Luke - Sex, Violence and Vice in Sin City Page 6

  “The political resistance will continue to gain support if we don’t build a grassroots effort amongst the citizens,” says Mott. “We need to get them believing this project has something in it for them…”

  He shuts up when the carved mahogany doors swing open and the graying, gentlemanly Matt Tarlik, CEO of Empire Enterprises, walks in.

  Behind him walks David, black-suited as always, tall, wide, emotionless, and cold. His eyes scan the room, getting a feel for who is in what mood, who is hiding something, who has bad news they’d rather not share, who thinks he could do David’s job better than David.

  David, the president of Empire Gaming, took the company from a few moldy old casinos in the musty swamps of Macao to a worldwide multi-billion dollar company that can buy and sell small countries. He might technically report to Tarlik, but it’s David that does the hard work. Tarlik’s job is to dine with politicians, sign checks and make sure the employees get paid. David is the real boss, and everyone knows it, except for maybe Tarlik, much to David’s annoyance.

  Tarlik sits at the table with the casual air of a man in between visits to his tailor and his manicurist. David stands behind him. David prefers to stand at meetings, a habit he got into because sitting for too long makes his back hurt, especially in those fucking complicated chairs. Standing turned out to have the happy side effect of everyone else in the room being intimidated by his size. So he stands.

  “The Nevada State Gaming Board will no longer be of concern to us,” Tarlik announces. “It is being re-organized and effectively neutered.”

  “What?” Taggart says. “That’s impossible! How will the state regulate taxes, make sure the casinos aren’t skimming?”

  “In its infinite wisdom, the state legislature has agreed to move control and regulation of gaming properties to the county level,” Tarlik says. “After all, who better to regulate these businesses than the local representatives who live in the same town as the gaming enterprises they seek to regulate? It’s all about strengthening local government, a laudable goal, don’t you agree?”

  “Normally that would be good news, but we are still in danger. What about the plans?” Taggart says. “If those plans get into the hands of the media, we’ll be screwed. It’s outrageous they were taken outside of this building.”

  “The plans you refer to will be re-acquired soon,” David says, barely having to raise his voice, the resonant bass of it demanding immediate attention.

  “If any word gets out about what we’re up to, it will destroy everything,” Taggart says. “We’ve got to get this place open now, even if we don’t have everything we want from the law. Once we’re open, they will never be able to close us. It’s too many jobs, too much money.”

  “If we wanted to open a mere casino, we could do that,” David says. “What we are building has the chance to be much bigger. Don’t underestimate the power of The Code.”

  “The Code? You must be joking. That old-school mobster shit might have worked in the 60s and 70s, but this is 2013. We are a corporation, not some guys running a craps game out the back of a deli. Did The Code help you get our plans back or are they being posted to the Internet as we speak?”

  “I find your lack of respect for those who came before you disappointing,” David says. He walks around the table and stands behind Taggart, who now looks worried that he’s said too much, that he let the stress get to him. Taggart looks down as his legal pad, trying to pretend a giant rumored to have killed several men isn’t standing right behind him.

  David leans over and whispers into Taggart’s ear.

  “This town is built on The Code, and The Code tells me exactly what is most precious to all men and therefore gives me power over them,” David says.

  In a smooth, quick motion, David reaches over Taggart, lowers his hand to his crotch and grabs a handful of balls. He squeezes and Taggart’s eyes grow wide with pain.

  “Please,” whispers Taggart. “I meant no disrespect.”

  David squeezes harder, and Taggart seems to stop breathing. His face turns red, his jaw goes slack and his eyes bulge.

  “All right already,” Tarlik says with an air of polite impatience. “Enough of the arguing. I think we are all reminded now of the rich traditions our industry is built upon.”

  “Fine then,” David says and releases Taggart’s nuts. Taggart takes in a big gulp of air, breathes heavily, relief all over his face.

  “David will use his considerable influence and talents to insure The Dark Star Resort will open on time,” Tarlik says. “We will crush anyone who opposes us.”

  Taggart wonders how he will explain to his doctor how one of his testicles was crushed.

  Chapter Eleven

  A giant black SUV pull up in front of The Oasis. It might as well have FEDS spray painted on its side.

  Jerry always knew this day would come, when the government would show up and close down his stop on the underground railroad. He is prepared. He has a plan. He hopes for the best. He is scared shitless.

  He puts two fingers into his mouth and whistles so loudly it’s a wonder the beer mugs don’t shatter.

  “Listen up!” he shouts in Spanish. “The Man is here. Everyone be calm and do what I told you to do.”

  Three woman and two men at the bar put down their beers and quickly head to the back room. They lock the deadbolt and put down a thick wooden bar that fits within a reinforced iron frame. It would take explosives to open the door.

  In the bar, Jerry clears away the evidence of absent customers and serves fresh beers to his three men who are watching a soccer game on TV.

  He hires tough guys who don’t mind breaking the law and occasionally breaking heads. The problem is that guys who don’t mind breaking heads also tend to like breaking heads, something Jerry wants to avoid in almost every situation. But he needs tough guys to deal with unruly immigrants and rude clients, so he deals with the occasional over-aggression problem with free beer and good humor.

  “Remember, speak English, don’t resist, show respect,” Jerry asked.

  “Fuck them,” replies Jose, a big guy who sports a long handle bar moustache, in Spanish. “And fuck their whore mothers.”

  “You work for me you piece of shit,” says Jerry. “If you want to keep working for me, then you be nice to the nice gringos.”

  “We’ll behave,” says one of Jose’s co-workers in English, the thin, tall Jesus. He never quite lives up to the name, but he tries to be a nice guy when he’s in the mood. He sips his beer.

  “Good, good, thank you,” Jerry says.

  The third man, the long-bearded Vlad – who isn’t Mexican, but is instead Romanian – agrees, and says in his Vampire accent, “We’ll be nice to the agents who rape and torture women and children.”

  “We don’t know these guys do anything to women and children,” Jesus says. “This isn’t Eastern Europe.”

  “Government men are government men,” says Vlad.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Jerry says.

  The door opens and Jerry puts on a smile. Four men wearing black suits walk in. They all have military haircuts and are wearing sunglasses. The guy in front, the smallest guy, seems in charge. The three behind him look like the muscle. The little guy radiates dickishness. Jerry hates these guys, knows the type, in love with their badges, drunk on a small bit of power,

  “Hello, my friends!” Jerry says, the proud proprietor, smiling big. “Please have a seat. I’ll be right with you. Would you like to see a food menu?”

  The one in charge smirks and says to Jerry, “We’re looking for a naked old man and a midget.”

  “What kind of kinky shit are you guys into?” asks Jose, without looking away from the soccer game.

  “Are you a smart ass?” asks one in charge, while his three companions stand behind him and try to look as intimidating as possible.

  Jerry smiles and extends his hand for a friendly shake.

  “My friend, I think we can help you,” Jerry says.


  “How many feds does it take to track down a naked senior citizen?” Jose says loudly, without looking away from the TV.

  The guy ignores Jerry’s hand, looks past him to Jose.

  “We’re not feds,” says the man. “We’re worse.”

  “The Department of Missing Midgets then?” Vlad asks in his exotic accent.

  Jose snickers, keeps his eyes glued on the soccer game.

  Jerry knows what his three rambunctious employees at the bar are trying to do. They are delaying in the one way they know how, being assholes. The reason for the delay is that 24 illegal immigrants, people who paid good money to be transported into the U.S. from Mexico, are walking through a dark, hot tunnel underneath the big rock outcropping that Jerry calls “The Pimple.” At the end of the tunnel, they will go through a heavy metal door that opens out onto a dirt field where an old Mack truck is waiting, the same truck that brought them to Nevada and the hope for a new life.

  Jerry would rather delay through chit chat. Jose and the boys would rather pick a fight, crack some skulls, get arrested and then make bail tomorrow. For them, that’s an average Saturday night. Jerry would rather not deal with that.

  What Jerry is trying to wrap his around is that these guys don’t seem to be from INS, or even be cops. They are after that crazy Cecil and the little guy. He would gladly give up those assholes, but their trail led right to his friend Owen, whom he’s done business with for years.

  Owen didn’t need these dickheads busting in his front door. And Jerry didn’t need to lose Owen’s business. Business was not great lately.

  He figures he’ll do what he’s always been good at. Lie.

  “Those two were here, oh sure. They called a cab and left a few hours ago.”

  “A cab?”

  “Yes, a cab.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I assure you, they are not here.”

  “There is one road into this place. If there were a cab coming in or out, we’d have seen it.”

  “There are more roads here than maybe you expect.”

  “We know that, Jerry.”

  Woah. Jerry hadn’t told these guys his name. What the hell?

  The man in black continued.

  “We know this little shithole is a rest station for illegal immigrants. We know you supply wetbacks who don’t mind working for two dollars an hour to businesses all over Nevada. We know about the metal door behind that rock outcropping. Which is why we just parked an SUV on it and will weld it shut in ten minutes. It will never open again, if we decide it doesn’t. The people underneath it are trapped with nowhere else to go but back here to their home away from home, which might just be burning to the ground. Do we have your attention now Jerry?”

  They do.

  Chapter Twelve

  Twenty minutes later, Manny knocks on Owen’s door.

  Manny carries a Glock in his shoulder holster, a .38 in an ankle holster and an 8-inch buck knife in a sheath on his belt.

  Manny waits. He doesn’t hear anything. He gets a little annoyed and knocks again.

  Manny is happy to be on this job, and a little surprised. He doesn’t get many jobs like this, not since the old days. Used to be he got a lot of work, back in 70s and 80s, when his talents were used to enhance his employers’ negotiating positions. Vegas doesn’t work like that anymore. A shame.

  These days, he mostly handles personal security for VIPs. He walks celebs from their limos into hotels. He makes sure fans don’t sneak in backstage to see whatever half-a-fag rock star was playing the theater, unless the fans are scantily clad females chosen by the rock star for a special VIP tour of his cock. Then Manny escorts the whores to their date like a common pimp. Not that he has anything against pimps; it just isn’t his thing. He likes to work with his hands.

  He still has a rep as a tough guy, and every once in a while, he gets a call from a director of security with a special assignment. Last time, a guy skipped out on a $10,000 gambling tab he ran up using a fake name and social security number. The guy was dumb enough to use the same fake name (and credit cards in the same fake name) to rent a room at a flea bag motel across the street. The guy regretted being so sloppy after meeting Manny. And then the guy had no regrets at all.

  Manny knocks on the door again, examines it, making sure that if he has to kick it in, he won’t break his ankle. Nah. Simple wooden door frame with one regular deadbolt. Won’t be a problem. He isn’t getting any younger though. Maybe he should have brought a lock pick.

  He thinks about going into the backyard and finding a window to climb through, or maybe just throwing a lawn chair through a sliding glass door. That tended to be a fast and efficient way into a house, but the noise would be a concern. Attracting legal problems on this job would not be good. The instruction was clear. “Do it quietly.”

  He pounds on the door, loudly, with vigor.

  “Who is it?” asks a male voice.

  “I’m a private investigator and I need to ask you some questions,” Manny shouts.

  “About what?” asks the voice.

  “About a couple house guests you’ve recently had.”

  “What about them?”

  “What about opening the door so we can talk?”

  A deadbolt slides and clicks. An old man opens the door and Manny recognizes him from the photo he was emailed. It’s Owen, a guy who made a decent living running a landscaping business, a guy who had a bit of a history with The Organization, but seemed pretty much on the straight and narrow.

  “Can I come in?” Manny asks.

  “Now’s not a good time,” Owen says. “Call me at my office on Monday.”

  “Doesn’t work for me,” Manny says. “An old man and a midget were here. They have something that doesn’t belong to them. Tell me where I can find them and you won’t have a mountain of shit drop on your head.”

  “Have a good day.”

  “You don’t seem to know who you are dealing with. Do yourself a favor. Talk to me.”

  Owen tries to slam the door shut, but Manny slips his size 12 foot into it just in time. He’s kind of glad Owen decided to do this the hard way. He needed the exercise.

  Manny smashes the door with an open palm, knocking Owen backward. The door flies open. Owen stumbles back into his living room and falls on his ass. Manny laughs. This is going to be easy. He walks into the house and closes the door. He looks around. Nice house. Nice things. Big TV. Paintings on the walls. Owen has a lot to lose. Why would he be stubborn about this?

  Manny stands over Owen, who looks afraid. Finally. Manny likes seeing the fear in the old man’s eyes. This job is just about over.

  “You want to talk to me now or after you and I do a little work?” Manny asks, balling his fists, cocking his right arm, getting ready to throw a punch.

  Manny feels the sting on his neck before he hears the shot, like someone sliced him with a red hot stiletto. Then he hears the shot, a pop with a high-pitched hollowness to it, probably a .38. He looks to his right and there is Mrs. Owen, holding a gun in front of her using both arms, just like they teach you at the range. Her legs are spread about two feet apart, her right slightly behind her left. She is staring down the gun sight at Manny. She knows what she is doing. And it is a .38. Manny had guessed right.

  “Get away from my husband,” she says in a voice that seems way too calm for a civilian. Civilians freaked out and started shooting until all their ammo was gone. They weren’t used to these kinds of situations. The lady had done this dance before.

  “Trust me,” says Manny while lifting his hands slowly. “You don’t want to do this. You don’t have nearly enough bullets for what will happen if I don’t leave here safe and sound.”

  The back of his neck burned. She grazed him. Had she been aiming at his head and just missed? Or was she trying to miss and accidently grazed him? How good a shot is this crazy bitch? There is maybe 16 feet between them, so he won’t be able to rush her. And because the door is closed, there is no pl
ace to go for cover. Shit. He is going to have to keep talking until a better option presents itself.

  “Get the fuck out of my house,” she says. Manny doesn’t like the way her gun hand flexes, like she is seriously close to pulling that trigger.

  “I’ll leave,” Manny says. “No problem. But you don’t want what will happen next.”

  “What happens next? What do you want with Cecil?”

  “Cecil?” Owen asks. “You’re worried about Cecil?”

  Her face softens. She’s a little distracted. She looks at Owen.

  “He’s a nice man,” she says. “I don’t want to see him hurt.”

  “You realize that I’m on the ground with this gorilla threatening me, right?” Owen asks.

  “Yes, I realize that, and that is why I’m protecting you,” she says. “In case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Tell me where he is,” Manny says, “and I promise Cecil won’t be hurt.”

  “Get out of my house!” Owen yells and kicks Manny’s knee. It hurts a little, but Manny is grateful for the chance to move and put a plan into motion.

  He yelps in pain, trying not to overact.

  “Oh you fucker, that’s my bum knee!” Manny drops to the floor, holding his knee.

  “Serves you right!” Owen yells, feeling pretty full of himself now.

  On the floor, on his back, his leg up, Manny makes his move. His hand slips to his ankle holster and in a smooth motion pulls out the .38 and fires at the crazy bitch’s thigh. He doesn’t want to kill her, but he needs that gun out of her hand.

  She doesn’t drop the gun. Instead she screams in pain as the bullet tears through her outer thigh. She points the gun and fires at Manny, but the pain and shock have thrown her off. Her bullet flies into meat of Owen’s ass. He screams. Beri falls to the floor, screaming, dropping the gun and holding onto her bloody thigh. They scream together in a terrible harmony, two shot and bleeding idiots.