, with all of the dignity of an aging streetwalker in too-tight fluorescent yellow leopard-patterned spandex hot pants, and about as much class.

  He coasted to a stop at one of the open gas pumps and shut off his engine. His back stiff from sitting for hours, it was a relief to step out to pre-pay for fuel. On the next island over, a low-rider muscle car rumbled with a group of tough youths with shaved heads leaning against the fenders, scowling at the patrons as though daring them to fight. Angry rap music shouted from oversized speakers, vibrating the entire car with pulsing bass beats like distant bombs detonating. Black did his best to ignore them, and breathed a sigh of relief when they pulled away, their California plates the tip-off that they’d come from East L.A. or thereabouts to raise some serious hell on the strip that evening.

  Ninety dollars later, he eased back onto the highway, wondering at the density of cars even at that hour, and pointed his hood east at where Las Vegas lit the horizon, easily visible from space, a flare fueled by vice that was a bright tribute to man’s ingenuity and avarice.

  As he pulled over the final hill and began his descent into town, a garishly lit billboard with a stadium-sized display flashed a familiar figure wiggling across a stage, dancers surrounding her. A name he knew like his own blinked at him like a taunt: Nina, his ex-wife, would be appearing at one of the largest venues in town for a limited set of engagements. If it was possible to feel any more dislike for the city, he managed, and choked down a bitter taste as his tires rumbled over the pavement.

  Once on the strip, he sought out the hotel where the shoot would take place the following morning at 6:00, and wasn’t surprised when the front desk told him the establishment was regrettably full. He asked for some tips on nearby hotels that might have vacancies and disliked the smirk the clerk gave his associate before turning back to Black and politely declining to offer any guidance.

  Three hours later, after a tepid buffet dinner and an hour of driving around to increasingly distant and seedy establishments, it was obvious to Black that he’d badly misjudged the lodging supply equation. From what he could tell, he’d either have to drive back to Primm or Pahrump and hope there were rooms available, or sleep in his car – a prospect with exactly zero appeal to him as the temperature dropped, not to mention the likelihood of being rousted by security anyway. It was now midnight, and the shoot would begin in just a few hours – and suddenly Roxie’s prediction about him spending the night at a casino table didn’t seem that far off. He was tired from the drive, but figured that with ample coffee he could probably make it through to tomorrow, or rather today. He’d just have to limit himself to non-alcoholic beverages. Mostly.

  Black parked in the mammoth lot and walked to the towering casino complex two football fields away, whose lights consumed enough electricity to power a Central American dictatorship with kilowatts to spare. He nodded at the doorman, dressed in garb that would have been a sensation at any Renaissance faire, who looked about as happy to be up as Black was. Inside, the casino hummed with activity as bells rang, sirens keened, chimes trilled, jackpots blared, or at least that’s how it sounded until Black realized that much of the cacophony was coming from overhead speakers, artfully placed to create the illusion of activity even with few people on the floor.

  Black moved to the restroom and splashed water on his face, his eyes red from strain and allergies. An old man wearing a cardigan the color of moss and trousers so worn from casino chairs the seat was shiny brushed by him on the way to a stall.

  “Bitch will steal it all, son. She’s got no bottom to her well, boy. No bottom. Get out while you can,” he croaked in a voice seasoned by decades of cigarettes and hard liquor. Black nodded, wondering what the appropriate response to that declaration was, but decided it didn’t matter as the man slammed the metal door closed with a groan all too familiar to Black’s ear. He dried his face and beat a hasty retreat, leaving his new friend to his penitence.

  A scantily clad cocktail waitress who looked like sh
e could have taken Black in three rounds approached as he sat at one of the slot machines and asked him what he was drinking. The best of intentions gave way to familiarity, and he ordered a Jack and Coke, rationalizing that the caffeine would offset the effects of the alcohol and help him stay awake. As he waited for his drink, he fed five bucks into the machine and had lost all but fifty cents of it by the time she returned three minutes later. He tipped her a dollar, earning a courtesy smile, and he returned his gaze to the machine, whose blinking lights dared him to show it who was boss. Two more spins and he was cleaned out, his appetite for chance sated. The bourbon tasted cheap and watery, which was about what he expected for the price.

  He rose and wandered around the casino until he came to a cordoned-off section near the rear exit. A bored security guard leaned against one of the posts to ensure that the area remained unoccupied. A system of railings was suspended from tall iron scaffolding the likes of which Black was familiar with from rock concerts, and steel cables hung from above like ferrous spaghetti in the dim light. Black approached the man and stifled a yawn.

  “This where the shoot’s at this morning?”

  “What’s it to you?” the man replied.

  “I’m with the crew.”

  “Then you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

  Apparently Vegas wasn’t the place to come if you were hoping for a warm welcome. Black moved off toward the exit and walked outside, placing his drink by a slot machine near the doors. Two large trailers had been positioned nearby and four semi-rigs hulked next to them, no doubt to accommodate the scaffolding and lights. Black slid his phone from his suit pocket to check his messages, and confirmed that Gunther had sent instructions on the point person to contact – his old friend Jeanie from Cabo again, he was relieved to see. At least he’d recognize her, sparing him the need to guess whom to talk to in order to get a security badge.

  As the hours dragged by, one drink led to another. By 3:00 he was feeling that strange sleepless sense of being both tipsy from the booze and jittery from the Coke. His better judgment finally kicked in as he went in search of the inevitable 24-hour diner somewhere in the far reaches of the casino, where he would be surrounded by kindred spirits who’d lost everything and were hell-bent on winning it back before they had to go to work or home to explain what had happened to the rent.

  The restaurant was everything he’d imagined and more, having spent enough time at its twins around town on prior pilgrimages to practically know the layout of the menu by heart. Large breakfasts featuring slabs of tough steak or rubbery ham graced the photos at the tops of the pages with prices in kitschy starbursts, as though nothing went better with booze and cigarettes and imminent destitution than a farmhand breakfast with extra everything. A woman on the wrong side of a hard forty, whose makeup had the brittle sheen of polished plaster, wearing a Hollywood rendition of a fifties diner uniform, took his order – a number three, which euphemistically called for “flapjacks” instead of pancakes and “spuds” instead of hash browns, crowned with “three pigs,” which he presumed to be sausages or bacon but was afraid to inquire about.

  After woodenly shoveling heaping mouthfuls of congealed carbs slathered in sugar into his maw he felt somewhat better, and on his third cup of strong black coffee he believed he might make it after all. He toyed with the idea of taking a nap in his car – or even less appealing, locked in one of the bathroom stalls – but dismissed it. With his luck, he’d sleep through the shoot or be jostled by hotel security in the bathroom just as he finally nodded off, his legs going quietly numb. Instead, he elected to play a hundred dollars at the two-dollar blackjack table, practically fulfilling Roxie’s prophecy, only needing a cigarette dangling from his mouth to finish the tableau.

  He was up sixty dollars when he saw Jeanie making her way from the hotel entrance to the staging area. Nodding to the dealer, he cashed in his chips and followed her over.

  “Morning, Jeanie. Long time no see,” he said, smiling in what he hoped was an engaging manner.

  “Mr. Black. I got a message to expect you. I see you take your work seriously. Five o’clock and on deck. I’m impressed.”

  “Early bird gets wormed,” he said.

  “Right. Come on back to the trailer. The badges are inside. Makeup and wardrobe will be there in ten minutes, and the girls a few minutes after them. We’re supposed to start shooting at 6:15, and as usual, it’s my job to make sure we make it.”

  “Lead the way.”

  “Catering will be here at 5:30 if you want coffee or breakfast,” she called out over her shoulder, already moving at a good clip toward the exit. “When did you get in?”

  “Last night.”

  “You’re lucky you got a room. Town’s ugly right now.”

  “I’m always lucky in Vegas.”

  Two women were already waiting by one of the trailers when they walked outside, and Jeanie greeted them as she unlocked the door. “This is makeup. Wardrobe’s the other trailer. Dressing rooms, outfits. Off limits to men, though. This is a female-only area.”

  “Good to know. How long have you been here?”

  “Since yesterday. We had to get everything erected and do a rehearsal with the models. We needed to make sure it all worked and they understood the drill.”

  “What’s with the cables?”

  “Oh, we’re doing an angels and demons theme. The girls will be hanging over the casino machines and tables. Very high concept.”

  “Who dreams this…stuff…up?”

  “I know. They get paid a lot of money to storyboard this. Talk about a great job.”

  “How long will the shoot take?”

  “Three hours, tops. Then we have to start breaking it all down again. You don’t want to know what this place costs per day to close off. Seriously expensive.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  Black got his badge as sleepy models began arriving for their hair teasing and primping.

  “How many on this shoot?” he asked as he clipped it to his lapel.

  “Models? Nine. All told? Thirty-something. Photographer, crew, makeup, wardrobe, technical…”

  “So another big production.”

  “Not huge by any means. We had double that in Cabo. But for one company, yes.”

  “So this is all Demille’s talent?”

  “Yup. He’s got a strong relationship with the client, and he’s done their last two campaigns.”

  “What do they sell?”

  Jeanie smiled. “Does it matter?”

  Black laughed. “I guess not that much.”

  “The girls will be scantily dressed angels and demons. The shoot’s after sexy fun with a sense of humor. Wry, the creative director called it. So we’ll have half-naked women suspended from the ceiling to create a ‘wry’ effect. With a price tag that could buy a house in Bel Air.”

  “Be glad they didn’t ask for irony or whimsy.”

  Jeanie winked. “That’s next year.”

  Black got coffee, watched the new arrivals, and recognized Hailey with the ever-present Trish by her side. Trish spotted him a moment later, and nodded in his direction as they brushed by. Hailey looked very much like a groggy fifteen-year-old roused from sleep too early, and a small part of him felt pity for her. He wondered what she made for a shoot like this, and decided it must be a lot. Not movie or TV star a lot, but still, a lot. Certainly more than most teenagers made unless they were drug dealers or pop stars.

  A technician fiddled with the towers and double-checked fittings, and the crew foreman climbed up and inspected the suspension mechanisms, checklist in hand. Four uniformed Las Vegas police showed up just before 6:00, which Black suspected was the result of some sort of a union rule, as was the presence of most of the heavyset riggers standing around doing little but drinking free coffee and wolfing down breakfast pastries, paid a king’s ransom to carry the gear from the trucks into the casino and set up the scaffolding.

  A thin black man wearing a prominent rapper’s
tour jacket and a ski cap took up position by a DJ station and twisted knobs, and a hip-hop beat began pounding from two stacks of speakers on either side of the restricted area. A small crowd of spectators had gathered along the perimeter as the crew had gone about its errands, and Black saw Demille’s distinctive profile outside the exit door, speaking with a lanky surfer type with long hair and a two-week-old growth of beard. Jeanie walked by and he stopped her.

  “Who’s that with Demille?” he asked.

  “Aston. The photographer.”

  Demille entered with the photographer and the DJ increased the volume. Then Aston took control and began issuing instructions to his helpers, who ferreted in nearby road cases and held up cameras for his approval. Black edged nearer to Demille as the first models appeared in the doorway, robes over their outfits, followed by wardrobe personnel who fussed over them like mother hens. Hailey was among the first group, and Black offered a wave. She stared straight at him and then looked away, no sign of recognition in her dull eyes, completely at odds with the girl in the photos and on the beach, who had seemed larger than life – a presence.

  Aston directed the models to their positions and they shed their robes. A small man with heavy black spectacles and a black turtleneck sweater connected the cables to each of their harness clips fitted beneath their lingerie, and gave the rig a strong pull before nodding and moving to the next model. On Aston’s signal, winches whined, and the first three models rose into the air, suspended twenty-five feet over the gaming equipment. A fussy heavyset woman with a headset quickly guided a dozen tuxedo-clad male models to the tables, where they took up position, appearing to be gambling as the girls hovered overhead.