John Locke - Vegas Moon
I was about to ask what the hell he was talking about, then had that Oh, God! moment where I realized exactly what he was talking about. I tried not to picture the Chief’s fat wife nude, squatting over the plank of wood they’d just brought me. But once an image like that is stuck in your head, it’s there for the duration. I’m sure the look on my face had something to do with the sudden appearance of the Chief’s knife at the dinner table.
The translator said, “The Chief’s wife prepared your meal. It is the highest honor the tribe can bestow on an outsider.”
I said, “See? This is why I hate my fucking job. It isn’t enough we come in here and kill all their enemies, expand their safe zone, bring them medical supplies and save their God-forsaken village. Now they’re insulted, ready to kill me over a shit dinner.”
With deep concern etched in his face, the translator said, “What should I say to the Chief?”
I sighed. “Tell him I apologize.”
He did, then looked at me.
“Tell them I was unfamiliar with their customs.”
He did, and they settled down a bit. One of them actually flashed me a shit-eating grin, an expression I haven’t used from that day to this, and probably won’t, ever again.
The tribesmen then passed me the turds anew, with great gusto, and stared at me with expectant eyes.
I picked up my walkie-talkie, pressed the button and waited for my unit commander to say, “Gray Fox Leader.”
The tribesmen at the dinner table became agitated again, and spoke to each other in frightened tones.
“Frank,” I said.
“Sir?”
“I’m bringing you a doggy bag.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We’re moving the dinner to your location. And you’re going to eat it. With a big smile on your face. Or we’re all going to die tonight. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You and your second-in-command.”
“Lieutenant Merriman?”
“That’s right. Or someone wearing your uniforms, if you get my drift.”
“Yes, sir. What about the rest of us?”
“Have your men set a line of explosives to include the lodge and as many huts as they can.”
“To what effect, sir?”
“It’s apparently very easy to offend these motherfuckers. If they so much as raise an eyebrow at us during dinner, we’re taking them off the face of the planet tonight. These assholes don’t need freedom. They need a fucking grocery store.”
The Chief made a threatening gesture to the translator.
“What should I say to the Chief? He and his warriors are getting very upset.”
“Tell him I can’t accept an honor of this magnitude. Our customs dictate the recipient of such a gift be a representative of the American government. A man wearing a uniform with the symbol of our country on it.”
I pointed to my shoulder. “I don’t have a flag on my sleeve. But the representative does. We need to bring the dinner to our top leaders. The Chief has not yet met them.”
The translator passed on the message, the meal was moved, and Frank and Merriman’s stand-ins got themselves a free dinner.
—So if you’re asking, that was probably the most unusual dinner of my life.
Until tonight, in Las Vegas, when I meet Eddie Pickles and his wife, Surrey.
18.
We’re seated in the center of the room at a table for five when “Fast” Eddie Pickles comes in and takes a seat next to me. After we’re all introduced, he says, “A Jackson we see a cricket before a roach.”
“You talking to me?” I say.
“He’s offering you a bet,” Lucky says. “Twenty dollars that we’ll see a cricket before we see a roach. But you won’t take that bet.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s got a cricket in his pocket.”
Eddie grins. “Didn’t say it had to be a live cricket.”
Lucky says, “A Franklin the bartender’s got a Grant in his pocket.”
Eddie says, “I’ll take the under.”
“Done.”
The two of them head for the bar, leaving Gwen and me alone at the table.
“Is this a typical dinner for you?” I ask.
“Degenerate gamblers’ll bet on anything,” she says. “It’s not about winning or losing. They crave the action.”
“Who’ll win this bet?”
“Can’t say. The odds favor the under, but a bartender this time of night could easily be carrying more than fifty.”
“Guess it pays to know the odds, huh?”
She laughs. “You wouldn’t believe the odds these idiots can recite.”
“Like what?”
“You want me to quiz you?”
“Go ahead.”
“What are the odds of a woman dating a millionaire?”
“Ten thousand to one?”
“Two hundred fifteen to one.”
“Really?”
“Yup. What are the odds a celebrity marriage will last a lifetime?”
“A hundred to one?”
“Three to one.” She laughs. “You really suck at this.”
I shrug. “Hit me again.”
“Addicting, isn’t it?”
“Give me another.”
“What are the odds of being on a plane with a drunken pilot?”
“Five hundred to one.”
She laughs.
“What?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“That bad?”
She nods.
“Tell me.”
“One hundred seventeen to one.”
“I may never fly again!”
“I tried to warn you.”
“Try me again.”
“Odds of an American speaking Cherokee?”
“A hundred thousand to one.”
“Fifteen thousand to one.”
“Are you making this up?”
“Nope. Odds of becoming President?”
“Three hundred million to one.”
“Ten million to one. Odds of winning the California lottery?”
“Five million to one.”
“Thirteen million to one.”
“Wait,” I say. “Are you telling me I’m more likely to become President of the United States than I am to win the California Lottery?”
By way of answering she sings a sexy version of Happy Birthday that ends in “Happy birthday, Mr. President…”
“Marilyn Monroe?”
“Everyone knows that. But here’s a good bet. Marilyn Monroe’s dress size: under or over size 6.”
“Under.”
“Nope.”
“She was a six?”
“Keep going.”
“What? No way! She was a huge sex symbol.”
“Huge is right. She was a size 12!”
“What? That doesn’t make sense!”
“You’re right. But you’d still lose your bet.”
“Why?”
“Clothing sizes in the 1950’s ran smaller. Marilyn’s wardrobe proves she wore a size 12. But in today’s dress sizes, she’d be a six. When you bet with these guys—and you shouldn’t—you need to pay attention to each word. The bet was her dress size, not her actual size. Want to know something else strange about her?”
“Sure.”
“She used to cut off one of her high heels to exaggerate her hip motion.”
“I guess no one was looking at her feet,” I say.
As the men come back, I hear Fast Eddie say, “So I check-raised the pigeon on the turn. When he come over the top with boys, I show pocket sharps!”
They roar. I look at Gwen. She shakes her head in disdain.
“Who won?” I say.
“Won what?” Eddie says.
“The bet just now.”
“What bet?”
Lucky looks at Eddie and says, “Guy’s got it bad, don’t he!”
“Give me ten minutes with him,” Eddie says, “I’ll own his shorts.”
He’s on my left, Lucky’s on my right, Gwen’s sitting right of Lucky, which would put Surrey between Gwen and Eddie, if she were here.
After formally introducing me and Gwen to Fast Eddie, Lucky says, “Where’s Surrey?”
“In the car,” Eddie says. “Look, I want to apologize in advance for any tension we might bring to the dinner. But Surrey and I have been quarreling most of the day.”
“About Vegas Moon?” Lucky says.
“No. About the pre-nup.
“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” Gwen says.
Lucky says, “They’re not legally married yet.”
Eddie adds, “It’s all common law, so far.” He smiles at Gwen. “But I intend to make an honest woman of her.”
“Good for you!” Gwen says, enthusiastically. Then she looks at Lucky and adds, “That way, when you cheat on her, it’ll raise your adrenalin.”
“She understands!” Eddie says.
Gwen glances in my direction and says nothing, but her eyes are saying, Can you believe these assholes?
“Have you filed a legal action?” Lucky says.
“Not yet. We’re still waiting and seeing. That’s what lawyers like to do. Wait and see.”
“But the meter keeps runnin’, am I right?” Eddie says.
“Yeah. But hopefully those numbskulls in the state house will sign off on it.”
Lucky said, “I know those guys. They tried to indict me for racketeering. Me, for Chrissakes! It’s all I can do to keep the mob outta my business.”
“Tell me about it,” Eddie says.
“Is your last name really Pickles?” Gwen says. “Like in Rugrats?”
“What’s Rugrats?”
“She’s young,” Lucky says. “Don’t pay any attention to her.”
“Hot as she is, it’d be impossible not to pay attention, if you don’t mind my saying.”
Gwen smiles, lowers her eyes, raises them again, working him. “Of course I don’t mind, Eddie,” she purrs.
Eddie smiles broadly. “I like it when you say my name like that,” he says, while sexually assaulting Gwen’s body with his eyes. “Jesus, Lucky! Now I know how you got the name! If I had something like that, I’d chain her to the bed post and hit it day and night!”
Gwen notes my frown and shakes her head subtly, letting me know she’s got this covered. She holds up her wrists and grins at Eddie. “See the handcuff marks? Thank God Lucky gave me a couple hours off tonight so I could meet you, ’cause he hammered it so hard my legs were like jelly.”
Eddie is salivating. “You love it, don’t you, baby! Oh yeah, I can tell you love it.”
Gwen smiles shyly. “Would you hate me if I told you I can’t get enough?”
Eddie’s jaw drops. Drops so hard his mouth remains open a minute. He just sits there staring at Gwen, with his mouth gaping open for so long I think he’s forgotten to close it. Finally he turns to Lucky and gives him a look that’s less like jealousy, more like envy. It’s an evil look, just the same.
“Tell me the truth,” he says. “How tight is she?”
Lucky smiles. “I probably shouldn’t say.”
Gwen says, “Thanks, Lucky.”
Fast Eddie says, “C’mon. You gotta tell me. I gotta know.”
Lucky says, “She’s tighter than the skin on a grape.”
“You lucky motherfucker!” he says.
“That’s me,” Lucky says, grinning. “And it’ll be you, too, when you invest in Vegas Moon. I tell ya Eddie, this is the real deal. We’re gonna own Vegas, you an’ me.”
Eddie says, “I didn’t love Surrey so much, I’d invite you and Gwen to a foursome.”
Gwen looks like she’s about to choke on bile. Which gives me time to wonder why Fast Eddie has to wait on a state court ruling to marry his girlfriend. Is she underage? Is she his cousin? I look at Eddie and decide it’s probably his sister. But it wouldn’t shock me to learn it’s his daughter.
Lucky winks at Eddie and says, “You can’t imagine what I might offer as a bonus to my biggest investors. In addition to cash dividends.”
Eddie looks at Gwen, who somehow manages a faint smile. Then the words, “Who knows, indeed?” somehow escape her lips.
I wonder how many of these dinners she had to attend to help Lucky raise money for Vegas Moon, or other projects. How many leers and rude comments has she already endured, or be expected to endure in the future? How many times will she have to pretend to be impressed or “secretly” attracted to pigs like Eddie?
I look at this prick of a man to my left, and the one on my right who’s possibly worse, and wonder how many bodyguards could work for assholes like these without becoming unraveled. I just met these guys and already want to kill them. But I’ll continue doing my job, which is to sit quietly, scan the room, make sure no one hassles Mr. and Mrs. Peters. Since my life is on the line, I’ll sit here and deal with it, long as I must, until I find the device.
The sound of a woman screaming near the door gets our collective attention.
“Surrey’s here,” Eddie says.
She is indeed.
She’s actually being carried into the restaurant and over to our table by a guy Eddie introduces as Tom. Tom carefully places Surrey in her seat, and makes sure she’s propped up.
Surrey’s a doll.
Not a doll in the way you might say, “Oh, that Reece Witherspoon is so adorable! She’s such a doll!”
No. Surrey’s a life-sized, custom-made, one hundred pound, twenty thousand dollar doll, with skin and facial features so realistic, you have to do a double-take.
I look at the inanimate object sitting at the table. A few of her features are outsized, but in the best possible way. I’m not talking about her breasts, though now that I look, they appear outsized too.
Surrey’s eyes are larger than her human counterparts’, and her body type is petite with no hint of that emaciated look you get from super athletic women, or that hard, muscular look you see in women who lift weights every day. Surrey’s lips are also enhanced, and her coloring appeals to me more than it probably should. Her ethnicity is enhanced, meaning she’s multi-cultural, in a non-discernable way, as if some mad scientist created a perfect blend of female physicality from the world’s most beautiful women. You look at Surrey and you see that technology and art has come together in perfect harmony, and all that’s needed is a lightning strike to bring her to life.
Gwen’s eyes are big as saucers.
“Surrey, what do you think about Vegas Moon?” Lucky says.
Eddie puts his ear to her mouth a minute, then says, “She just got her period.”
“Excuse me?” Lucky says.
“I know,” Eddie says. “Women, right? Jeez.”
19.
I’ve read about these dolls. They not only look real, they’ve been manufactured to feel real. Supposedly, their exterior is virtually identical to the texture of real flesh.
And speaking of flesh, the big draw for Fast Eddie Pickles and every other man who buys these dolls, is the sex. They have three entry areas, mouth, anal and vaginal. But unlike real women, when penetrated, these openings supposedly create a powerful suction. I’m not impressed. I bet a determined, properly-motivated woman could give these dolls a run for their money.
Eddie puts his ear to Surrey’s mouth again. Then says, “Surrey wants to apologize for being late. She’s been crying, and didn’t want her face to look puffy.”
“Her face looks great!” Lucky says, which causes all of us to look at Eddie’s doll. The realism is truly astonishing. Even her dead-eyed vacant stare and lack of general expression reminds me of any number of women I’ve dated who would’ve preferred to be with someone else at the time.
