Chapter 7: Here’s to Las Vegas

September 10^th, 2015. Boston Logan Airport, private terminal. ///taped.video.pages.

Ah, the world of the private jet terminal. Private jets aren’t all that great, let me tell you. Very noisy, cramped and much worse than big planes if you’re prone to air sickness. Very few are as luxurious as you see in the movies, the ones with drinks cabinets and floor to ceiling wood panelling. Keller & Fox regularly hire jets, but they’re quite utilitarian. The Saudi jet was a converted passenger plane: meeting rooms aren’t exactly commonplace on your average Cessna or Learjet. But on balance I’d rather be in business class on a regular flight than on a jet. There’s also the incredible carbon footprint per passenger to consider, but rich people generally don’t care too much about that.

No, the real joy of having your own jet (or being a passenger on one, at any rate) is the private terminal. Those are amazing. I particularly recommend the one at LAX, but they’re always great. They generally have the atmosphere of a grand hotel, even if the building doesn’t look like much on the outside. A very friendly and thin person will handle everything for you. The customs officer comes to your lounge chair and checks your passport while you lean back and sip champagne. You’ll have no idea what happens to your luggage: it just goes where it needs to go. You can have a shower or a massage and there’s always a buffet, even if there are only three or four departures per day.

We found Alexandra there, now without any headscarf but still wearing the long, black abaya as a robe. Clearly she felt comfortable in one and I have to admit it looked quite elegant: the fabric was of a superior quality, with delicate embroidery around the collar and the sleeves. As she had her legs crossed I could see she was wearing blue jeans and very fashionable looking suede ankle boots. Her curly hair looked as if she had just posed for a shampoo ad. The weird thing is I caught myself staring for a few seconds. I’ve obviously seen women before, even without headscarfs, but it just felt a bit strange after spending so much time in Saudi.

Two palace guards were brooding in a corner, seemingly unhappy with the fact that they were coming along to Las Vegas. One was completely bald; probably some form of advanced alopecia because he didn’t even have eyebrows. I decided to call him Kojak for now. The other one was a ten-a-penny Arab: immaculate beard, a hooked nose, olive-brownish skin, deep set dark eyes and a perennially bored expression. Both men were obviously very fit and wore a holster under their black Hugo Boss outfits. It may interest you to know Hugo Boss didn’t just dress the Nazis of old: he also dresses the thugs and goons of today. I know of no truly rich person who wears Hugo Boss, but they do like to make their staff wear him. Or it. Or maybe I should care less about my grammar in a foreign language and type faster so I can get this bloody story over and done with and turn in for the night.

“Is uncle Omar gone? Finally,” Alexandra said, as she snapped her fingers and pointed at her glass. A smiling waiter poured some more white wine. This being Boston, the sky suddenly turned dark and it started to rain. For a few minutes all the street lights turned on, and the airport bathed in that familiar but eerie orange glow. I enjoyed watching the rain. Hadn’t seen that in a while and the place could use a cooling down. But fifteen minutes later all was normal again. Platform workers shed their yellow rain capes and puddles were starting to disappear. Boeings parked and pushed back from Terminal B every few minutes. Luggage was being carted off. Airports look the same the world over, to me at least. This could just as easily be Heathrow. Home.

“How much is that?” asked Asim, looking at the guard. He raised two fingers.

“No more for her,” said Asim to the waiter, who smiled just as hard at him and nodded. I could never do that job. Snap your fingers at me and you will find those very same fingers up your rectum within a minute. Whether or not they are still attached to your hand very much depends on how much you cooperate.

“OH! Uncle Asim, you know I can handle it!”

“Two is enough,” said Asim. “It’s fine if you dress like this, but you can’t be seen drunk. Okay, I will take a shower. Carstairs, check that our connection is still on schedule and maybe get your jacket pressed? You look a bit ... crumpled up.”

“Very good, Your Royal Highness.”

It turned out they had two showers available, so I asked the attendant to press my suit. And as my suitcase was actually stored next door, I even managed to retrieve a fresh shirt and some clean underwear. After a wonderful shower I had a proper shave, because even though I would need to start from scratch with my beard, I’d missed a few spots in that airplane bathroom. And soon after that a black BMW drove us to a much smaller private jet, with an American pilot and a Mexican cabin attendant.

“Is this it?!” asked Alexandra, as I offered my wrist for her to get on board. I was sure she could have managed it herself, but it’s sort of what British gentlemen do, isn’t it?

“It’s fine. It’s only for a few hours,” said Asim, who was first inside. The jet had six seats, upholstered in greyish leather with a red suede back. There was a lavatory in the rear and the pilot couldn’t stand upright in the cockpit. The attendant sat facing backwards, on a jump seat. I noticed the leather on my seat was slightly cracked. A man in a fluorescent vest loaded our luggage into the tiny hold and a few minutes later we were airborne. The two guards, Saudi security officers attached to the Personal Protection Division, sat in the front row. One read an eBook on his phone, the other one tried to get some sleep. I felt I should learn their names, but it felt weird to ask.

The noise in the cabin was such that we could barely speak, so Asim listened to music and I got a pair of noise-cancelling headphones from the cabin attendant to listen to some music on a cheap Samsung tablet that was connected to my seat by a charging cable that doubled as a Kensington lock. Alexandra just stared out of the window with a furious scowl. They only had Pepsi and Earl Grey tea. Give me an Airbus any day of the week...

We departed Logan Airport at 20:30 and the flight time to Las Vegas would be about five hours. I shuddered at the thought of arriving in the middle of the night after this gruesome day, but Asim reminded me that Las Vegas was three hours behind Boston. We’d land at half past eleven, well before midnight. Asim appeared immune to the tribulations of travel. That’s because he lives in the moment. As long as he’s happy right now, he doesn’t look ahead. I envy that. I wasn’t anywhere at the moment, and wouldn’t be until I was issued a hotel key. And even then I wouldn’t be home.

For most of the flight we were above the clouds, but there was a clear sky over Nevada and it looked glorious in the moonlight. I had also seen a wonderful sunset about mid-flight as I listened to Chet Baker and ate a really rather nice lobster roll. I’m not usually one for lobster, but for some reason I’ll eat pretty much anything when I fly. Weird, that. I’m not the most adventurous eater, but airplane food is always bland enough to take a chance. It’s how I came to appreciate chick peas and avocado. Don’t laugh. I’m still a boy from Leiden. You just couldn’t get those things in Holland in the eighties. Well, maybe chick peas, in vegetarian specialty shops where people shopped barefoot.

Las Vegas by night is amazing from the air and McCarran airport is actually quite near The Strip, the famous boulevard which abuts most of the major casinos. I’d been here before, not too long ago. That trip with Kelly and Samantha in our ridiculously oversized RV was one of the best vacations I’ve had. Parking the bloody thing was a nightmare, but there’s an RV park behind Circus Circus and we mostly got around by cab. Or rather: I made them walk everywhere and then we took a cab back to the RV. Those sweet girls only threatened to cut off my testicles after I’d made them walk for an hour in a thirty-six degree heat when I wanted to visit the Luxor, or rather I wanted to see that giant black pyramid up close. (The inside was disappointing: as garish and sad as the rest of ‘em. But Goddamned, that is one hell of a facade.) I saw the beam of light that shoots out from the top a full ten minutes before we landed. Glorious.

Obviously McCarran has a VIP terminal, but as soon as we had landed the pilot came on the intercom with this announcement:

“Lady and gentlemen, we’re at McCarran International Airport. I’m told there are no slots at the VIP terminal right now and I’ve been directed to a gate at the main terminal. Sorry about that, but I have to follow airport regulations. We’ll be at the gate in about ten minutes.”

For some reason this upset Alexandra, but as I was sat in front of her I didn’t know what Asim said to calm her down. He then put his hand on my shoulder.

“Carstairs, please call the Four Seasons at Mandalay Bay and tell them to send their limousine to the main terminal.”

“Very good, Sir,” I said, digging out my phone. “It may be a few minutes before I’ve found their number, as my data connection doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Take your time,” said Asim, leaning back.

I spent a few minutes fussing with my phone. It connected to the AT&T network, but had no data connection. Then I tried to connect to the free airport wifi, but they wanted me to log in using Facebook. Even if I had risked logging in as Martin King, I wouldn’t have known the password because Kelly handles my Facebook account. And so I wasn’t paying much attention as we disembarked and found ourselves standing on the tarmac. There wasn’t even an aerobridge, because our jet was far too small to connect to one. We were cordially ‘invited’ to take the outside stairs to the top of the jet bridge, so we could enter the terminal. This, again, infuriated Alexandra.

“I suppose we also have to carry our suitcases?” she fumed at the pilot, who was unloading our bags with the help of an airport luggage handler.

“No ma’am, they will be waiting at baggage claim,” said the man, unperturbed. “Just get up there and follow the signs. This is the domestic terminal, you won’t even need to show your passport.”

Asim seemed to find it funny and I was still trying to get online in order to find the number of the hotel, so we walked up the stairs and into the cool air of the terminal. There are slot machines at the gates, believe it or not. They are supposed to have the worst pay-out rate in all of Vegas, but gambling is a mug’s game anyway.

Las Vegas as a whole is a bit of a curate’s egg, if you ask me. As someone who doesn’t drink, gamble, employ prostitutes or do drugs and who doesn’t enjoy nights out, the ‘fun’ of the place is abhorrent to me. But I do find myself endlessly fascinated with the architecture, with the way money is used to buy attention. The black pyramid of the Luxor was only one example, but Vegas is teeming with interesting buildings.

You can skip ahead if you’ve been there (search for the word ‘interlude’), but for those who have only ever seen it as a succession of B-roll shots in their favourite heist movies, let me give you a basic idea of the landmarks. We’ll start in Fremont street, where it all began. If Vegas can be said to have a ‘downtown’ area, this is it. Fremont street was the area with the most casinos in Las Vegas’s heyday, or at least the time when the likes of Frank Sinatra performed there. Diamonds are Forever was shot around here, too, but Vegas has no qualms about tearing down old landmarks to replace them with something bigger and weirder, so there isn’t much left. Fremont street is covered by a huge, and I do mean huge canopy with what must be the world’s largest display underneath it. Or maybe that’s the Burj Khalifa by now, I don’t know if that counts. Anyway, it’s still impressive. This is where you’ll find the Golden Nugget and the Fremont, both well over half a century old. You can only imagine how many lives they shattered, but Fremont street is amazing. Catch the show that plays on that canopy if you can. Amazing.

Now we’ll head south. That’s where we find the Stratosphere tower, where Kelly, Sam and I once had a very pleasant lunch. It’s your basic revolving restaurant, with some scary rides on the rooftop. You can even bungee-jump off it, if you like. I quite fancied that, but both Kelly and Samantha went apeshit when I broached the subject. Oh, obviously there’s a hotel and casino attached to the Stratosphere tower. There’s a hotel and casino attached to EVERYTHING in Las Vegas. Even to the wedding chapels, I’ll wager. In fact, I’m fairly sure the public library has slot machines and rooms for rent. (Update: it doesn’t. It doubles as a homeless shelter, though.)

Still moving south, the first large and famous eyesore along the strip is Circus Circus. I don’t suppose I have to tell you the theme, do I? It’s so old it actually features in Diamonds are Forever, but it has been revamped, rebuilt and expanded many times since. I quite like it because it actually delivers on the inside what it promises on the outside: there are regular performances with clowns, jugglers and acrobats, all free and of a very high standard. Compare that to the Luxor, which seems to completely forget all about Egypt as soon as you pass the large Sphinxes at the entrance.

Skipping over several dull ones such as the Encore (if it has a theme it’s just this: Gold Plated Everything) and a golden tower tarnished by the name of a mentally unhinged con artist and Twitter pest, the next weirdly themed casino is Treasure Island. They do a nightly show with underpaid performers who live in the storm drains by day and run around a lot carrying torches and performing a completely incomprehensible song and dance show on a pirate ship by night.

Across the street you’ll find The Venetian. Again, no prizes for guessing what that is all about, but it’s actually very well put together. You can take a ride in a gondola in the Grand Canal and you’ll see reproductions of Venetian artwork and scaled down Venetian landmarks. This was designed by someone who clearly loved Venice, as do I. Inside, like everywhere else, it’s just a gaudy, tragic and noisy mess of slot machines, poker tables, plastic cups and white-sneakered lard.

Next on our whistle stop tour of madness and poor taste is The Mirage, once home to Siegfried and Roy. (Or Siegfried and Lunch, as the tigers call them.) The Mirage is mostly known for that large volcano outside. It’s a fountain, but a few times per night it erupts and that is quite a sight. I was amazed to find that it didn’t smell like natural gas at all, but I’m told they filter out the mercaptan (which causes the sulphur smell) and replace it with piña colada fragrance! And that is why I like Vegas: no matter how opposed I am to boozing and gambling, I firmly believe the world needs at least ONE place where that sort of madness is encouraged. A dull yet technically minded person such as myself might have thought of removing the smelly compound. A creative person would have thought to replace it with something a bit more pleasant like, say, citrus. But only a mad genius would then think to ask the fragrance supplier: ‘I don’t suppose you do piña colada, do you?” I mean, I don’t even know what piña colada smells like! Mainly pineapple, I should think. I could have thought of four dozen DIFFERENT aromas, but some madman just NAILED it.

Next up is Caesar’s Palace, which employs a lot of actors dressed as Roman soldiers and Egyptian prostitutes, who will happily pose for a picture with you. It’s well past its sell-by date and the animatronics show they put on in the mall (the Fall of Atlantis) is completely unintelligible and would have looked technically outdated to the actual Romans. The entrance is okay, though. It practically hoovers people in through large, covered moving walkways.

Moving on we come to The Bellagio, mostly famous for its lovely performing fountain which keeps getting copied by Arabic property developers, and across the street there is the imaginatively titled Paris Las Vegas. They have a small scale version of the Eiffel Tower (still quite impressive, but the height was limited by the proximity of McCarran airport) and some balloon I can’t really make heads or tails of. It’s probably a tribute to the Montgolfier brothers, I dunno. The facade looks like a demented crossover between the Louvre and Opera Garnier, which could be worse I suppose. Their version of Place de la Concorde is nicely done, but that Arc de Triomphe is a fucking eyesore, just like the one in Paris, incidentally. That’s not a monument. That’s a Lego elephant you got there, mate.

At this point the world’s most disappointing monorail starts. It will take you past the New York hotel and casino, which features a very nice exterior that combines many of Manhattan’s highlights and has a pink roller coaster to boot, and then past the runt of the litter, the lamest and most poorly executed of the lot, the also-ran, the only casino that actually looked NICER when it was replicated in GTA San Andreas: Excalibur. Seriously, why bother? Who in the world is impressed by that pathetic, low-rent collection of white shoeboxes topped with wizard hats? If a third grader brought that in as a visual aid for his presentation on medieval England, you’d fail him. Not surprisingly this is where Dutch magician and ‘stretching his two tricks to breaking point’ bare-chested magician Hans Klok resides. (Or resided: I can’t be expected to update this journal for things like that, now can I?) Inside it’s just as pathetic. Most medieval ornaments clearly came from someone’s shed and the sculptures look like Hellen Keller chucked up some Play-Doh. Fuck Excalibur. That banqueting buffet looks positively disgusting, by the way. I’d sooner eat at a Nando’s.

We’re nearly at the end of this entirely useless tour, which I’m writing down mostly because it helps me to relive one of the best times I’ve had in my life: a trip with Kelly and Samantha all to myself, without a care in the world. If I could endlessly repeat a week in my life, I’d pick that one. And I’m well aware that during that week I was nowhere even near my magical sister and my gorgeous wife, but I’d pick it all the same. I may never actually say that out loud, though. And Goddamned, I do miss Samantha. But she can’t just be friends, and I understand that.

After Excalibur we pass the Luxor and then, practically across the street from the airport but nowhere near the terminal building or indeed the entrance, we find the svelte, gold clad Mandalay Bay. This is where the monorail ends, after a disappointingly short and surprisingly bumpy ride. From the air the high-rise part looks like a three-pointed star, but it has many lower support buildings that house the casino, a convention center, a mall (because no self-respecting hotel and casino can do without one of those) and a rather large tropical pool area that mostly exists so that people with far too much money can ogle at each other and drink overpriced cocktails. It’s not a pleasant or even relaxing environment, at least not for the likes of me.

However, there is a hotel INSIDE the Mandalay Bay hotel: the top five floors are actually a Four Seasons, with 424 rooms of which 81 are suites. (The Mandalay Bay has 3,309 rooms). This should give you an idea of the size of the building, as well as its turnover.

To conclude our tour: beyond the Mandalay Bay the strip is considered to be at its end. There is an outlet mall, there are some unremarkable casinos, some resorts for those who don’t mind cabbing it to the strip or beyond, or who may not even be interested in visiting that part at all and of course the famous Las Vegas sign, where you can queue for about fifteen to thirty minutes until all passengers of the motor coaches that stop there have been photographed under the sign. Kelly and Sam were up for it, but I’d learned there is a twin sign near the Stratosphere tower and the busses don’t stop there so you basically have it to yourself. We’re into Amazon warehouse territory here. A few miles down the road there is the South Point casino which, if you’ve never been in a casino before is probably quite impressive, but other than that Las Vegas is just residential and commercial space like you’d find in any city, apart from a ludicrous golf course. Golf: conkers for boys who don’t want to bend down as a Dutch comedian once said.

Anyway, this useless interlude (Hello! Welcome back!) only serves to illustrate that I’m somewhat familiar with the lay-out of Las Vegas, if not with most of its purported delights.

As Asim, Alexandra, the guards and I exited our gate, we got mixed in with about a hundred passengers from a Delta flight, so we just followed the herd. Alexandra, out of habit, took out a head scarf and covered her hair. I almost bumped into her, as I was still trying to connect to the internet.

“Carstairs!”

“I’m very sorry, Your Royal Highness. I’m trying to find the number of the hotel. Perhaps if we could stand still for one or two minutes, I might...”

“It’s okay, Carstairs, we’ll take a taxi if you can’t manage,” said Asim.

“A TAXI?” asked Alexandra. “That’s disgusting!”

I asserted myself as her teacher:

“Well, we either wait so I can Google it or you can bloody well hoof it then!”

“Carstairs, Carstairs, don’t get upset,” said Asim, always the peacekeeper. “They probably have a desk in the arrivals hall. It will be fine. Why don’t you take a minute to fix your phone and then you can catch up with us, okay? We will find our luggage.”

That was probably for the best, because I certainly wouldn’t have recognized even two out of the ten suitcases they carried along between the pair of them.

“Thank you, I’ll join you shortly.”

In Saudi I’m with STC. They have the best coverage but, like all Arabic providers, they are basically an arm of the intelligence services. They won’t even allow VPN connections, much less unfettered access to the likes of PornHub. Obviously I rarely use my phone and am prone to leaving it behind or having it turned off for that very reason. The spying, I mean. Not the absence of porn. But even though it would be very expensive, around 100 Riyal per Megabyte, I should be able to get a data connection going! Hang the expense, obviously. It was probably a matter of finding the correct gateway for the AT&T network, or waiting for that information to be sent to my phone by automated text message. I messed around with it for about five minutes, briefly considered smashing the device on the marble floor and then pocketed it. I’d use Asim’s phone as a hotspot when I joined up with him.

I briefly stepped into the toilet ... oh sorry, the ‘restroom’, had a wazz, straightened my tie and began to make my way to the luggage carrousel. A tanned man wearing Bermuda shorts and a fishing hat emerged from behind a large potted plant some fifty metres ahead, pointed a very large camera at me, snapped a few shots and cackled.

“Excuse me?! What’s that for?” I called out to him.

He immediately ran away. Giving chase would be pointless. I’m not much of a runner even when I’ve had a chance to warm up and lose about twenty kilos, never mind when I’ve spent the last twenty hours or so in the air. I was also wearing dress shoes with leather soles, not ideal for running across polished marble. Unless he ran into something, I’d have no chance of catching up. And even if I caught him, what would I do? Beat him up in an airport? No, Martin King’s arrival in Las Vegas had been noticed anyway. Better to appear on Twitter with a generic airport photo that could have been taken any time in the past few years than after getting arrested for assault. Still, five more minutes of privacy would have been nice.

I caught up with Asim, who had rallied three porters to collect all our luggage. Even my single leather suitcase was on the heap.

“Ah, there you are! The limousine is waiting. Alexandra! We are ready to go!”

And so I found myself on the end of a procession which began with Asim, followed by Alexandra five steps behind, followed by the Saudi guards, who were then followed by three airport porters wearing black trousers, white shirts and uniform hats with gold trim and ended with me, keeping some distance because this was quite a spectacle and I could do without that. We weaved our way through the arrivals hall and were indeed met by one limousine from the Four Seasons. Even though it had a very spacious trunk, it was clear neither I nor half of the luggage would fit.

“No matter Sir, I’ll get a cab and follow along shortly,” I told Asim, who was already in the car.

“Good, good! And get some cash, for tips!”

“Cash ... for tips. Very good, Sir,” I sighed and politely waved after them as the porters crowded around me. Kojak grinned before he closed his door. The limo gently drifted away.

“That’s five dollars per bag,” said one of the porters, helpfully.

“Then I shall have to find an ATM first.”

They seemed upset by that, so I spent five frantic minutes getting the remaining suitcases loaded into a suitably large cab, ordering the driver to wait, finding an ATM and finally disbursing disturbingly large denomination banknotes to my gaggle of porters.

Just when that was over and done with, someone yelled: ‘There he is!’ and a flash went off about half a metre from my face. And then some more, and some more. A group of photographers was ganging up on me! About five of them, with an entourage of bemused tourists and curious (or bored) airport workers.

“Mister King! Welcome to Vegas! Where have you been?”

“Mister King, why have you come out of hiding?”

“Are you here to gamble, Mr. King?”

“Mr. King, what about the rumours that you were dead?”

“Martin? Over here! Is Kelly here with you?”

“How much did you tip just then, Mr. King?”

“Mister King, Mister King! Are you here to shoot another movie?”

“Have you been in hiding because of a crime?”

“How much are you planning to gamble? Are you down to your last dime?”

“DO I LOOK AS IF I AM DOWN TO MY LAST DIME?!” was the first reply I managed to come up with, which made everybody think I was trying to be funny. I started to walk around the photographers, but they just swerved in front of me like a flock of starlings. And so I had no choice but to push through, towards the taxi I had waiting outside.

“Gentlemen, excuse me. EXCUSE ME!”

They kept taking pictures and asking ridiculous questions.

“Mr. King, have you been staying with Phil Smith?”

“Where’s your luggage, Martin? Did you lose it? In a bet?”

“Can you comment on your disappearance, Mr. King?”

“What’s the name of the new movie, Mr. King?”

“Will Kelly be joining you?”

“Will you be playing another Nazi?”

“Just let me through, please! I just want to get through, thank you! THANK YOU.”

“Which hotel are you staying at?”

“What’s your favourite game, Mr. King? Is it blackjack? Poker?”

“Does your wife know you’re here, Martin?”

“Are you here by yourself, Mr. Carstairs?”

Eventually I managed to run the gauntlet and reached the cab. The driver had enough sense to hold the door for me, so I almost leapt in. They kept taking pictures through the window. It was all I could do to look dignified and calm.

“The Stratosphere Tower, please!” I said, hoping they’d hear it.

“Yessir,” said the driver, an amiable Latino in his late sixties who kept his car spotless and, equally important, odourless. Two minutes later we were leaving the airport grounds.

“Actually I’m headed to the Four Seasons.”

“Where’s that, Sir?”

It would make sense he didn’t know that, I suppose. People who stay at the Four Seasons are generally collected by private cars.

“That’s at the Mandalay Bay.”

“Oh yeah, now I remember. Special entrance. So, is it impolite for me to ask who you are? I don’t want to insult you, I just don’t watch a lot of TV.”

“Very commendable. I was in a movie, once. But that was a while ago and then when you go back to doing regular work people either think you’re washed up or dead.”

“You don’t look washed up to me,” said the driver, turning onto Tropicana Avenue.

“Well, then I must have come back from the dead. Now, if you wouldn’t mind ... This trip will probably be the only bit of peace and quiet I will get for some time.”

“Yessir. I unnerstan’. You just sit.”

It’s about a fifteen minute ride from the airport to Mandalay Bay. If there were no other cars on the road you could do it in five. So I didn’t get much peace and quiet, but somehow my phone had figured out where I was and how to connect to the data network so I began to receive some updates. Asim had texted me to tell me his room number, I finally got one of those ‘welcome to our network, these are our rates’ messages and then the BBC news app showed an alert. I had it set to silent notifications, but I happened to glance at the display at the time.

“BREAKING: Carstairs Does Vegas. Missing actor seen alive in US.”

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The Protocols of Carstairs

Ron Dudderie

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The Protocols of Carstairs

Ron Dudderie

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