On January 10, 1982, my four-man craps crew was fired from the
Stardust Casino. I was traumatized. My knee-jerk reaction was trying to catch-on with another elite club. Stung by repeated rejection, my persistence
and standards weakened. I tried less prestigious strip casinos but continued failing. I lost my edge. Soon laziness gave way to despair, until full-blown depression took over.
On the verge of giving up hope, I spent a lot of valuable time watching grade-B film noir matinees.
The week before Washington's birthday, I was in the middle of an unspectacular movie's climax. In the grayness of an otherwise white
kitchen, the cowering villain with gun drawn, hid in the shadows behind
an old Philco. Two detectives followed by a contingent of uniformed officers
clambered up the tenement’s unlit, narrow staircase.
The
lead detective called out, “Okay Blackie, it's the police. Open up.”
The door of the apartment was kicked in as bullets filled the air. Suddenly, my phone startled me; it was my friend Ciro.
I was pissed off because I didn't know how my movie ended. But Ciro's call alerted me to a craps dealing job downtown, (which I didn't get). While there, I tried the better casinos without luck. My standards spiraled lower. When I sunk to the most abysmal depths, I was hired at the Vegas Club.
*
My
friend and former roommate Ciro the Hero,(before he became Ciro the Zero), dealt two blocks away from me, at the Four Queens.
 |
| THE FOUR QUEENS (LEFT) FACED THE FREMONT AND WAS DIAGONALLY ACROSS WAS BINION'S HORSESHOE. THE LAST CASINO ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE STREET, IS THE VEGAS CLUB, (THEIR VERTICAL SIGN, IS PEEKING OUT, LEFT OF THE HORSESHOE SIGN). |
Ciro and I met for drinks at the Horseshoe after my first shift.
Unlike the bawdy bright neon lights of Glitter Gulch, (downtown), the interiors of its gambling halls were mostly dark.
The "Shoe" was the darkest, most foreboding casino on Fremont Street. They accentuated their Victorian motif with low-key lighting and a colorless, old-school approach.
I never wanted to work there, but because it had the ambiance of Rick’s Café Americain from “Casablanca,” it was the universal meeting place for locals and casino workers.
 |
| CENTRALLY LOCATED ON FREMONT STREET, THE "SHOE" OFFERED LOW MINIMUM GAMBLING, INEXPENSIVE PARKING, FIFTY-CENT TOP-SHELF LIQUOR AND A WIDE ARRAY OF TWENTY-HOUR FOOD SPECIALS. BUT THEY WERE ALSO UNIQUE IN THAT A PLAYER COULD SET ASTRONOMICALLY HIGH LIMITS FOR THEM SELF. THEREFORE, FROM A SEAT AT THE FRONT BAR, YOU NEVER KNEW WHO MIGHT BE GAMBLING OR WHAT KIND OF SHADY DEALS WERE BEING CONSUMMATED. |
Ollie, the bartender picked Ciro out of the crowd and called out, "A girl with a Scottish accent was looking for you."
The congenial, bald barman mopped his sweaty head and in a refined Spanish accent encouraged two patrons to squeeze to one side.
Ciro was served an icy bottle of Grolsch. I was impressed, (he hadn't ordered it), and was getting personal messages.
Ollie said to me, "And you sir?"
I stammered, "J-just a Bud."
Ciro asked the Spaniard, "Did she tell you her name?"
The barman was scooping ice and said, “No.” He went to take a biker’s order and over his shoulder added, “She wasn’t in a casino uniform.”
“Are you sure she was Scottish?”
Ollie scratched his ear,
“Well no. Maybe she was English, or Irish, it’s all the same...”
Ciro handed Ollie a five to pay our one-dollar tab, “C’mon Dimi, (his private nickname for me), let’s go to
the Fremont; I
got some money on the street, maybe I can corner Pete Watson.”
*
We crossed Second Street
and I said, “I thought things were going well with your new girl. Who’s this Scottish chick?”
“No, no,” Ciro casually said. “That's code. He needs four lids (pot),
the day after tomorrow, same time."
I had no idea Ciro was so enterprising.
At 4:30AM, we entered the nearly empty Fremont; it was Watson's night off.
Ciro pointed at the one open craps table and said, "Let's take a shot."
The stickman pushed Ciro the dice and said, "Next shooter's next."
He shot well and made several passes. He pressed his $1.50 eight to thirty bucks. I was happy "same-betting" my eight to nine dollars.
On the other side of the table, a plump,
tipsy woman in her early thirties appeared. Unadorned by make-up, she had several splotchy pimples
dotting her pale face. Her long frizzy brown hair was bound by a thick white band that caused it to go straight up.
She took a wrinkled dollar bill from a small black clutch, set it on the table and through a controlled burp said, “A dollar on eleven.”
The dealer yawned, “Buck yo.”
“C’mon big boy,” she robustly said. “Throw me an eleven.”
Ciro ignored her and threw a four.
The woman threw in another single, “Give me eleven.”
Ciro toyed with the dice and muttered, “I’ll give her eleven...eleven inches.” I was smiling as he
called across the table, “Honey, the point's nine but I’m aiming for the eight. Forget that eleven
bullshit.”
Ciro threw the dice and the stickman called out, “Yo eleven, good field and
come.”
She jumped up and down and howled, “Woo-hoo.”
We noticed that her broad smile
revealed a chipped front tooth. Even if she was a genius that broken tooth made her look goofy.
Ciro said, “Marrone, what a
train wreck but she’s got big tits.”
At the same time she announced, “Throw me another eleven and I’ll give
you a big kiss.”
He said, “That wacko is black-catting me. I should reduce my bets.”
“I’m not,” I said.
Ciro kept waffling until finally saying, “Dealer! Off this roll.”
He shot without dignifying her.
The
stickman cried out, “Eight hard eight. Pay the eight."
She clapped and said, "Goody. You hit your eight and the hard way."
Ciro spewed, "You dumb shit, I was off."
I said, "You're hot. Don't let her get in your head. She doesn't know which way's up."
Ciro said, "Working."
He threw the dice hard. If the back wall wasn't there, he would have hit her in the abdomen.
One die caromed half way back to Ciro and the stickman said, "Seven-out, line away.”
We lost everything.
"That ugly broad distracted me, " Ciro whined. "I should've taken down all my bets."
She approached. My eye focused on her frilly lilac U-neck blouse and her stretch-mark ravaged cleavage.
To emphasize her
trophy-like bust, she arched her back and said, “Nice roll handsome. We all made money.”
Ciro brushed by her
and said, “Yeah, yeah we gotta run.”
She ran ahead of us and playfully impeded Ciro.
She oscillated her torso to again display her bosom and said, “What’s
the rush? I just wanna be friendly."
Ciro abruptly stopped, “Get your
fat ass and fat tits out of my face!”
She angrily grabbed his upper arm as he
passed and blasted, “My father can make trouble for you. He’s a big man in Carmichael, everyone in Sacramento knows
him.”
"Well Dorothy,” Ciro said, “you
ain’t in Kansas no more.”
“My father’s a big man here too,” she
bellowed. “His credit line at the Landmark alone is forty thousand. Everyone in Vegas knows the name Cyrus
Carmichael. When I finish blackjack
school, he’s going to ‘juice’ me in anywhere I want.”
Ciro feigned sincerity, “Look doll, I
didn’t mean to offend you.”
“That’s okay,” she responded, “let’s go for
a drink and get better acquainted.”
“Nah, I got a jealous girlfriend,” he
said. “Besides, it gets late, early this time of year.”
*
Ciro's girlfriend, Shirley Birnbaum was
married. Their purely
sexual relationship was mostly confined to her infant's Thursday afternoon nap, (a year later, this
arrangement soured when the kid formulated sentences).
Shirley was the assistant cage manager at
the Landmark. To satisfy Ciro's curiosity, she
accessed Cyrus Carmichael's confidential information. He was indeed a big player from Carmichael,
California.
*
I established myself as a “retread” at the Vegas
Club. The monotony of “pushing”
twenty-five cent chips every day was futile. Plus, my fellow dealers were “break-ins.” So I was saddled with the added responsibility of correcting their constant errors.
One supervisor, a boxman named Ralph Wayne was an inexperienced prick. He didn't understand the true nature of his job so rather than teaching or nurturing new dealers, he gained strength by abusing them. This self-absorbed imbecile also was a womanizer and bragged about his conquests.
Behind his back, Ralph was nicknamed, "Wayne the Weave," because his cheap toupee and pencil thin mustache made him
resemble Wayne Newton.
 |
| WAYNE NEWTON (1942-PRESENT) WAS A JAZZ, POP SINGER AND LAS VEGAS SHOWROOM LEGEND. HOWEVER, HE WAS UNCOOL TO ROCK 'N ROLLERS SO ANY COMPARISON WAS A HIDDEN INSULT. |
My crew was standing dead when Edmund Khalifa approached. This
handsome, mocha-complexioned floorman from blackjack was taking up a collection
for a terminally ill pit boss from day shift.
“There’s going to be a surprise birthday
party for Ben Dunne,” he said. “We’re asking the dealers to chip-in
three bucks and the supervisors five.”
Ralph Wayne said, “Don’t be strong-arming us.” Edmund’s pleasant demeanor changed to shock when Wayne scoffed, “Beat it. You pushy goddamned camel jockey.”
Edmund was of Turkish, Syrian heritage but was a Catholic born in Dearborn
Michigan. The
racism offended him but he just walked away.
Victorious Wayne gloated, “Hey, did I tell you losers? There’s this new keno writer here who loves to suck
cock.”
We were captive audience and forced to listen.
He rattled off the names of five of his
cronies and crowed, “After two shots and a beer, she blew all of us on the roof of
the Horseshoe.”
Fortunately it was time for my break. I found some peace and quiet in our lounge. Halfway through David Letterman’s monologue, my serenity ended when a familiar face entered. She looked different but I recognized her as Ciro’s “train wreck” from the Fremont.
We exchanged pleasantries and I pointed to
her name-tag, “Carmichael? Is that
your real name?”
“No,” she replied, “its Agnes. I hate Agnes, everyone calls me Carmichael.”
I nodded.
She continued, “I’m
Agnes Carmichael, from Carmichael, California...get
it, Carmichael, from Carmichael.”
I couldn’t figure out what was so
different about her until she turned towards the TV; she was wearing
make-up. Specifically, I saw the stark
contrast between her whitish throat and the caked-on brown foundation masking her
skin condition. Inadvertently, she created an unflattering, unnatural, razor sharp, black and
white edge.
This “look,” was comical to me but I
drolly said, “You must be a country girl.”
She accepted it as a compliment, twirled
her hair in curlicues and said, “No. Carmichael’s a
pretty big town.”
I said, “Really? You
have a clean, wholesome farm-girl aura.”
Carmichael
stood up, plopped herself next to me and said, “I like you.” She glided
her fingernails across my shoulder towards my bicep and cooed, “You
have manners. Are you seeing
anybody?”
“Yeah,” I lied.
She lamented, “The good
ones are always taken. The guys here are animals and their language...ugh!”
I lied again, “Gotta go. My break's over.”
Carmichael said, “I’ll go down with you.”
She was in street clothes so I asked, “What department are you
in?”
“I’m a keno writer.” I realized this was Ralph’s “rooftop friend” as she sighed, “It’s a shit job. I make $4.15 an hour.”
“Why don’t you become a dealer?”
She gushed, “I’m almost
finished taking BJ at the Valley
Dealer School.”
“Cool.”
She kept blithering. I tuned her out.
Just before going our separate ways she added, “My father paid for the school. He’s a big shot at the Landmark. I’m gonna
break-in there. Until I get on my feet, he
got me a new car and bought us a condo on Honolulu Street.”
“Us?”
I interjected.
“Yuppers,
I have a twelve year old daughter, Harlene.”
*
The Vegas Club was torture.
Occasionally, I’d come downtown early to make my rounds trying for a
better job. I was such a regular at the Golden Nugget that I became a nuisance. They
should have hired me...just so they wouldn’t have to see me so often. At the
Four Queens, even with Ciro’s influence, I never got an audition and the Mint’s employment office closed at four. But as awful as my
situation was, Binion’s Horseshoe still intimidated me.
*
Carmichael’s father never followed through on his
promise to juice her into the Landmark. In mid-April, forced to survive on
her own devices, Carmichael had “sucked” her
way to the top of our lowly casino...and got an in-house transfer to deal BJ.
Shortly after she started, Dick Paynlewski (43), my former boxman at the Holiday International came through the Vegas Club. He was chatting with the infamous, Simon “Coat-Rack” Rhett.
 |
| RHETT, GENTEEL AND FULL OF SOUTHERN CHARM, MIGHT HAVE BEEN THE GREAT GRANDDAD OF MODERN CASINO HUSTLERS. HE WORE HIS SIGNATURE STATEMENT, GREEN, POLYESTER LEISURE SUIT EVERY DAY. "COAT-RACK" EARNED HIS MONIKER ON WARM DAYS BY USING A COLLAPSIBLE WIRE HANGER TO DANGLE HIS SUIT JACKET FROM ONE OF HIS SHIRT'S BUTTONHOLES. |
This septuagenarian flea was known for selling table game “systems” to ignorant gamblers. He was also a,
“past-poster,” short change artist and “rail thief.” If old Simon wasn't bilking
casinos, confusing naive cab drivers or stealing unsuspecting gamblers’ chips,
he operated as a walking pawnshop.
A fixture downtown, he loaned money to
desperate gamblers while taking tangible goods as collateral. He’d further profit by hawking the unclaimed
items to casino workers.
I watched Coat-Rack say good-bye to
Paynlewski. The old man with his jacket bobbing absurdly in front of him, cruised
by me on his way out. I scanned the
casino and found Dick at Carmichael’s BJ table.
Later, with a double scotch in hand,
Paynlewski came over and spent a break with me.
He ranted about losing forty
dollars at the Nevada Club and said, “I hate foreigners. That damn Chink bitch never even smiled. I don’t know why they let that scum in our
country.” He hiccuped, “They aren’t even Christians.”
In the two years since I had seen him, Dick hadn't changed.
I said, “Hey Dick, don't forget, I’m not
Christian.”
With drunken profundity he replied, “Don’t
worry. You’re okay.”
In the middle of his familiar, “Americans should have
American jobs” lecture I interrupted, “What else?”
“Oh. Remember I wanted to legally change my
name?”
I scoffed. “You went through with it? To what, Joe
Paynlewski?”
“No
ass-hole! You are now speaking with Richard Thomas Payne. It's a strong name and now I don't hear Pollack jokes all day.”
I said, “Should I call you Richard? Or are you still a Dick?"
He said, "Fuck you. Yeah, I'm still a Dick."
I said, "Then your name is now, Dick-Pain?”
“You’re nuts,” he grumbled. “Only you think that way.” Awkwardly, he segued, “Hey Steve, do you know the BJ dealer,
Carmichael?”
“First tell me, what you hocked with
Coat-Rack?”
“No, no I'm buyin'. He's got a bunch of eight-tracks at his new place,” he hurriedly said. “Now, what about Carmichael?”
I was tempted but I never editorialize,
“Seems like a nice girl. She’s was hired last week.”
“Carmichael dealt to me. She's really friendly and funny too. Guess what she told me?” Without waiting for a
response, Dick spouted, “She said, ‘after work, I'm having a party in
my mouth, wanna come?’”
I pretended to be shocked and said, "No way."
“I really
think she’s serious. And get this, she also said, ‘don’t worry about
my chipped tooth...I know what I’m doing.’”
I couldn't help it but I laughed as he continued, “Later, we’re meeting at the ‘Shoe’ for drinks.”
I smiled, “She sounds like a keeper.”
*
Carmichael
and Dick became a couple. On the face of it, they were well suited
for each other. He was a mature and supportive person who despite her obvious personality flaws provided the unconditional acceptance that she
never knew.
For Dick, Carmichael
was his first prolonged relationship.
She added affection as well as a sense of calmness and stability to his helter-skelter lifestyle.
Instead of bringing out the best in each other, their co-dependency on drinking
and gambling reinforced their insecurities.
Dick remained morose because his
cyclical foibles were still painful. And Carmichael, in her eternal search to be appreciated,
continued to orally cheapen herself.
*
At the Vegas Club later
that week, I had a chaotic, bad night.
I was trudging back from my second break and an unimpressive “break-in” from the other table confided in me, “I just got
hired at the Horseshoe.”
I huffed, “Really?”
He whispered, “I hate it here. I went over on my first break. I spoke to
a floorman named Irwin. I took an
audition and passed. I just went back to
fill out the paperwork...I start tomorrow night.”
Dumbstruck, I said, “It’s an
automatic termination if they caught you leaving the building?”
“I leave all the time. Besides, who gives a shit about this
fuckin’ toilet! Go behind the elevators to
the emergency exit, no one’ll see you leave.
Once you’re in the alley, walk between the Golden Goose and Churchill
Downs; it’s a half block down.”
I never wanted to work in that claustrophobic "sweatshop" but I was miserable. On
my next break, I scurried through the inky night and tip-toed around the alley's sludge-filled pot-holes to get there.
Impatiently, I pushed between two busy
tables and asked an ugly, lanky floorman with gigantic ears and a long nose, “Is Irwin around?”
This
glossy-eyed man retorted, “If you saw Irwin, would you recognize him?”
“No, but I understand he handles the auditions.”
“How much experience do you have?”
I was aware that they just hired a weak
dealer with six months experience so I proclaimed, “Three and half years!”
He shrugged, “I’m Irwin...come
back in another three and a half years.”
Angry and frustrated, I retraced my steps up the wet, blackened alley between the Slot Parlor and the Race Book. Ahead of me, at the Vegas Club's emergency exit, I saw the silhouette of a couple in a violent argument.
I peered around a fence and saw Dick Payne
screaming at Carmichael, “You’re a whore!”
She cried, “I’m not. You’re the only man I slept with
in years.”
“I
heard you sucked four cocks yesterday!”
“No, you’re fucked up in the
head...’cause...that ain’t sex,” she spewed. “Besides it was only two guys.”
Dick grabbed her face as if palming a basketball and pushed her down onto the nasty, glistening pavement.
“I was just being friendly.”
He straddled her torso,
thrust his right index finger an inch from her flinching nose and roared, “When
someone loves you, blowing one other guy, just once, makes you a whore.”
Submissive Carmichael
laid in the gutter sobbing as Dick eased his posture and stormed off. Seconds after she re-entered the casino, I followed.
*
Two
weeks later, Las
Vegas had its first 100ºF day. It was followed by three windswept rainy days
in the sixties.
On that first hot day, Ciro phoned me, “Dimi, on Wednesday a bunch of us are going to a natural hot spring on some Indian Reservation. You'll know a lotta of them. You should come.”
Our road trip took us
north, towards the Utah
State line. Ciro passed the spa’s turnoff, so he could
stock up on untaxed cigarettes at the Reservation.
The living
conditions for the Native Americans were deplorable. Located in a low depression on the desert
floor, the community consisted of little more than fifty decaying mobile homes.
We were driving slowly on the gravelly
main road and saw an unattended naked baby crawling around. Across the way, bored women stared us down from a shaded alcove between shacks made from galvanized scrap metal.
Two stumbling drunks tussling over a liquor bottle crossed in front of us. We were both New Yorkers but we had never
imagined such poverty. Ciro passed the Reservation Store without stopping.
The spa’s parking lot was almost deserted.
Their season hadn’t really started yet and it was only in the low
eighties, overcast and breezy.
Ciro groaned, “This better fuckin' not suck; that Reservation was depressing enough.”
Inside, we immediately came across Dick
Payne and Carmichael. Typically arguing, he was in slacks, a short sleeve dress shirt and Oxfords as if he was going to work. She was barefoot, in a crimson, one-piece bathing suit.
I introduced Ciro to her (she didn’t
remember him) and Carmichael said, “This is
Dick-Payne...and he’s a pain in my ass too.”
Dick rebutted, “And I call you
Agg...because you’re always agg-ravating me.”
We looked at Dick like he was crazy because the "Agnes" reference went over our head.
Carmicheal was saying, "At least Mr. GQ left his clip-on tie in my glove compartment," as I lost interest and looked past her.
A handful of scattered guests could be seen on the grounds. To our
left, surrounded by chaise lounges and umbrella tables, was the
deep end of the Olympic-sized pool.
Detached, beyond its shallow end was a tomahawk-shaped kiddie-pool. On the far left, there were three misty
natural hot springs.
To the right was a stone-faced administration building that also housed a lunch
counter, gift shop and bar.
Behind it, there was a pavilion that covered six aisles of triple tier
lockers. Between each row was
a narrow wooden bench bolted to the cement slab. Beyond the pavilion were twin stone-faced restrooms with showers.
Later, Ciro and I went into the bar for a
beer. We found Dick passed out on
his stool. In front of him was a full
double scotch, a half-eaten hamburger and some onion-rings. Suddenly, Dick woke up, crashed between us
and ran out.
The bare-chested buck behind the bar shook his head.
We each had a beer and were leaving as Dick, completely sober
returned.
Ciro said,
“You okay?”
In confidence Dick blushed, “You
can’t trust a fart after forty.”
We walked out, went to the lockers and gathered our things.
Carmichael
came by and said, “What a great place.”
She plowed on about the virtues
of the mineral spring as she set her little black purse on the bench. She pirouetted and unzipped her
swimsuit. I respected her modesty and
slid my eye downward only to be confronted by her massive cellulite
ridges. My eye bounced back up in time
to see her pull off her left shoulder strap.
Still yammering, she turned towards us and took down the other strap, to
fully expose her saggy boobs.
Ciro's eyes were riveted to her chest as he said, “A lady would wait till
she has some privacy...”
She retaliated, “If you
were a gentleman, you’d have turned away.”
Ciro stepped forward and suckled
her breasts...I darted to the pool.
*
On
our way out Ciro beamed, “In the car, I’ll tell you what she said
about Dick.” In a whisper he added, “That girl’s got talent. Plus she puts these exploding Pop Rocks candies
in her mouth...I’m tellin’ ya, she gives the best head.” We were passing the
bar and Ciro suggested, “Let’s get a beer for the road.”
The taproom was empty except Dick’s wallet
and car keys were still on the bar.
While we drank across the oval bar from Dick’s seat, Carmichael
came in and stood between us.
She pinched Ciro’s nose and
said, “If you buy me a beer, I’ll be your best friend.”
She sucked it down and
asked for another. Carmichael
was giggling as she set a hand into each of our laps. She was mindlessly
babbling on as she simultaneously kneaded our crotches.
Dick came in. Carmichael
with her hands hidden by the bar continued the massage.
Dick furrowed his brow and groaned, “You
better not be giving Ciro a hand job.”
“Oh no,” she barked without missing a
stroke, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Knowingly, Dick turned away and said,
“When you’re done, I’ll be in the car.”
Dick left and Carmichael said to the bartender, "I wasn't lying. You're my witness. I wasn't giving him a hand job, I was giving them both a hand job."
*
Our hour-long drive back to town was
highlighted by Ciro telling me what Carmichael
said about Dick.
I was hysterical when he finished by saying,
“Dick farts in his sleep. He farts during sex and once shit the bed when
he came.”
*
Much to
the chagrin of Ralph Wayne, Carmichael lost
interest in him. He had viciously lashed
out at Edmund Khalifa in front of her and complained to terminal Ben Dunne
about the forced birthday contributions.
Wayne's faux pas ruined the dying man’s surprise and resulted in
Carmichael becoming sympathetic towards family
man, Khalifa. One thing led to
another and after several “friendly” trysts with him, they were leaving work to
do it again.
On line to punch-out, Khalifa discreetly
gave her buttocks an amorous squeeze as he whispered, “This time, come back to my place, I
want to make love to you.”
She nodded and gave him a deep, passionate
kiss. The spectators behind them obnoxiously ooh’d and ahh’d.
*
The
morning sun had cleared the horizon as Carmichael
and Khalifa stood on the landing of his brother’s secret second floor efficiency. The Whittlesea Taxi that would drive her back
to her car was on its way. They waited outside because he didn’t want to waste
time, in the hope of getting home before his wife woke up.
They were snuggling but Carmichael
was disappointed that he wasn’t driving her back downtown. He was insensitive and didn't care why she refused his
offer to pay the carfare.
While in his embrace, she considered that Dick was a sweet gentleman and under no circumstance would ever do this. She also knew, her world had just been rocked
like it had never been rocked before.
She felt a warm resurgence between her legs. She grabbed his flaccid penis through his suit
pants and took down his fly.
Carmichael recalled the wonderful taste of Asti Spumante as she remembered Khalifa’s
toast, “I could spend the rest of my life with a girl like you.”
She read too deeply into his hackneyed
statement as her enthusiasm for the massage resulted in a growing erection.
“Eddie, let’s go back inside," she purred. "Put it in my butt again."
“See,” he cracked, “you did like it.”
In the bright sunshine with his pants at his
ankles, Carmichael went down on her
knees.
Khalifa unconvincingly said,
“Stop,” as he rammed her head back and forth.
At the same time, the taxi turned onto the street.
To maximize the bliss, he waited till the cab was at a complete stop to wail, “What are you crazy? C’mon, get up.”
After a tender kiss and tight embrace, the
smitten Carmichael said, “You’re wonderful,”
and came down.
*
The
digital clock on the roof of the Mint read 7:37 as Carmichael
pulled out of the Horseshoe’s lot. She
was happy to be home in time to cook Harlene’s breakfast and drive
her to school. The radio blared as she enjoyed the early morning road all to herself.
A smile came to Carmichael’s
lips as she uneasily squirmed from the strange sensation in her rectum. Heading south, making all the lights on Paradise Road, she
sang along to Gilbert O’Sullivan’s, “Alone Again, Naturally.” She innocently entered the intersection at Charleston Boulevard when a speeding drunk ran the red light.
*
Carmichael remained in ICU for seventy-two hours and clung to life with the help of a respirator. Carmichael’s
daughter, left phone messages for her rich and powerful grandfather. Cyrus
Carmichael didn’t return the calls, come to Las Vegas or telephone the
hospital. Instead, three over-sized
bouquets (one each day) adorned her room.
During the third day, Dick was reached. Twenty minutes later, he was at the nurse’s station
bickering with the staff. Despite Harlene’s okay, Dick wasn’t family and couldn't go in. He wouldn’t take no for an answer and was
grudgingly permitted in.
Dick hugged Harlene as he was informed that Carmichael had begun breathing independently but was still in coma. The nurse told him that she had suffered severe head trauma and that her spleen and a kidney had already been
removed. Dick fought off tears as he heard of her broken hip and internal bleeding.
He was openly sobbing as he eyed the feeder tube coming out of her. He rubbed her back, kissed her face and unceasingly
whispered words of encouragement.
Harlene left with her friend’s parents at
10:00PM. In the private room paid in
absentia by Carmichael’s father, Dick began a diligent vigil.
Dick emptied and washed her bedpan while
rehearsing a marriage proposal. He was
contorting his body to clean her bottom as she stirred. Dick gave her one last wipe and she painfully
moaned.
Dick leaped to his feet to summon the nurse
when Carmichael mumbled, “Eddie, put it in my
butt again.” Dick couldn’t believe his
ears. Stunned, he crossed to the other
side of the bed to hear her better.
Quivering, he bleated, “What?” There was no reaction. He leaned over and in a soothing voice added,
“This is Eddie. I'm here. What do you
want?”
Barely audible, Carmichael uttered, “You were right, I did like it. Put it in my butt again.”
Dick punched the wall. Feverishly pacing,
he suddenly pounced on Carmichael and grabbed
her by the throat. Luckily, his stomach
seized up on him. Hurriedly, Dick jumped
back and managed to avoid the ultimate embarrassment. He was still angry when he got off the toilet and slammed one of her dad’s bouquets against the wall. Dick stormed out of the room.
*
Dick darted through traffic and headed downtown. At 2:00AM, he haphazardly parked on Ogden Street and
marched the half block to the Vegas Club.
Dick had a hunch that Eddie was a coworker.
Inside the casino, he concealed his ire
and randomly began asking the staff, “Is Eddie working tonight?”
Dick’s instinct was right but his task was made more difficult
because nobody there called Edmund Khalifa...Eddie. The eleventh person Dick asked was a
bespectacled roulette dealer.
“There’s no Eddie’s on this shift,” he
thought out loud, “unless you mean Edmund. That’s him. The floorman at the last BJ table.”
Dick didn’t acknowledge the help and
seethed in hatred as wandered towards his prey.
In looking at the Arabic Khalifa, the idea of a “Heathen” reprehensibly
defiling the woman he loved tore at him.
Dick didn’t confront his rival. Instead, he ran out and began searching every
downtown casino. Hours passed.
Completely exhausted, Payne staggered into the Golden Gate
for the third time.
He found a hustler friend of Simon Rhett
and asked, “Have you seen Coat-Rack?”
The flea said, “No. He’s probably home. He only comes out at night.”
Disoriented Dick asked, “Night? What time is it?”
The low-life pulled out an antique, silver
pocket watch and said, “That’s funny, I got this off Simon five years ago.” He donned eyeglasses with one frame missing
and added, “It’s coming up on noon.”
“He still on Bonanza Road?” Dick demanded.
Coat-Rack's friend extended his right hand while
scratching the stubble on his chin and said, “No. He moved. Let me see...”
Dick croaked, “Scumbag,” and slapped a
five-dollar bill into his palm.
“Yessiree,” the man said, “he’s staying in a
garage behind a little cheese-box house on Cincinnati Street...number thirty-five.”
Dick power-walked to his car. He ripped a parking ticket off his
windshield, dropped it in the street and sped off.
A half-mile later, Coat-Rack was found in the shade, outside his shabby abode. His leisure-suit jacket was dangling from a branch
as he sat on a stump and sipped apricot brandy from a pint bottle.
Simon offered his hand and said, "You must be hot to trot for them eight tracks..."
Dick didn't shake hands and lifted the
old-man by grabbing his arm.
He prodded him inside and snapped, “Gotta a gun for sale?”
“Whoa there big fella. First, y'all gotta
tell me why you look like such shit. Second, I need to know is; if I had such an item...and I ain’t sayin’ I
do, what might y'all be needin' it fer?”
Dick was unprepared and stalled
by saying, “You know...it’s kind of personal.”
He kept hemming and hawing until he spat, “Protection. It's for protection.”
Coat-Rack led the way past his catchall of
oddball items.
In his makeshift bedroom, he probed Dick’s bloodshot brown eyes, “Swear y'all ain’t lookin' to kill nobody.”
Dick, without eye contact gulped, “I
swear!”
"Now swear you won't hurt yourself."
Dick nodded impatiently.
"Cause y'all's a lunkhead. I've seen yah do some foolish things."
"Simon. The gun!"
Coat-Rack pulled a .25 out of a bureau
drawer and preached about keeping the good name of Simon Rhett out of any
police reports.
“If the shit hits the fan,” Coat-Rack drawled, “y'all found this in a dumpster.”
Dick tried to snatch
the weapon.
“Furthermore,” the old-timer cautioned,
“they’ll throw the book at you if yah fuck up. This piece might be hot; you got no license
and there ain’t no paperwork.
Hell, I don’t even know if y'all know how to use this damned thing.” He swigged his brandy and said, “Got sixty
bucks?”
Dick quickly handed over three twenties
and took the gun. He seemed puzzled by
its diminutive size.
“Sorry, I’m fresh out of cannons.”
“But...”
“Okay by me if you don’t want it,”
Rhett shrugged. “No skin off my teeth.”
Dick tried to hurry out.
Coat-Rack stopped him by shouting, “Whoa big fella! Looky here, calm you self down. Y'all look busier than a one-legged man in an ass kicking contest. Before you embarrass yah frazzle-brained self...” Dick back-pedaled towards the door as Coat-Rack added, “You do realize that baby ain’t loaded and I got
no ammo.”
*
Dick bought a box of shells. In his bedroom, operating on adrenaline and hate, he loaded three bullets.
In the bathroom mirror, he stared himself down and childishly practiced
drawing the weapon. He left for the hospital with the “Saturday-Night Special” concealed in his pants
pocket.
*
Zombie-like,
Dick plodded up the dim corridor, only to be greeted like a rock star. The ladies at the nurse’s station
congratulated him on the “TLC” that miraculously pulled Agnes
from her coma.
In the shadowy room, together with a fourth
gigantic bouquet, was Harlene, her friend and a semi-lucid Carmichael. In her immobilized state, she sipped cranberry juice from a glass straw.
Dick said, "Harlene, please give me and your mom some privacy."
On their way out the adolescents chuckled as Dick put his hand in
his pocket and confidently gripped the gun.
Carmichael
gasped, “I’m so, so sorry.”
Dick trembled as he withdrew his hand from his pocket...without the .25.
“I strayed, please forgive me," she confessed as tears streamed down her cheeks. "I did it
with another man."
Dick was crying as Carmichael stated, “I know what you did for me. They said I could have died.”
Dick leaned over and kissed her. A rush of wooziness hit her as she weakly
grabbed at his crotch.
On verge of fainting, she felt the gun barrel and moaned, “Wow. You are really happy to see me.”
A nurse barged in, “Visiting hours are
over. Time to leave.” The nurse looked into
Dick’s reddened eyes, “Looks like this one can use some rest
too.”
Carmichael, straining to be heard croaked, “My own fuckin’ father never showed up or
even called me. None of my Vegas Club ‘friends’ did
either. Dick, I’m never going to be
‘friendly’ ever again. I love you.”
Dick’s heart was pounding but before he
could spit out his marriage proposal, the nurse pulled the curtain and ordered,
“Okay Superman. You're times up. Out!”
*
In his ill-lit bedroom, Dick tried to remain awake. Consumed by revenge, he wanted to wait till
Khalifa was on duty, to blow away that “sodomizing Arab bastard.”
To combat this tiredness, Dick washed his
face and stood out on his tiny terrace.
The fresh air and some stretching made him feel better. Inside, without turning on the light, he rinsed his face again. While fighting off dizziness, framed by his black shower curtain, Dick focused
on the mirror and melodramatically said clichés from old movies.
The third phrase was, “Edmund, this town ain’t
big enough for the two of us.”
He spun the gun on his finger and dropped it. A shot discharged. The reverberating sound in the small space hurt his ears. Until his own louder screams of pain from shooting his foot filled the room.
In the
distance, “agg-onized” Dick writhed on the bathroom floor as sirens got closer. He faded in and out of consciousness as he saw his blackened
blood ooze against the white hexagon tiles.
Soon, the thunderous vibration of many heavy footsteps charging up the
outside staircase startled him.
The last thing Dick remembered before
succumbing to shock and passing out was the pounding on his front door and the words, “Metro Police, open up."
*
Like the movie I mentioned in the prologue, I have no idea what happened to Dick and Carmichael. After I left town, Ciro my only link to them said they vanished. Now, three decades later, Ciro the Hero has become Ciro the Zero. So like our relationship, their whereabouts are a dead issue.
