“Halfway complete,” I say.
“Half. What’s the problem?” He asks.
“Money. South tower is done. Turned 20,000 square feet of penthouses into ten eco-apartments. Everything’s done on the outside. The bones are there, it’s the guts that are ripping my budget in two. Building smart apartments, with that special boutique hotel living experience is expensive enough. Add in the extra burden of building them in such a way that leaves zero net energy impact? Which means almost no carbon footprint? That takes cash. Boatloads of it,” I say and toss back the shot in front of me.
“I love your good heart Shamus, always said you were a sweet boy, and don’t take that as a negative. World needs more sweet men like you. Cheers.” He clinks my empty glass on the table. Shit, I should have waited for him.
“Sweet, sounds like my hands are sticky. What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“He didn’t mean anything by it.” Justice mutters.
And my uncle nods. Holding up his hands, he says, “Sweet. It’s not a bad thing, it’s just not me. If I were sinking, a boatload of cash, like you say, I’d be selling those fuckers. For top dollar. Not planning on renting them to a bunch of hotel workers,” he scoffs.
“Those workers treated me and dad like family. Took care of dad. Always made sure he was safe.”
“Not always,” Uncle Tommy says, and we both think of the accident. He didn’t have to see the worst of it. I was in my office when I heard. ‘Accident on Frank Sinatra Blvd.’ Once I heard the location, I didn’t need to hear any more details. My dad always loved old Blue Eyes.
After a long look at my face, he says, “It’s your money. I can’t tell you how to spend it. The Eco luxury in Vegas? Stick with that. Drop the selfie bullshit. Photo evidence that solves a murder, a kidnapping, a crime is not something to be played with. Do you want your father’s casino to be a sting operation?”
Unsure, I say, “I hadn’t thought about that.”
Justice says, “Shamus is still working out the holes dad. On his casino.”
Like I’m still in short pants, he concedes with a shrug. “It’s your circus, Shamus. But it’s me that’s supposed to provide the peanuts?”
There’s my cue. In our family, no one’s offering. You have to ask. “Since you brought it up, I was hoping to get a loan.” I say.
“From me? Nah, not interested and before you say a word, I want you to know. I told your father the same thing. Fads come and go, Shamey. Those millennials you’re working so hard to attract? Same as their parents before them, they grow up, and when they do? They want Vegas to be the same as it always was. Smokey, a little tacky, but always a big escape from reality.”
More drinks are poured, I’m surprised my whiskey isn’t served in a sippy cup. That’s how my uncle makes me feel. One minute, he’s fully on board and the next, he’s cleaning spit from my chin like I’m in a highchair.
Uncle Tommy smiles, and the hard edge I’d just witnessed disappears. “Anyway, that’s not what I called you here for.”
He motions to the bar, and from behind it, a little redhead comes out with a cake and sparklers.
Justice and I sweep the plans out the way before she sets the cake down. “Happy Birthday, Shamus,” she says and plants a kiss on my lips that makes me blush.
“Blow out your candles kid. I got you a present that might help with your money troubles.”
He slides a newspaper my way.
“Your idea was cute, mine’s a little more practical,” my uncle says.
The headline, “Pop Star clings to life.”
The picture beneath it is one of a forlorn woman, caught in the act of attempting to flee her life. Thrashing against restraints, she is pinned to a gurney. I look closer at wild eyes that roll in the sockets. Too much of her is showing, why is she naked?
Where are her people? The ones that are supposed to make sure shit like this doesn’t happen? On somebody’s watch no less, she was able to overdose and flash the public. Some heads are going to roll.
“Aren’t you going to blow out the candles?” My brother asks, and I nod.
Sucking in a breath, I close my eyes and change my wish. Instead of wishing for money, I give her my wish. Please let her make it.
Skimming the article, I see there’s a candlelight vigil planned for tonight.
Uncle Tommy moves the cake unceremoniously to the side and jabs the paper twice. “This is your golden goose. A flighty little bird, but I know where they’ve got her caged up for the next 72 hours at least. And before you say I shouldn’t have, pop stars are on sale today. This is what the club needs. A singer.” My uncle says.
I look at Justice to see if he’s hearing what I’m hearing, but he’s just nodding along. “What you need is some talent. A hot ticket everyone’s dying to get. Hell, the big casinos are racking it in, Celine, Cher. Bruno makes $975,000 per show and if they’re paying the talent that kind of money just imagine the dough they’re raking in. Plus, it would bring in enough capital to fund Surge.” Justice says, and I have to laugh.
Whatever hairbrained idea I come up with, he always remembers.
And I’m still laughing when I ask them. “Do either of you dopes realize the type of money that needs to be shelled out, up front? We’re talking millions in venue alone. And that’s if we go the upgrade option and keep the existing Sammy Davis Room. No thanks, I’ll stick with my Surge Bar idea,” I say and switch to water. The way these two put back the shots, I’ll need a nap before we eat.
“Recharge,” my uncle stresses.
But it’s Justice that twists my arm. “That’s great. No offense everyone, but you sound just like your dad. Never betting the dollar machines, always stuck on Penny Lane. Go ahead. Build your great bar, surge, charge, recharge whatever. Put as many plugs in the fucker as it will hold, but who’s going to come?
How you going to attract the young crowd to The Four Leaf as their destination recharge choice?
“You gotta lure them in first and 2 for 1 tickets to Tom Jones ain’t gonna cut it. C’mon Shamus. You said so yourself, it’s your casino. The sky’s the limit.”
But I’m still not seeing where the money’s going to come from. Last quarter, we broke even. This quarter, with the funeral? We’re just broke.
“Looks like more trouble than she’s worth.” I say and Justice rolls his eyes.
“Aren’t you tired of the funeral montages? Remember when? Why not keep them great in the first place? Do we need to know every little detail of everyone’s life just so we have a stone to throw at the first sign of trouble? I’m no savior. More like a maintainer. There’s a few details in my past that I’d like to hide. It’s a foot in the door. I’m not going to say it wouldn’t be great for my business. If I can keep her alive and get her to the stage on time, it’s great publicity. We can help each other out. What do you say?”
And because it’s my brother that’s asking, I can’t say no.
“Don’t forget to factor in the immediate costs of the care and feeding of a resident celebrity. That’s even before profits. That’s bound to take a bite,” I grumble.
My Uncle Tommy smiles. “Not such a big one if she looks like this. She’s a pop princess on her way to playing Fremont Street if she’s lucky. Bet you we can get her for peanuts. We’ve got the Sammy Davis Room just sitting there. While she’s down, we get a signed contract. Fifty shows at a50-50 split. That is after the overhead cost. We are assuming most of the risk. What am I thinking? I’m sure you’re wondering about all this we stuff? You did make it crystal clear no angel investors, so she’s all yours,” Uncle Tommy says, and I feel like a real shit.
“Unc. C’mon, I was grieving…”
“That’s why I know it was the truth. Keep us monsters out of it. The feds aren’t playing around anymore. Especially where Thomas Malone is concerned. Keep it on the up and up. Either way she performs, and after her latest stunt, it’s a lot of free publicity. She’ll fill the seats. Or she goes off the deep end
and pulls a no show? Either way it’s a win-win.”
But I’m confused. “Wait. How does whacking her help me?”
“Oh, hey. No one said anything like that.” He looks around like G men are going to pop out of nondescript sedans at any moment before continuing.
“In the old days, we would’ve clipped her. Now, if she doesn’t follow through, there’s always insurance. No need to ‘whack ‘anyone when you’re in good hands. Already talked with Hans at Good State. He’s already got the surety bond set up. Just waiting on us to fax the signed contract over. Even if she doesn’t put one high heel on your stage, the surety bond guarantees us, our, I mean your seed money. All paid for. Think of it as a gift from your favorite uncle. Happy Birthday kid,” he says.
“What’s in it for you?” I ask.
“You mean besides helping my favorite nephew out?” He asks like I don’t know him.
“Yeah.” I say.
Waving a hand dismissively, he says. “I’ve got a 5% finder’s fee buried in their somewhere. Gotta keep the lights on in this place.”
The place he speaks us, Mobsters, sits in the trendy area of Hollywood and pays for itself just fine.
“It’s my birthday. Make it two and a half,” I say and hold out my hand.
His eyes twinkle with pride. “Always said you were tough, just like me. Done.”
Shaking my hand, he looks me in the eye and says. “Only thing Shamus and I’m gonna be blunt here. “She’ll fuck anything that moves. Play dead.”
I look at my brother and he’s as shocked as I am.
“Why?” I blurt out.
“Why, what?” My uncle asks.
I feel like I’m in a comedy skit, but I have to know. “Why will she fuck anything that moves?”
He gives me a wink. “That’s the age-old question, isn’t it?”
My brother stands and picks up a briefcase.
Eyeing the case, I ask my uncle. “That’s not a tommy gun, is it?”
“Contract. Same difference,” he says.
“Justice is coming with you. Let him help. He knows how these people work.”
“We’re going now?” I ask as I’m steered toward the door.
“No time like the present. You did good,” Justice says and squeezes my shoulder.
“Should I call Uber?” I ask.
Uncle Tommy scoffs. “Uber, the kid says. Justice has a Cherry Mustang just sparkling and ready at the curb and the kid says, Uber. Justice take care of him.”
“Will do.”
Chapter 9
Shamus
The air in Los Angeles leaves a residue on my skin. I rub the back of my hand and I swear, it feels like there’s a film there. It’s a combination of salt and SPF 50 which the overhead sun bakes all in at a steamy 104 degrees. In this rolling tank, I feel like I’m wrapped in tin foil. Give me my cool, dark Casino any day.
“Would it be possible to put the top up?” I ask.
Justice looks at me like I’m crazy. “No can do, Bro. Just picked this up from Danny’s Customs and I’m testing out all the gadgets. There’s sunglasses in the glove compartment though.”
I’m careful not to leave fingerprints on the chrome interior as I retrieve an identical pair of mirrored glasses. “Great. We can be twins,” I say.
Justice turns. “Looks good on you.”
The light changes, Justice hits the gas, the souped up engine roars beneath the hood, and we narrowly avoid a group of pedestrians crossing the street.
With a wave, Justice calls out, “Sorry, not used to it yet.”
They squawk and give us the united finger as we pass, and I realize, they’re all gorgeous.
The merely cute among them form a human shield as they herd their beautiful people up onto the curb. What I thought at first glance to be posers are most likely legit. “Is there some type of Hollywood convention going on?”
“Yeah, Dufus. It’s called the Grammy’s. Our girl was supposed to sing tomorrow.” He points to a billboard coming up on the right.
“That’s her. The girl from the newspaper,” I say and read the tagline beneath her picture aloud. “NovaKain. This won’t hurt a bit.”
A paperhanger in white overalls, perched high up on thin scaffolding, reaches with a long bar, pushes something in the top corner, and half the poster comes loose. A strip the size of a sail gets caught in the wind, flutters just out of his reach, before it billows down and cocoons him. “Bitch!” He says, as he rips the paper in half and lets it fall to the vacant lot below.
“Look at that. Already yesterday’s news,” Justice says, like his dad just sold me some swampland.
But I feel relieved, no one needs a colossal advertisement of their naked body on display. She’s cute and all, but no one. Still, you’ve gotta pity a girl so desperate for attention she lets it all hang out, right on the side of Sunset Boulevard.
Which decides it. “Gotta make a stop on the way,” I say.
“For what? Shamus, my guy said 3:00 pm and with this traffic, it’s gonna be tight.”
“Then find me a deli with a short line. Need a pint of Chicken soup and before you even start, there’s no way I’m going in empty handed,” I say.
He thinks for a minute. “A deli? A deli? Oh wait, I’ve got something better.”
He eases into a line of cars snaking along towards a familiar white building. “It’s not chicken soup, but she’s a Cali girl, ain’t she?”
My stomach growls as soon as the smell of grilled onions and charbroiled burgers hits my nose. “Good choice, since your dad reneged on my birthday lunch,” I say.
“He did, didn’t he? Well, I’ll make it up to you. My treat,” he says.
A cutie in a white uniform and red apron stands on the curb and takes the order from the van in front of us. With lightning speed, she pushes buttons on a tablet.
“That will be $18.50. Pull forward please,” she beams and teeters back and forth on the curb until we pull up.
Whistling through her teeth, she says, “Some car Mister.”
Which turns into a blush when she sees Justice. Tucking a stray blonde wisp under her cap, she flubs her one line. “Can I, do you?”
Embarrassed, she blows a razzberry. “Sorry, it’s the hot. I mean the heat. Man, I’m really messing this up. What do you want?”
Used to this sort of reaction whenever my brother’s in the vicinity, I mutter, “Help her out Justice. That blush looks painful.”
It’s the swagger, charisma, what the old guys call the touch. In a room full of rock stars, it’s Justice the women gravitate to. But he’s shit as a wingman. If you take Justice anywhere, it better be in a 747. You’ll need that much room for all the ladies that want to follow him home.
Using his patented engaging smile and direct eye contact, he discusses the secret menu with our server until she feels comfortable enough to lean on the car.
“Ow, hot,” she says, rubbing her elbow and the car behind us beeps.
“Dick!” Justice puffs up and yanks the rearview down to glare at the guy behind us.
Now I am annoyed. “Really Justice? Gonna throw down in the drive-thru? 3:00 pm, remember? Order something already before I start beeping.”
“Alright, alright,” he says and finally, orders.
When he’s done with his flying Dutchman, protein style whatever, the server nods my way without even a look.
Without the frills and in half the time, I order for two.
“Two cheeseburgers, grilled onions on both, two shakes. Neapolitan please.”
“Wow,” she looks up in surprise.
“I know a little about the secret menu too,” I say, with a wink.
Pushing buttons, she asks, “Will you be eating this in the car?”.
Like he’s got a secret, Justice beckons her closer.
And she comes.
What’s wrong with kids nowadays? We could be kidnappers. Yes, we’re in the drive-thru at In N Out, but still, she needs to be a little more careful. It’
s Los Angeles after all.
Using a VIP only whisper, Justice lets her in on our little secret. “Nah, we’re meeting a singer for lunch.”
Interest perks her ears. “Really? Who? Selena Gomez came through the drive-thru once, but it was post Beiber. Anyway, I wasn’t working. But I heard she was super-chill.”
Thinking of the cars behind me, I nudge him. “Dude pull up.”
Justice takes his foot of the brake and coasts. The server walks beside us, and it’s obvious the suspense is killing her. Insistent, she asks again. “Who?”
Justice doesn’t answer, just holds up a finger. Building that old anticipation before he namedrops. “NovaKain.”
And the little blonde loses her shit. Forgetting about the beeps and the buttons, she throws her head back, paper hat askew and screams at the top of her lungs. With tears in her eyes, she begs. “Please say she’s okay.”
“Are you okay?” I ask, looking around at everyone staring suspiciously at us…like we’re kidnappers. At a nearby table, a sweet little granny reaches for her cane.
“Hold up your hands Justice,” I say, and I do the same. Looking directly at granny, who eyes me over her specs, I say, “Everyone settle down. She’s okay.”
But Justice couldn’t be more pleased with the outcome. Grinning, he says, “And so are you. Looks like good old dad picked lucky. I know everybody’s heard of her, hell, there’s a mile-high sign of her naked body across the street.”
He adjusts the rearview to get a better look at our server. “What I wanted to know is, do they care?”
Curious, I turn and see the teen speaking into her headset frantically. Stealing glances our way, she mouths the license plate. 800JSTC.
“I’d say she cares all right,” I say.
When we get to the window, a skinny kid gestures for us to wait as he waves someone on. “Hurry up! Hurry up!” He turns to us; his ears filling the entire window and asks. “You actually know NovaKain?” HIs voice breaks like ice on her name.
A pretty teen plunges to a stop against his chest. The kid blushes.
She holds onto the front of his shirt with one hand and hangs her upper body out the window until I’m afraid she might fall into Justice’s lap but the kid with the ears has a tight grip on her bottom. Which she doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, she slaps a folded placemat against Justice’s chest.
Rock Bottom (The Handler Series Book 1) Page 7