“Yes, yes indeed. Player engagement has gone up, the new events booker for Hall Three has been getting stellar acts, and even drinks sales are on the rise. Quite an achievement, sir.”
Jack looked at me with ever-wet eyes that begged for my approval. Love me, they said. Tell me I’m your special boy. Tsk, tsk, Jack, only one person in this miniature tour group can have deep-seeded daddy issues, and I’ve already assumed the role, thank you very much.
I ignored Jack’s moist gaze, cracking my knuckles with the heel of a palm. I was itching to get back in the gym, maybe do a little boxing, anything to separate myself from the people before me.
But my business manager was persistent.
“I’d love to tell you about the new show,” he chirped, tugging at his necktie, some kind of Hermès knockoff.
He waited, as if for my cue. I gave a half-nod, which he took with glee.
“We’ve just brought in an act from China. It’s very high concept, with lots of special effects and exciting music cues and big, like, art thoughts.”
“And?”
Jack appeared lost. “And what?”
“There must be a reason they were booked here,” I snorted. “We don’t peddle in high concept and whatever ‘big art thoughts’ are. We’re low-down snake oil salesmen. So what’s the hook?”
He sighed. “In between their many excellent acrobatic numbers, or stunts, whatever you call them… they also do some stripping.”
Yup, there it was. If a pitch ever seems vague in Vegas, dig a little deeper and you will, without fail, find some nudity in there. I wasn’t offended by the nudity so much as the predictability.
“Well, that’s nice,” I said finally, not able to muster up much more enthusiasm. As it stood, I was stifling yawns. “Jack, bud, you know I don’t care about the day-to-day operations of Dazzlers. I leave all that shit to you. So why am I hearing about strippers from China? The strippers could be from anywhere — Jakarta, the Netherlands, Portland. Not my problem, as long as they can shake some tit and keep the business afloat.”
Through the thick mask of keen servitude, Jack twitched with annoyance. Well, that was something. At least he was still capable of having human reactions.
I didn’t care for men like Jack, men who bent the knee and then went a step further, insisting that you step on their knee and use it as a vault to the next step, hoping that in the process, you’d take them with you. By extension, I didn’t care for Vegas. It was a town of bent knees, in every sense of the expression.
This shit wasn’t my dream. That goes without saying, right? How many kids grow up, hoping that maybe one day, they can give booze hounds and lotto addicts a teat to suckle at? Not quite as noble as your run-of-the-mill firefighter or astronaut. Casino owners don’t help communities, or have bold ideas, or get fancy medals from the President. Casino owners make money and die rich.
That’s what my dad did, anyways. He built Dazzlers, put his life blood into it, and then kicked the can, leaving one ungrateful son who he’d never cared about as anything other than an heir to the throne. Hi, hello, it’s me — the ungrateful son. Kinda suits me, no?
Dazzlers was my father’s vision, and now I was stuck with the scraps. Yeah, I know, to complain about being born into wealth, and in this economy… it’s not charming, I get it. The good news is, I could not give a shit if you or anyone else likes me. I have enough money that societal approval no longer appeals. And that right there is how rich guys end up being assholes. We can do whatever we want, whenever we want, and if you don’t like us, we’ll buy someone who at least will say they like us.
Not that all this self-awareness is gonna keep me from throwing my life down the drain or anything, but it must count for something. Hey, it kept me from developing some kind of early onset gambling addiction.
When I was twelve, I rolled my first dice on a casino board, my dad standing behind me, eyeing the green as the plastic flipped and tumbled in the air. In a single toss, I won a cool one thousand dollars. People at the table grumbled that the owner’s son, besides being underaged, had the game rigged for him. Though of course, I knew I’d won that money fair and square. My father was a big believer in Lady Luck, and would never interfere with her locomotions.
But that one roll had felt a little too good. It made my mouth water, gave me tingles along the back of my hands and through the knots of my shoulders. The dice bubbled in my stomach, releasing intoxicating fumes. My life flashed before me. Rather, not my life, but my father’s. And let’s just say, it was grim. I haven’t gambled since.