What happens in Vegas . . . Joe's Lost Week

When I published my first novel--The Entrepreneurs--it was 360 pages. Three years later, I decided the book was too long, and I re-edited it to reduce the length. In the process, I deleted a minor character altogether. Her name was Elsie Summers—an exotic dancer Joe met in Vegas on an ill-fated trip.

For your reading pleasure, I have resurrected Elsie. This excerpt reads a lot like a short story. At the beginning, Joe has recently discovered his wife, Rose, was sleeping with his ex-boss. He is angry but also ashamed, for he cheated on Rose first. Not knowing what else to do, he escapes to Las Vegas to meet up with an old friend.

The Lost Week in Vegas

At ten a.m. my flight touched down. Elsie Summers met me in the terminal with a monster hug and a kiss on the lips. She wore jeans and sneakers and a burnt-orange, deep-vee cashmere sweater.

On the way to the garage she kept her arm around me, with her hand in my rear pocket. In the car on the way to the Bellagio she leaned over to give me a wet kiss and put her hand on my leg. She continued to play those games while we checked into the hotel, working her, and me, into a near frenzy. As soon as the door to our suite closed she pulled at my shirt and belt.

The first time we did it was fast.

Her breasts were as I remembered: large and natural. She was in shape from all the dancing, but not so lean that she didn’t have a full curve to her hips.

Elsie started on top, wanting to control the pace, and pressed down on my chest with her hands, her breasts swinging free. She laughed about it, making it funny and fun at the same time. She reached back to slap her ass and giggled.

It went as long as it did, and then we both fell asleep.

When we woke up, I ordered champagne, and the party started. Over the next forty-eight hours we consumed Vegas. We went to a Hard Rock show, a circus show, and a comedy show. We bought a vacation wardrobe for me and party clothes for Elsie. We gorged ourselves on food and wine. At Club Paradiso, Elsie had lap dances from all her friends.

All the while I drank: beers in the sports book, margaritas on the strip, cocktails before dinner, and plenty of wine. We played the silly, fun games of roulette and Pai Gow, and we bet the ponies, Elsie cheering like crazy whenever our horse had a chance.

Money meant nothing to me. I couldn’t reason why it should. I made stupid bets based on hunches and generally lost. I stayed away from games requiring calculation, which was good, because after the first few hours I was in a permanent state of fuzziness.

On Monday at noon we ventured down to the buffet.

“You should try the barbecue spare ribs,” she said, taking a bite from a full plate. “They’re delicious.”

I was drinking a Bloody Mary. Elsie had champagne.

“Maybe after I finish my juice.”

She wore her hair up in a high pony and was bright-eyed after six hours of sleep and a morning romp. She wore a long-sleeved teal T-shirt, with dangling earrings and a bright red Swatch. Elsie was twenty-eight but could pass for early twenties.

The waitress came by and topped off the coffee.

“Another Bloody, sir?”

“Please.”

Elsie finished chewing a mouthful of green beans amandine. “You know,” she said, “I don’t plan to stay in Vegas forever.”

“That sounds wise. This town runs some people into the ground.” My stomach rumbled. I glanced at the spare ribs on her plate; they were beginning to spur my appetite.

“I’ve been dancing for six years now. I figure I’m good for another three years, four at most, and then I’m out.”

Elsie sipped the champagne and buttered a roll.

“What will you do then?”

This was a side of Elsie I had not seen before. Most everyone spends time thinking about the future, but up until then, Elsie had lived only for the moment.

“By then I’ll be thirty-one or thirty-two and ready to get married. It’s best not to marry too soon . . . before you’ve run the wildness out. When I stop dancing, I’ll move to San Diego, marry the best man I can find, and start having babies.”

It was hard for me to picture. I could see Elsie dancing on the pole or doing Jell-O shots at the Hard Rock, but I couldn’t see her pushing a stroller around the neighborhood.

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Don’t get me wrong. This is great.” She twirled her fork in the air to indicate the entire room. Around us were a hundred people, sitting at tables of two, three, and four, eating their fill, sipping on their first drink, laughing and smiling as they began another day in the land of the endless party.

“But I have a plan,” she said.

“What’s the plan?”

“Every year I save fifty thousand from my dancing income. The rest goes to living expenses and partying, and there is plenty left over for partying. By the time I’m done, I’ll have five or six hundred thousand to start the family.”

She went on to explain that a hardworking stripper in the right club could make a hundred and fifty a year. It was a tough job, but if you stayed away from the coke, and other temptations, you could save a bundle.

She drained the champagne and looked at her watch.

“You need to get some food so we can check out.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re moving to my apartment. Tomorrow’s Halloween. I’m throwing the party this year and I need your help to get ready.”

# 

I inspected her bar and found it lacking. I drove her Maxima to the liquor store and picked up six bottles of booze, a mixed case of wine, and three cases of beer. Elsie focused on food, decorations, and tidying up the apartment.

She had a one-bedroom in an old-style complex on Driftwood Street. The building was U-shaped with two floors and twenty total units. It was secured by a bougainvillea-draped wall and gate that faced the street. Elsie had lived there for years and was friends with most of the tenants.

She invited an eclectic group of casino dealers, waitresses, bouncers, and strippers. They wore outrageous costumes. Bush and Gore were both in attendance, dressed as Siegfried and Roy. Two dancers came as Elvis, shirts unbuttoned to their navels. Elsie was Madonna, complete with black stockings and the cone bra. I was a pirate, with eye patch, headscarf, purple bloomers, and a plastic sword.

Everyone brought a contribution, and soon there was a wide assortment of recreational drugs to match the booze in the kitchen. I was invited to try this and that but politely declined. Alcohol was the only medicine I required, provided it was consumed in the proper quantities.

A bouncer named Tim and I decided the party was too slow, so we doled out tequila shots, making sure we got our fair share. It was Gran Patrón Platinum. Soon after, things started moving right along.

About midnight a contingent removed their clothes and headed to the hot tub. A few others went into the bedroom and closed the door. Elsie had disappeared, and a thin friend of hers, wearing a sheer black blouse with no bra, sat down and gave me an openmouthed kiss. She invited me upstairs to her apartment for a special massage. I declined, and she immediately went after a baccarat croupier sitting across the room.

I called a cab. I wanted to go downtown to gamble with the regular folk. He let me out on Fremont Street during the middle of the light show. I wandered into Binion’s to try craps but had a hard time focusing on the dice. Up the street I found a Cajun-style slot parlor that sold hurricane smoothies in the shape of a football. For two dollars more they gave me extra shots of Everclear. I walked around downtown for a while, a pirate, football in hand, indestructible and indecipherable.

I turned down one street and vaguely noticed there were only three of us, me and the two guys asking politely for money. I put the football down, intending to negotiate, and remember only white flashes. Sometime later a policeman nudged me awake with his foot and suggested it was time to move on. The polite bandits had left my wallet and credit cards behind; maybe they figured the three hundred in cash was fair enough. I caught a cab back to Elsie’s place and passed out on the sofa, the party long since over.

Six hours later I awoke with a hangover to win the prize. It hurt the most right behind my eyes, and for ten minutes I didn’t dare open them. When I did it was agony. I shut them immediately and tried to go back to sleep. No success. With eyes as slits I felt my way to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. There was a soreness in my right ear that didn’t fit; it wasn’t standard-issue hangover. The guest bathroom mirror showed a thin trail of dried blood down to my collarbone, a good-size knot on my forehead, and a small cut above the eyebrow. With a wet washcloth I started to clean up.

A cute blonde with long hair walked in wearing a pair of Elsie’s gym shorts and nothing else. She had pointy boobs, tattoos on her feet, and sat on the toilet while smoking a cigarette. She looked at me briefly, without interest. When finished she hopped up and walked out.

I am too weak to be an alcoholic; I cannot stand the physical pain and the psychological trauma.

# 

That afternoon Elsie and I sat on the couch and compared notes from the party. She thought my little altercation downtown was hilarious.

She nibbled on dry Cheerios and drank coffee, wearing an oversize Washington Football sweatshirt.

“I don’t think you’re cut out for this lifestyle,” she said.

“What makes you say that?”

For the first time in days I held a Diet Coke that wasn’t bolstered with Jack Daniel’s.

“Well, for one thing, you have no sense of balance. For example, last night you should have stopped drinking and gone upstairs with Linda when I sent her your way. If you had done that, you’d be sober enough to party again today.”

“Linda?”

“The skinny girl . . . you know . . . with the see-through blouse? From what I understand she could show you a few tricks.”

“My loss.”

Elsie sipped her coffee and continued with her appraisal. “The other big problem is you have kids. I know you and your wife are at war right now, but that does not let you off the hook as a dad.”

She sat with bare legs folded up and under the sweatshirt. The stragglers from the party were gone, and the place was spotless. Elsie’s eyes were clear and unwavering. It felt like I was back in school, and the professor was trying to convey important knowledge.

“You really are going to have a family in San Diego, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Yes, I am, and I’ll tell you another thing: I don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, but it’s not here in Vegas. Don’t get me wrong. This has been a blast, and you are welcome anytime, but right now you need to get back to Austin.”

Elsie was a stripper with a plan and knew more about her future than I knew about mine. That was Wednesday, November first. We agreed I would fly home on Friday, which gave us two more nights.

#

The next morning I was awakened by a call on my cell. All that week I had ignored Austin. It was time for reentry, so I answered the phone.

“Where are you?” Zola asked.

“Vegas.”

“Great. You need to get back to Austin right away.”

“What is it? The kids?”

“No. It’s Mike Franzinni. He’s dead. He jumped off the penthouse balcony of the Bank of Texas building.”

It had happened the day before. Zola filled me in on what she knew from the Connection network, which wasn’t much.

In the afternoon Rico Carrillo called.

“What the hell are you doing in Vegas?”

“Uh, gambling?”

“Damn it. I told you to call me if you left town.”

I could see him staring at me, the black flaw sparkling in his almond iris. I didn’t like it. “Something came up.”

“It certainly did. Another one of your directors is dead. How soon can you get your butt back here?”

“I have a flight in the morning.”

“Meet me at the Radisson . . . two o’clock.”

That night I grilled mahimahi out by the pool, and we split a bottle of chardonnay. We spent a quiet, peaceful evening together, a pair of lovers, both comfortable that we were separating in the morning.

Elsie took me to the airport. She leaned up for a kiss, and with a devilish grin reached around to grab my ass.

 Excerpt from The Entrepreneurs (Joe Robbins Book One) Get the full novel on Amazon for 99 cents.

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