War Lord

Three

I hitched a ride on the first plane heading for Vegas, a C-17 ferrying a load of practice missiles to Nellis. And five hours later, I was in the Nellis commissary buying an ice chest and freezer packs to go with it, condensation having terminally weakened the waxed paper seals on the KFC bucket. The amputated hand was in real danger of slipping out the side, and that would be tricky to explain. With Thing newly secured in a plastic ice chest, I caught a cab out past McCarran airport to Thrifty to pick up a rental. And half an hour after that I was driving down the Strip in the last of the early evening sunshine, the Ford Focus’s AC wound to the stops yet barely able to penetrate the midsummer desert heat.

I drove nice and slow to soak up the sights. It’d been a few years since I’d visited Vegas, and while the town needed nighttime to show its true colors, there was a feeling of urgency in the air that reminded me of someone drowning. Maybe the global downturn had hit the place harder than anyone liked to admit. The guys on the sidewalk handing out calling cards for the hookers were going at it in broad daylight, scooting from prospect to prospect like rats on a foundering ship hunting for an exit. Several glossy new buildings stood vacant, others looked a little tired — none more so than Bally’s, ‘the home of Donn Arden’s Jubilee Showgirls’, as the posters up and down the Strip called the show. Bally’s was a refurbished seventies tower which, I’d learned when I’d booked a room online, was once the MGM Grand before it caught fire. In fact, looking at it on screen, if Bally’s were a dancer, I’d be hoping her clothes would be staying on.

From what I could tell from the advertising, the Jubilee girls were old Vegas — all poise and sequins and makeup and feathers. Their antecedents would have danced for Sammy Davis Jr and Ol’ Blue Eyes. Today, however, out on the Strip, the advertising for Jubilee was engaged in a running battle with posters for joints where the girls danced in people’s laps. Without seeing what the Showgirls had to offer, I didn’t like their chances of routing the competition.

My cell rang. It was Arlen. I put him on speaker. ‘Hey, s’up?’

‘Your friend, Randy. Seems he checked out with a BCD.’

BCD — a bad conduct discharge. ‘What were the circumstances?’ I asked, surprised.

‘Cloudy. “Conduct unbecoming” is what the file says. There was a court martial. I talked to the JAG and his defense counsel. There was a suspicion he was acting as a courier service in Afghanistan — hashish.’

That didn’t sound like the Randy I knew, but then I probably didn’t know him all that well. ‘Was Anna involved?’ If Sweetwater was in trouble he’d have called her, wouldn’t he?

‘First thing I checked. Anna’s name doesn’t come up in any of the records, and JAG has no recollection that she was ever called.’

Somehow, that was important. I didn’t want Anna messed up in this in any way. ‘Were the charges proved?’ I asked.

‘The BCD was the result of a plea bargain.’

‘How’d he swing that?’

‘The evidence went missing.’

Sure it did.

‘He pleaded guilty to possession but without intent to distribute.’

I couldn’t help but smile. Randy was lucky. He could’ve done hard time.

‘Maybe it’s not relevant, but I thought you should know,’ said Arlen.

‘Thanks,’ I told him.

‘So what are you doing?’

‘Driving down the Strip, looking for my hotel.’

‘Put ten bucks in a slot for me. Oh, and I’m acting on the advice I gave you.’

‘Which was?’

‘Take a vacation. Marnie invited me over.’

‘You’re going to St Barts?’

‘Yeah… Look, if you’ve got any problems with that, let me know, because if you do I’ll—’

‘No problem my end,’ I said. ‘Knock yourself out, bud.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Cool. Hey, before I forget, your test result came back in.’

‘What test?’

‘Your Myers-Briggs test.’

‘Did I pass?’

‘No passes or fails, remember? You’re supposed to go through the results with a specialist, but, in short, your type indicators are ESFJ. Do you want to know what that means?’

‘That I’m good with the ladies?’

‘Dream on. Extroverted, sensing, feeling, judging — ESFJ. I’ll make sure the initials go on the bottom of your emails.’

‘Tell me you don’t actually believe in this shit?’ I asked him.

‘Depends who’s asking. If it’s Wynngate, it’s genius.’

‘Who am I supposed to get on with best?’

‘Other ESFJs.’

‘And who should I avoid?’

‘ENTPs.’

‘Aren’t you one of those?’

‘Yep.’

‘I rest my case.’ The driveway entrance to Bally’s was coming up. ‘Hey, gotta go. When you come up for air in St Barts, gimme a call.’

‘Roger that.’

I hit the end button, went up the ramp and found a space in the parking lot. Eventually, I made my way to reception and stood in line behind buffalo-sized people moseying toward the counter. The air hummed with the sound of musical bells and magical twinkles rising from the slots down in the pit.

After checking in, I took the ice chest and carry-on, wheeled over to the counter selling seats to the evening’s Showgirls performance, and bought my seat from an uninterested black guy who conducted the transaction without eye contact. I still had plenty of time to freshen up before the show so I took myself up to my room out on the end of a dark two-hundred-yard-long tunnel on the twentieth floor. Opening the drapes I discovered that I had an aerial view of ‘Paris’, its pool occupying the area around the base of the Eiffel Tower. The place was packed, the countless lounge chairs still occupied, the desert heat ignoring the fact that the sun was below the horizon. Waitresses in bikinis worked the couches, shuttling drinks and snacks. Ah, Vegas…

I took a shower and dressed conservative — jeans, desert boots and a navy shirt. If I hurried, I still had time before the show to indulge in Vegas’s other main attraction: the buffet, the place where the buffaloes roam. I was on vacation after all, and seriously underweight compared to the rest of the herd. When I couldn’t possibly fit in another complete four-course meal, I lumbered over to the Jubilee theater at Bally’s.

When I arrived, the tiered theater, which probably sat around seven hundred, was close to full. Frankly, I was surprised. Maybe old-style Vegas was the new black. I found my seat, close to the front and in the center, as the lights went down and the music welled up. The curtain opened on a guy in a tuxedo singing a song about ‘hundreds of girls’, who then began to appear wearing almost nothing, and all of it sparkling. I wondered which one was Alabama. Pretty much all I knew about her was that she danced topless, narrowing it down to about half the field. The show rolled on into a Samson and Delilah number, about a guy whose girlfriend cuts his hair off, which I just knew was a euphemism for his balls, followed by a number where the girls sank the Titanic under several tons of rhinestones. The finale saw the cast all gliding down a giant glittering staircase balancing ornaments the size of Chewbacca on their heads. I liked the costumes and I liked the breasts even better, especially when they were coming down those steps. There was a feverish round of applause, which died out pretty quick.

The theater evacuated fast, the patrons eager to leave and get back to the slots. I was almost last out, and loitered around the side entrance. Ten minutes later, a tall woman in gray sweatpants and an old sweat top, wearing outrageously heavy makeup and her hair pulled back in a net, appeared outside the entrance and scanned the area like she was expecting to see someone. Me, I figured. I walked over and introduced myself.

‘Alabama Thornton?’ I said. ‘Vin Cooper.’

‘Vin, hi. So great to meet you. You got here fast.’ She was all smiles and gave me a long slender hand to shake. I must have been frowning at her because she suddenly became self-conscious. ‘Oh, excuse the makeup. It looks weird off stage, I know.’

I gave a shrug like it was no big deal, but she was right. Her false eyelashes were long enough to sweep the floor, and a thick black line was drawn under each eye as well as above those lashes. The rouge on her cheeks was heavy, as was the fire engine — red lipstick she wore. On stage and under bright lights the effect was glamorous. Up close, she looked like Chucky.

‘I don’t want to talk here,’ she said. ‘You wanna come backstage?’

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘We’re not supposed to bring people back. If anyone asks, you’re with management. Act like you own the place.’

‘I can give you incompetent arrogance. That do?’

‘Perfect.’