David Alan Dedin
Leaving Las Vegas
Six
Leaving Las Vegas
2006
Red and blue lights splashed across Alan’s windshield as his pickup rounded the lane’s gentle bend, a packed suitcase on the passenger seat next to him. Slamming to a stop at the Williams family home, he jumped out in time to witness a pair of EMT’s carrying Jacob to the ambulance, where the vehicle was waiting open. One of the old man’s pant legs was missing, and his ankle had been wrapped in a ball of bloody gauze. Audrey stood with her arms crossed at the foot of the open front door, her expression far more angry than concerned. He ran up to her –
“What happened?”
“All of the men in this house are idiots,” she said in disgust, returning inside to the kitchen. Alan hesitated, then followed.
The home’s interior smelled like sawdust when he entered the living room, dressed in a black Roanoke Hotel polo. Alan stopped cold when he noticed that the contents of Guinevere’s room had been packed, and were now stacked in boxes, divided into piles for both storage and Goodwill. Audrey could be heard storming down the basement stairs, having words with Dale, then hurrying back up. The old woman was tugging on her coat as Alan entered the kitchen. She grabbed her purse. Lights flashing, the ambulance pulled away in the front window.
“I’m coming with you!” Dale yelled from the stairs, entering the kitchen with blood on his T-shirt. He smelled like a brewery, but he wasn’t slurring his speech – yet.
“Oh no,” Audrey told him. “You…are not driving.”
“You drive,” he said, grabbing his own coat.
“You’re staying here,” she shot back. “Someone needs to stay with Steph.”
“She’s fourteen years old. She doesn’t need a sitter!”
“She just lost her mother!” Audrey snapped.
“And I just lost my sister!”
“Dale, we are not having this conversation now!” Audrey found her keys and bolted into the garage, slapping the opener button as she passed. The big door rattled upwards as she whipped open the door to her blue Cherokee, throwing her purse into the passenger seat. “This fucking family should buy stock in Saint Francis!” She got in and started the engine –
But then, she immediately stopped it.
“Where’s the BUICK?” Audrey yelled from behind the windshield, now realizing that Jacob’s Lucerne was not beside her Jeep. Her driver’s door flew open again. She looked frantic.
Stephanie, Dale realized, pushing Alan aside and racing downstairs. Audrey hurried back into the kitchen in time to hear her son calling up from the basement. “She’s not in her room!” The woman bolted towards the bedrooms, looking for her granddaughter.
“Can Stephanie drive?” Alan asked Dale, who nodded. “And Jacob’s Buick is new, right?” Dale nodded again. “I need a computer,” Alan told him.
“In here,” Dale said, leading him into the dining room, where an eMac sat on a desk by the wall. Alan jumped into the office chair and brought up Safari. His fingers clattered on the keyboard.
“If the car is new, then it probably has OnStar,” Alan said. “Does Audrey have the account number?”
“MOM!” Dale shouted, not realizing the woman was now beside him. Her face took a direct blast of distilled breath, moving her hair slightly. “What’s your OnStar account?”
“I think that model has GPS,” Alan told them, pulling up the OnStar site. “The police can track it.”
“Like CSI,” Dale said.
“We didn’t pay for that,” Audrey told them.
“They can still track the car if it’s an emergency,” Alan said.
“What do you need?”
“Year, model, and license plate number.”
“2006 Lucerne, but the plate is new – I don’t know what it is.”
“Do you have any paperwork?”
“Yes!”
Audrey raced into the kitchen in time to see the Buick’s running lights flash white across the open doorway to the garage. The car took its place in Jacob’s spot, beside the Jeep. Its trunk popped open when the engine stopped. Stephanie was behind the wheel, oblivious to the recent commotion. She got out and began to empty the trunk before noticing her panicked Nana. “What?” she asked innocently.
Audrey grabbed her in an angry hug.
“You took Papa’s car?” Audrey’s heart was pounding. “Why did you take Papa’s car?” Her granddaughter pointed to the Wal Mart bags as soon as the bear trap released.
“Was I not supposed to use your card?”
“That’s not what I mean,” Audrey stammered in love. “That’s not the point…you’re not old enough yet…you shouldn’t be, shouldn’t be…” Her voice trailed off as anger returned. She sighed in total frustration.
“We are going to have a talk when your Papa gets home,” Audrey said firmly, getting back into her Jeep. The SUV slammed into reverse, then sped off down the street. Stephanie looked at Alan’s polo, and then to the blood on her glassy-eyed uncle’s shirt. A devious smile crept across her face. “This looks interesting” –
“What did I miss?”
* * * * *
Guinevere’s room had been stripped to the studs, with a bare concrete floor where the carpet used to be. All of her furniture had been moved into the rec room, though the items had been pushed aside so the stretcher could get through the slider. Alan’s eyes followed an orange extension cord from the rec room into Gwen’s bedroom. The cord stopped at a Sawzall – and a mess of unorganized hand tools – with blood still dripping from the power tool’s new blade. He noticed a near-empty whiskey bottle, with two of Audrey’s coffee mugs nearby. It was obvious what had happened.
“One for the road?” Dale asked when Alan came back up into the kitchen. He had raided the stash of booze left behind by well-meaning visitors, and had already poured two glasses, neat. He offered one to Alan, who waved his hand. “I just came by to say goodbye. I have to work tonight. I need to hit the road.”
“More for me then,” Dale said.
“Guess who’s getting her own panic room?” Stephanie asked, rummaging through bags and finding a package of Funyuns. The two men watched her grab a beer from the fridge, then settle into the family room sofa, flipping on a talk show. Dale poured both drinks into the same glass.
“I’m going to leave you guys my card,” Alan told Dale. “It’s got my work number on front, but I wrote my home and cell on the back.” He set the card on the counter. It read:
Roanoke Hotel
Downtown Naperville, Illinois
Alan Lavinski
Assistant Property Manager
“Feel free to call if you need anything,” Alan told Dale. He looked towards Stephanie. “And you too, Steph. I also wrote my email on the back.” The young girl raised a Funyun, but did not look up. “And pass the message onto your folks too,” Alan added, directly to Dale. “I hope your dad’s okay.”
“Will do.”
“Great,” Alan said, straightening his collar. “I’m gonna’ head off now.” He waved at the sofa. “Take care, Stephanie.” She didn’t wave back. With a quick pat to Dale’s shoulder, Alan left the kitchen through the garage and headed for his truck. Dale closed the door behind him and carried his drink downstairs. Stephanie turned up the volume when the Sawzall started up again, then ran to the living room window, where she watched the taillights on Alan’s Frontier.
As soon as he was gone, she snatched the card for herself.
* * * * *
Nevada
Three days later, the hot desert sun sizzled in the sky above Las Vegas valley. In the outskirts of the city, the far outskirts of the city, a garish neon sign buzzed away, unaware it wasn’t yet night. The sign looked forty years old up close. It was faded, but colorful, and animated by a clockwork-filled belly of squeaky, interior gears. A geezer in a wheelchair rolled towards a steer in stilettos, and what followed next was no less than obscene, albeit impressively engineered.
The letterboard below described the best gosh-dang Neil Diamond impersonator in the valley. It also boasted the best gosh-dang Salisbury steak in the valley, available for just $2.99, inside, on the buffet, adjacent to penny slots. A rainbow of flashing lights was positioned within the monstrosity’s center, raised slightly. The bulbs spelled out: ELDER-RADO CASINO N’ MOTEL, with a painted lower byline adding, Rooms Available by Night or Hour.
Being that it was still lunchtime, the motel had no vacancy.
“…Y’all come back now – bzzt! – Y’all come back now – bzzt! – Y’all come back now – bzzt! – Y’all come back now…”
An eight-foot knock off of Vegas Vic waved goodbye to departing seniors in a manner more fitting to Pennywise the Clown. As a Greyhound full of blue hair heaved itself out of the parking lot, a shiny 00’ Eldorado convertible rolled up to the lobby, stopping at the valet. Taking off his sunglasses, Patrick pressed a twenty into the attendant’s hands before going inside.
* * * * *
Rhinestone Cowboy droned on from above as seniors tethered to oxygen tanks pulled slot machine levers with both hands. The gambling hall was mid-century modern, with low popcorn ceilings, dark walnut paneling, and hanging lights shaped like translucent wagon wheels. A hideous cowboy-themed carpet ran for miles in every direction, and the air stunk of cigarettes, Youth Dew, and grease fryers in need of cleaning. Various John Waynes’ ran the tables. Various Dale Evans’ trolled the aisles, serving drinks. A flashing marquis announced the next Neil Diamond show, starring the amazing Indrajit Agnihorti. Per the caption on his photo, he was very well known in Mumbai.
Patrick headed for the Bingo Hall.
“How’s the crowd today, Mel?” he asked Melody, his partner in crime. A curvy girl in her twenties, Mel was one of the few employees he actually liked. She was smart and bubbly, but not quite pretty enough to work on the Strip. “It’s getting there,” she said. “You want something to drink?”
“I’ll take a Sprite,” he said.
“Hungry?”
“Yes, but” – Patrick looked towards the snack bar, where a grungy teenager handled hot dogs with bare hands – “not from here.”
“I’m going to make a Chick-fil-A run on my break,” she said. She peeled off her Nancy Blake wig, exposing long, brown, slightly oily hair. “That okay?”
“Perfect. Here’s a ten.”
“Thanks.”
The Bingo hall was a series of interconnected banquet rooms, with their partitions permanently open, creating a long, rectangular space. Despite the tacky carpeting, the room wasn’t as ostentatious as the rest of the property; its interior was filled with long folding tables and chairs, which could easily be moved to accommodate the handicapped.
Patrick’s workstation sat right in the middle, perched on a platform like a talk show stage. A large, jumbotron game board hung from above; its graphics twinkled in western themes, with the phrase “Bang-Go!” running across the top, animated to resemble a gun, firing $100 bills.
Melody returned with the Sprite. “I’ll be back in twenty.”
“Oh – extra pickles,” Patrick said.
“Got it.”
Patrick pretended to organize papers until she was gone, then discreetly glanced up to make certain he was alone. He then unlocked the playing balls from the safe and set them next to the casino’s bingo computer. Reaching for the clipboard with today’s game sales goals, he accidentally bumped his soda, knocking the bottle to the floor. Clipboard in hand, he ducked out of camera view for a moment. After he got up, he returned to entering numbers into the system.
Later, as gaming time neared, the tables gradually filled with wheelchairs and white hair. Biddies claimed their favorite corners, carefully arranging trolls, cats, clowns, gnomes, owls, mushrooms, raunchy Sillisculpts, and countless other lucky tchotchkes. Bingo cards were taped to tables, while daubers were lined in orderly rows. Melody reappeared as Kitty Russell with a beverage tray and was joined by a 240lb Annette Fucincello in a short hoop skirt & spurs; the two circulated through the growing crowd of codgers and peddled well liquor while dispensing coinage from pistols.
YEEEEEEEE-HAWAAAAH!
BLAM!
BLAM!
BLAM!
Startled blue-hairs nearly lost their teeth when the jumbotron blasted to life. Giant holes appeared in the game board to coincide with the gunfire, and each animated bingo square galloped a different direction, like frightened horses. A grizzled prospector appeared on the screen. His voice was identical to the message on Alan’s machine.
“Weeeeeeeel, how-dee part-ner! Them slot machines are always loose, here at the Elder-Rado casino! But you ain’t here to play slots right now, are ya’? Yer’ here to play” – BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! –
“BANNNNG-GOOOO!”
A giant countdown appeared: 5:00, 4:59, 58, 57, 56…
“It’s time to start takin’ yer’ seats, partners! Find ya’ a good spot, get some moonshine from yer’ waitress, and give a big how-dee-ho to my good friend Daisy, who’s gonna’ call yer’ numbers for ya’” – the pre-recorded prospector looked directly at the hall’s raised platform – “Say hello, Miss Daisy!” Patrick didn’t miss a beat as he donned a cowboy hat, bringing a microphone to his lips.
“Actually, Miss Daisy doesn’t work here anymore,” he said cheerfully, “But that’s okay because I’m Cowboy Pat, and I’ll be calling your numbers today. How’s everybody doing? You folks excited?”
A handful of old farts muttered yes, they were excited.
“Well, that’s just great! You sure sound excited! And, hey – you know what? How about if I tell you a little about the game before we all get started?” A switch was flipped on the platform’s podium, firing up the room’s big disco ball. Hundreds of tiny white dots appeared on rayon pantsuits, silver oxygen tanks, and horn-rimmed eyeglasses, while the sound system began to play a familiar tune. Had Barry Manilow been within earshot, what followed next would have given him a stroke.
“Hit it!” Melody shouted from in back.
“My name is Pat-rick…I’ll call your num-bers. And with our friendly Kitty Rus-sell, you’ve no need to move a mus-cle! This is Ann-ette. She carries men-us. And if your stomach needs un-win-ding, know our food is ne-ver bin-ding! A-cross our gam-ing floor, you’ll find the rest-room doors…and all our stalls are wide, who could ask for more?”
“At the El-der” – the staff joined in – “Ra-do ca-si-no! The best slots from Ve-gas to Re-no! At the El-der Ra-do ca-si-no…our prime rib is cheap and our jackpots are steep here at the El-derrrrr…what’s not to lovvvvvve?!”
As Patrick went on to explain how Marsha had extra cough drops, Pam, a pretty brunette, a woman of a certain age (though decades younger than everyone else), worked her way through the clapping crowd and found a free chair at one of the long tables. Despite the packed house, Pam was hard to miss; her kelly-green dress had such a loud, leafy pattern, Blanche Devereaux could have used it as wallpaper. Biddies protected their purses, shooting dirty looks when Pam sat down. She placed a single playing card on the table.
“…you’ll be a su-per-star, you’ll dine on ca-vi-ar…”
Pam, as always, was feeling lucky today.
“…you’ll gush blue blood with that Bang-Go gunshot, cuz it’s meant for you!...”
And Patrick was feeling lucky himself, when he recognized his favorite player in the audience. By now, the entire bingo hall was singing.
“At the El-der Ra-do Casiiiiiii-no! If you’re creak-y and ash-en, there’s al-ways a chance that at the El-derrrrrrr…you’ll hit Bang-Gooooooooo!”
BLAM!
BLAM!
BLAM!
The lights snapped on when the jumbotron opened the game, and Patrick began calling numbers. Arthritic fingers anxiously tapped tickets while red and blue daubers punched squares with such force, they looked like police, slamming felons against cars. The game was barely underway when Pam noticed that her own card now had a single diagonal of green across its center, with no additional ink spots. “Oh, my goodness,” she told the couple beside her. “I think I won!” Her hand shot upward, fluttering –
“Bingo! I think I have Bingo! Oh, Mr. Patrick, over here” – she took a deep breath and shouted as though screaming rape – “BINGO!”
The jumbotron exploded in fireworks.
The room fell silent with cold, angry stares.
Patrick made sure to check her numbers carefully, verifying that her jackpot was indeed legit; he then kept her ticket for casino records, as was policy. But Pam didn’t mind, of course. It was his job to be suspicious. And Patrick was very good at his job, which is why she always attended his games on Tuesdays at ten, Thursdays at twelve, and the second Sunday of each month.
There were, after all, many dishonest people in Las Vegas.
* * * * *
Illinois
The Roanoke Hotel was a local landmark, a three-story pile of bricks and art deco, set on a corner in the heart of historic downtown Naperville. Like many of the buildings within the gentrified neighborhood, the Roanoke was nearly 130yrs old, but had been renovated from the basement to the roof, and now offered good sheets and great towels – at a premium price. Deep burgundy awnings ran the length of its sidewalk-facing windows, with tasteful scrolled lettering that announced both its lobby’s restaurant, and Old Places, its trendy bar.
The whole place was a pretentious gold mine.
“I not clean shit on wall again!” Juanita yelled, slamming her rubber gloves down onto the mahogany counter. Her English was fractured, though considerably better than a month ago. “Drunks come in! Use toilet to – how you say – blow chunks! They think it funny to not shit in toilet! You should lock door!”
Jim, the property’s manager, the world’s oldest metrosexual, looked up from behind his glasses. His eyes then went to the door of the lobby’s public restrooms. “How bad is it?”
“It bad! They shit on floor, on wall, not shit on inside of toilet but on outside.” The little Hispanic stormed off to the opening elevator. A wealthy yuppie couple got out with suitcases as the short maid got in –
“YOU clean shit off wall! I no do it this time!”
The elevator closed.
“I hope you enjoyed your stay,” Jim told the departing guests. “Please come back and visit us again.” The revolving door spun as fast as a lost hubcap. Alan came through them on his way into the lobby. He watched the running guests through the window –
“What happened?”
“Code Brown.”
“Where?”
“To your left.”
With his messenger bag still over his shoulder, Alan opened the bathroom door and recoiled – “Jesus!”
“Jesus had nothing to do with it,” Jim assured him. “Unless he was the one who decided to mix cold Brown’s Chicken with scotch at 3am.”
Alan tossed his coat and bag in the back office before hitting the front desk intercom – beep! “Juanita, call the desk, please. Juanita, call the” – Jim pressed the switch hook down. “I’m afraid that ship has sailed.” He nodded to the gloves. “And I know how much you like rubber.”
“Leather,” Alan corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Well, then find yourself a nice pair of chaps and go whip that toilet into shape.”
“You’re an ass, Jim.”
“And by ass you mean … employer?”
“What’s going on?” Charlotte asked, propping open the restaurant’s French doors. She set out a sign that read, Breakfast at Roanoke Place. Reservations Preferred, But Not Required. Seating Daily, 7:10am – 11:15am. Jim gave her a devilish grin.
“You know that truffle soup I like? The creamy one, with all the onions and garlic?”
Charlotte winced. She knew exactly what he meant. “You’re a disgusting old man!” She returned to the restaurant in a snit. Alan hit the elevator’s call button.
“You’re going the wrong way,” Jim told him.
“I have to get the mop from the basement.”
“Use the one in the restaurant. Charlotte won’t mind.”
“It’s shit, Jim. I can’t use the kitchen mop in the restroom.”
“Suit yourself.”
As Alan went to the basement’s utility room, Jim came out from the counter and checked his appearance within a lobby mirror. He resembled Hugh Hefner, especially as his choice of clothes – an open-dress shirt with rolled up sleeves – actually worked. Smoothing his silver pompadour, Jim then turned up the volume on the lobby’s waiting room TV. He paused to get sports scores before changing the channel to Headline News. The hotel felt more cosmopolitan when the guests saw CNN in the lobby.
The late autumn sunrise sent beams of warmth through sidewalk windows, and the delicious aroma of Kona coffee and scones wafted in the air. More guests came down with suitcases. Alan returned with a rolling mop & bucket, going in. A fat kid sat its spoiled ass in front of the TV and bitched that he couldn’t watch cartoons.
A pretty female anchor was now reading national news. The screen showed Patrick and Pam getting shoved into a squad car, with the byline – Two Arrested For Las Vegas Bingo Scam. The anchor went on to explain that hundreds of thousands of dollars were suspected missing.
Finding the remote, the little shit flipped to SpongeBob.