The Protocols of Carstairs
Copyright© 2021 by Ron Dudderie
Chapter 11: Let’s Put on a Show
Still September 12th, 2015. Treasure Island hotel and casino, Las Vegas.
I finished my dinner in thirty minutes and to my shame I didn’t savour a single bite. Not that I’m normally such an epicurist, but I’ve learned to pay attention to my meals because it makes me feel full sooner. If I listen to a podcast or try to read the news while I eat, the food is gone without me noticing and an hour later my brain goes: ‘We didn’t eat, did we? That didn’t count!’ And so, whenever I eat alone I just eat, without any distractions.
Today, however, I had the mother of all distractions. How could I dissuade that Mexican lunatic from his unholy idea to have me put together a show in a WEEK? He seemed very confident when he said he ‘knew some people’. And he wasn’t just after a few songs on a small club stage, but a big, heaving Las Vegas production. And what would happen if whatever I cobbled together wasn’t to his liking? I don’t need trouble with a cartel!
Maybe I could get sick? Peter might know a make-up artist who could help me fake the symptoms of something awful. Or maybe I’d have to find some runny-nosed chick in a club and tongue-wrestle with her, though that seemed a bit ... icky.
Still, at least I had a confidant right now. As soon as I walked out of the restaurant I texted him.
“Meeting? My room?”
The answer came as I was making my way across the noisy casino floor:
“Will see you there.”
The din inside the Treasure Island casino was awful, but hard to avoid. Almost every casino makes you walk past the slot machines and roulette tables in order to get to the exit. There are shortcuts, but you’d have to know the place fairly well and in some cases only staff members can use them. A bit like IKEA, really. I decided to put my VIP status to good use and called José Cardon, the Four Seasons manager. To my surprise he picked up in person and almost at once. He also knew my name, perhaps recognizing the Saudi prefix of this number.
“Good evening Mr. King, this is José. How may I help you?”
“Hi, sorry to trouble you. I’m at Treasure Island and I’d like to be picked up. You wouldn’t happen to have a car nearby, would you?”
“One second, Mr. King. It sounds as if you’re on the casino floor?”
“Yes. At the wrong end of it. I’m at least ten minutes away from the exit.”
“Are you anywhere near a lift, Sir?”
“A lift?”
“Yes. Elevator?”
“I know what a lift is. I’m near one, yes.”
“Does it have a number?”
“Uhm ... sixteen-b. But I can find my way to...”
“Please hold.”
He put me on hold for all of twenty seconds, then came back.
“Thank you for waiting, Mr. King. If you’ll make your way to the top floor, you’ll be met there by hotel security.”
“What? No, I’m at Treasure Island!”
“Yes, Sir. Just go to the top floor.”
“I don’t want to go to the top floor, I want to go to my room. Which is in a different hotel!”
“And we’ll have you there as soon as possible, Mr. King. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”
He sounded so utterly calm and confident that I pushed the elevator button, if only to get a short reprieve from the clamour around me. Was there an air bridge to the parking lot on that floor? A slide? A quieter way to the front of the building, so I wouldn’t have to traverse that hellish maze of blaring slot machines and ghoulish addicts?
I stood in the lift with a tanned white couple who were clearly drunk. At one point the guy, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a Linkin Park shirt, actually put his hand under his wife’s skirt, which I could see perfectly well in the mirror. They pretended to stare with great interest at a restaurant menu on the wall as he pulled down her panties and stuck a finger in what can only have been, unless there’s something about American women I have yet to learn, her butthole. While I was there. In the same lift.
They left one floor below the top floor and then the woman, who I estimated to be in her late thirties, suddenly realised that I’d been able to see everything.
“Oh! Well ... You ah ... wanna come?” she asked.
“Enjoy your evening,” I said, with the most thin-lipped smile I could muster. The guy turned to me as they got out and said:
“HEY YOU’RE THAT GUY! THE GERMAN! UUUUUUMMMM! THE UH...”
“Bye now,” I said, reaching for the close button.
A few seconds later I was at the top floor. A besuited man with a hotel security badge greeted me. He had slick black hair and carried a walkie talkie.
“Mr. King?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, please follow me?”
“Thank you.”
We walked down a corridor and turned a corner. He opened a door by holding his badge against a lock and opened it.
“Here’s your ride. Have a good one, Sir.”
A gleaming black helicopter with gold stripes stood on a low, round platform. Its rotor spun slow circles and a helmeted pilot beckoned me as the passenger door slid open automatically. I made my way over and got in. He handed me a headset.
“Good evening,” I said, still not entirely sure I was in the right place.
“Good evening, Mr. King! I’m Josh, I’m sent by Mr. José! Buckle up please. Long way round or short way round?” he said, as the door gently closed and the rotors began to spin faster and faster.
“Well, as long as I’m here ... Show me what you got.”
“You got it!”
I had the best time I’d had in ages. Months, probably. Helicopter rides are a rare treat. My last one had been over the Grand Canyon, with Kelly and Samantha. Poor Sam was stuck in the middle seat and we could barely see a thing through the scratched plastic windows. But this was magnificent. We circled the Stratosphere tower, made it all the way to Fremont street and even somewhat beyond, we detoured past the Rio and followed the entire strip on both sides (though not actually directly above it, as that is not allowed). I saw the beam of light coming from the Luxor casino’s pyramid from up close, only now noticing the lights running up the side. We saw rooftop parties and tens of thousands of cars following the major arteries. The golden Delano, the green MGM Grand, the pink-and purple Rio, a purple Ferris wheel and the fake skyscrapers of New York-New York, extremely garish by themselves but fantastically glitzy and decadent when all lit up together at night. Even that fucking eyesore Excalibur looked inviting from up here.
I saw vast billboards with the biggest names, still visible from hundreds of meters away. Some stars had their faces plastered over the entire side of a building. It was all gloriously tacky and wasteful. After about thirty minutes the Mandalay came into view and we set down on a platform in the middle of the three-legged star. I was tempted to tell Josh I wanted another hour, but Peter had already texted me to tell me he was at the hotel. I tipped Josh and was greeted at the edge of the platform by José. For the first time since we’d met I was nice to him.
“You are still smiling,” he noted, as he walked me to my suite.
“Yes. Yes, I am! That was amazing. Thank you so much. I ... I needed something fun. And I wouldn’t have made time for it by myself. And I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit short with you.”
“That’s quite alright, Sir. If there is anything we can do to assist you, please let us know.”
“No, I’m fine for ... Actually: does this place have a theatre?”
“Sir?”
“A theatre. An auditorium. You know, a performance space.”
“Oh! Ah ... Well, not the hotel, as such. We have a conference room. And a bar.”
“Oh. Well, never mind.”
“There is an events centre. It’s more like an arena. Twelve thousand seats. But that is part of Mandalay bay. I think there’s a boxing tournament right now, I can certainly get tickets for...”
“No, no, no, thank you. I was just ... Never mind. Anyway, this is me. Thank you so much.”
We shook hands outside my room. Inside, it was cosy. Lights had been turned on and my bed was turned open. Turn down service sounds ridiculous, but if you’re far from home it’s really quite nice. I texted Peter that I was in my room and got out of my suit. My other suits had been cleaned and hung in the wardrobe, with a label on the hanger to indicate they had been cleaned. I changed into the most comfortable clothes I had. Peter entered just as I emerged from my bedroom.
“You’re HERE!” he said, sounding rather accusatory. It was MY room, after all.
“Yyyyyyes?”
“How the hell? I was waiting in the lobby! How did you get past me?”
“Oh. I got a helicopter. Anyway, fancy a drink?”
“A HELICOPTER? You? What, did you find a coupon for a free ride?”
Ah yes, that old schtick. I generally roll with it, rather than giving people the satisfaction.
“I did. I was drying out my teabags to reuse them and one fell out of the box. Would you like to know how Asim’s meeting went?”
Peter walked to the minibar and picked up some small bottles. He studied them for a second, put them back and reached over to a cabinet where he found regular sized ones and took a whiskey bottle.
“Nothing for you I take it?” he asked, as he pressed a button that prompted an ice dispenser to vomit into a small plastic bucket.
“Just a bottle of water, please. With ice.”
I sat down in one of the seats near the window, which overlooked the pool area of the Mandalay Bay. It was nicely illuminated but deserted at this hour. Behind it stood the Delano, looking like a vast golden cigarette lighter. Peter took his time perfecting his drink, tossed me an unopened bottle and flopped down.
“Okay, tell uncle Peter your sorrows.”
“Well, here’s one: Asim and Arturo got on really well. In fact, they’re at a strip club right now, I believe. But Arturo threw something in the mix.”
“Oh yeah?” asked Peter, taking his first sip with his eyes closed.
“The bugger only wants...”
“ ... for you to put on a big Las Vegas show so his sister has a chance to sing and get famous,” said Peter, cutting me off to complete my sentence.
“YES! In a week, no less! And ... HEY! How did you know that?”
Peter took another sip.
“PETER!”
To read this story you need a
Registration + Premier Membership
If you have an account, then please Log In
or Register (Why register?)
$14.95
$14.95
