Vegas Short story part 2

Hotel.

The car pulled away from the hotel, its neon sign rapidly disappearing over the horizon as the man watched it in the mirror, bright light fading to dimness, then blackness. The sun had begun to set before the car had arrived, disappearing utterly as the engine rumbled into life. The glowing towers of the city approached steadily, the empty road devoid of cars beyond the black truck. Non-descript and dull to avoid attention, just as the passenger and package it carried. Its lights shone in two wide cones illuminating the road, the journey to the alabaster pillars and their promises of wealth stranding the man within his anxiousness once again.

The driver hadn’t spoken a word since his arrival. The man didn’t recognise him out of the previous drivers. The organisation the showman had spoken of seemed to span the city, if not the state in its reach. How else had they found him in Reno, or gathered any of their workforce? Penniless idiots desperate for their own private concerns willing to submit to the dangers of this darker world. The man gazed out of the window as the lights approached. How many had come before him, or the more worrying thought; how many had left?

The darkness seemed to swell as they neared the glaring sign of the city. He knew what it said, and he didn’t feel welcome. The depth of the darkness felt oppressive, thick like velvet as if it were tangible. The greater the light, the deeper the shadow, and Vegas was very bright indeed. The man wondered if the city even cared for the dark it cast below. It likely thrived on it, polite society enforcing its silence, too busy enjoying the fruits of its endeavours to consider the cost of such luxuries. Finally, the neon welcome sign passed the truck, plunging the man and his package into the city at last.

Lights and signs flashed through the smoked windows, the growing crowds and sounds of the city filtering into the enclosed box. The man peered at the faces as they bustled through the busy thoroughfare. Expensively dressed yet devoid of purpose, roaming like insects across the carcass of the casinos, eager for its golden nectar. Or perhaps a more accurate description was that of the venus fly trap, drawing them in with tantalising rewards. He had performed card games in alleyways himself. Small bets, petty gambling, but the addiction remained the same. The same types of people, dressed in silk or rags.

It was a simplistic money maker, assuming you avoided the police. Bribes ate into the profits, as slim as they already were. Low risk, little to no reward, no matter how many insects you drew. The man had never gone to Vegas for this very reason. Within Reno, Vegas was the bogey man. Vegas was the place mothers taught their children not to go, a den of vice where men would eagerly break every sin they could, if only for the joy. His own mother was always careful to ward him away from the temptation. Grand rewards she would say as he drank the weeks’ efforts of ‘honest work’, but grand risk. Was it truly worth the money if you didn’t live to spend it?

Of course, the man had ignored his mother. He knew the risks and dangers, avoiding the city as best he could as a result. He wasn’t a gambler, and the man certainly didn’t have the money to match the stakes offered even in Reno, let alone Vegas. And yet here he was, performing the very deeds his mother sought to steer him away from. There was nothing in Reno for him, but the man held the growing worry there was even less here. A desperate man without salvation, he had steered towards the only hope he could find. The man was just another tourist, to be conned out of more than merely his money. He knew this, and yet steered headlong towards his fate regardless, like a nihilist mariner against the black rocks in a storm.

The car rode on like a black hearse carrying its dead, dipping away from the street towards the adjoining roads. The neon signs lessened, fading in brightness and size from those spectacular lights to dim shadows. The streets were dark and poorly lit away from the centre, existing solely to support it. The important parts of a city that kept it functioning. The electricity, the water, the manufacturing. All of it relied upon tourism, directly or indirectly.. The car headlights streamed across crumbling brickwork, turning towards a bright star. Within the centre of the dark road, its lights blazed across the sky in columns of neon fire. The car pulled to a stop outside of the Halloway Hotel, the door opening a moment later.

Another stranger, silent and dressed in another white polyester suit. Perhaps there had been a sale. It seemed a strange choice of uniform otherwise. The Halloway Hotel certainly met his expectations. The entire building seemed to sag, coated with moss and rusted drain pipes, standing tall amidst identical non-descript offices and homes. It was difficult to determine whether they were abandoned or merely uncared for. Likely both, the man thought. It was a marvel the Halloway could even support the metal frame for its neon sign above, or even power it for that matter.

It would be façade however, the man knew.

One does not draw attention to their illicit dealings with the flaunting of wealth, even in a town such as this. That was reserved solely for the strip. Away from it however, it was best to avoid attention, as reputation tended to spread, and bribes were expensive. A worn and antiquated building, the kind inhabited by scum and filth. Suspicious of course, but hardly noteworthy in the city of sin itself. A seedy den that lead to an even deeper nest below, he thought.

The man passed through its gaping maw and into the entrance hall. Worn red carpeting sat in the entrance hall, a large wooden desk built into the wall marked reception sitting before him. Its back wall was littered with brass keys on hooks, very few of which were absent, as if they were disused and forgotten. Bright electric lightbulbs glared down from above, naked of any covering, their exposed wiring stretching across the length of the aged woodwork that marked the worn walls. “Better than the hotel…” The man murmured to himself, the silent figures who had entered with him having disappeared from his company.

No awaiting attendant or bell boys stood to attention, simply thugs loitering at corners and walls, some smoking, some merely staring at nothing as the group passed. The silent thug who had opened his door led him towards the staircase, its carpeted wood belaying the rot and wear beneath. They ascended quietly past the other men, foreboding in the sense of anticipation which seemed to hang in the air. Greedy eyes watched the bag as it dangled from his shoulder, lips unconsciously licked at the thought of one more payday from its contents.

The upper hallway was as worn as the lower, the musky scent of mothballs filling his nostrils as they stopped by the closest door. The thug twisted the handle and ushered him inside. “Your room.” he rumbled in a low tone, like a mountain addressing the plains below. The door closed between them almost immediately, the barrier of wood a clear indication of the lack of answers he would receive to any questions he may have posed.

The man turned to regard the room. He was almost impressed. They had found a room as bad if not worse than the hotel upon the outskirts of Vegas. It had been an opulent room, once. The walls were panelled with carved wooden boards to his waist, continuing with a peeling dull red wallpaper. A large bed sat within its frame, sagging with the effort to support itself. A ragged carpet rested underfoot, one crushed and deflated chair decorating the corner. All other furniture, if it had ever held it, had rotted away or been discarded long before its new tenant’s arrival.

The room smelled of age and decay, his disappointment subsumed entirely by apathy. The man had hardly expected better from the “nice little place” the Showman had spoken of. The Showman was a liar, a fake; hopefully not every ‘associate’ of his would be quite so… pleasant. The man threw his bag onto the bed uncaringly. Its legs gave way, collapsing with a dry cough of dust, unable to support the new weight as it slumped to the left. This didn’t remind him of home at all.

Casino.

The door closed behind him only an hour after he had arrived, the bag strapped tightly over one shoulder. It wasn’t safe to leave it even here, in their own building. When were thieves ever known for fair play, and the blame would fall squarely on him. He wasn’t so much a courier as a precaution, a fall guy in the case of a bust, someone to blame if the package slipped away. They weren’t likely to listen to any excuses of his either. He glanced down both ends of the corridor.

Stacked chairs vaguely covered with a sheet blocked a set of double doors, the other end leading off to identical doors to his own, abandoned rooms left to ruin just like his. It seemed disused. Perhaps they weren’t used to entertaining guests out of their own fold for so long, although that didn’t seem likely. It was hardly a unique opportunity, unless all those he had seen recruited in that bar back in Reno had been carrying bags for other places, other things.

The stairs creaked underfoot through the thick red carpets as he descended down into the lobby. The faceless goons of before had been replaced by equally expressionless muscle, blank eyes standing guard at each corner. Even clad in suits as they were now, their purpose was obvious. Intimidating protection, for what the man had no idea. The Holloway didn’t strike him as a safe house, although his grasp on such concepts was limited purely to media. The man was a small time crook; selling loose cigarettes and under the counter drugs had never warranted anything more than an alleyway. He followed through the adjoining corridor towards whatever their sentry held watch over, past the vigil of the blank enforcers, a distant murmur of voices and electronic chimes drifting from the end of the moth eaten hall. Two men stood before the double doors, one in red, the other grey. They were speaking, but the grey man turned at his approach, dispassionate eyes greeting his own. The other turned away, stepping back against the doors. The red was a uniform, the man could see now. It was almost comical to see its jaunty colour in this place, frayed tassels of spun gold decorating its edges.

“So glad to see you have arrived.” The grey man began. He was almost skeletal, his thin grey suit pinching against his thin grey body, thin voice joined by grey eyes that gave nothing away. “I have been expecting you for quite some time now. I hope the journey was not too… uncomfortable?” His thin hands unclasped themselves, unfolding out in what was likely intended as a friendly gesture. The man stared down at the offered hands for far too long; they did not remind him so much as talons as death’s grip. It had taken this ageless stranger and left him gaunt, haggard.

“It was uneventful.” The man swallowed, trying to disregard his obvious discomfort. The Grey Man only smiled a queer little grin with his lips alone. Nothing about the rest of his face seemed to move, his expression dictated purely by the movements of his words. “Well I do hope you enjoy your brief stay here, before the next leg of your journey.” The Grey Man replied. “We do not normally keep… guests in the Holloway, but our other residence is… occupied.” He spread his hands apologetically.

“We have many like you, but rarely so many at once. So you will have to make do here, within the casino.” The Grey Man turned, gesturing towards the uniformed figure at his shoulder. He stepped back, turning the handles and opening the doors inwards. Lights and signs flashed overhead, the cacophony of noise formerly muted by the ancient structure and its thick doorways taking the man by surprise. It was a gambling hall, its opulence rivalling even the main structures of Vegas, yet hidden from prying eyes.

A reserved casino for the more illicit gambling. Rows and rows of machines sat facing its entrance, red velvet trailing off along its tail further inwards towards green tables and spinning wheels. It was larger than anything the man had seen in his own experience in Reno. The few casinos that ran, both legal and illegal had been small, five slot machines to the man and a table with cards. Despite the size and despite the sound however, the hidden gambling den seemed almost to hold the same number of people.

The same type of crowd milled like bees within a hive, this much was true, but the tall room felt… empty. The lack of serving girls, dark men resting within the recesses of the walls staring at their patrons. The place had no sense of pressure, no presence of body; this was a private venture, for those who could afford to gamble but preferred a quieter venture, or greater stakes. He was only here as a lesser consideration; a side venture. At least it explained the ‘accommodation’.

“Enjoy the casino as you wait.” The sound of the Grey Man’s voice slithering across his shoulder caused the man to start. The guard handed him a small bag, filled with chips. The man shoved it into his pocket, stepping into the room to escape the presence of his host. Gambling was the last thing on his mind. He was already gambling a larger stake simply by being here. The man wouldn’t last long without it. The man eased his way through a set of slot machines, disappearing from the main velvet path and into the rows, flanked on both sides by silent machines.

It was the largest casino he had ever seen, despite its limitations of surreptitious construction. The tiny gambling halls, the single rows of machines or cards within the bar; those were the limits of Reno. There had always been plans, always been talks. Replicate Vegas, their own strip, a pale facsimile of its lights and attractions, to draw what few scant scrapings of victims that Vegas left behind. Like a desperate dog, scrabbling to reach what remained of the decaying carcass. If it existed, he had never seen any of it. It didn’t matter to him, anyway. Not now. The man seated himself down upon one of the unused stools. The wait was making him tense, and the rising noises of the casino didn’t help. The row he was on wasn’t busy, populated by only three desperate gamblers tugging at the slot machine arms. They didn’t even turn to look at him when he walked past, so lost in their fantasies. They were almost as bad as the man was, except he had grown better at lying to himself.

He scowled to himself. The distastefulness of the casino was starting to get to him. More gamblers had begun to filter in, seating themselves around him, a minor obstruction in their path to ruin. The rattle of the machines rose, the electronic hum as they rose into life, lights flickering into being. Their sounds to attract him, their lights to excite him, the metal rattle of coins and reels and the cacophony that seemed to hang and pulse to an unheard rhythm, gamblers tugging at the metal limbs that drove on the addictive madness as if they were beating drums to the lights that held back the darkness outside.

It was too much. It was too loud, too distracting. The man swayed briefly, clutching at one empty stool before he hurried along between the rows. Somewhere quieter. The golden pillars stood in front of the man, forcing him to move further between gamblers and their machines, before they finally began to fall away in a sea of green velvet. Quieter games, roulette, gatherings of small yet well-dressed figures huddled at tables, eyes following the cards or balls. The man hadn’t had a drink in days.

God, he needed one.

The man had never been in a place like this. A place made for people like him. Addictive personalities. His lungs heaved as he stepped into a dark alcove, a dim green light hanging above a door set into the wall. Cold took the man in hand as his feet stepped out into an unseen puddle. The alleyway was far darker than the gambling hall, but that was fine. It was more like home than the ostentatiousness of what he had passed through. The lights had taken him by surprise. That was all. That is what the man said to himself, to assure him he hadn’t reeled in utter sensory overload. His first brief snippet of Vegas, and he almost collapsed upon the spot, mind drunk on its own poisons that had been gathering until now in the desert heat.

There would be a bar nearby. Good sense told him to avoid it. Good sense wasn’t welcome around here. “Just need a moment…” Talking to himself. The only conversation he could take at face value since he first arrived. To come from the insidious calm of the journey up and into the empty hall, only for it to burst into life almost as if by his entrance. The music hadn’t seemed so loud at the door, even after his host had opened the way.

The man considered hitting himself for a moment, to restore his senses. He left it however. He had been torturing himself mentally with fear. There was no need to start on the physical side so soon. Someone else surely would eventually. Growing up in Reno, the man was almost a country boy. So petty and small, to be met not by the possibility of losing his money to one man in an alleyway, but to hundreds, a thousand machines resting at the ready, gaping mouths dispensing their wealth to none but a handful of their most worthy worshippers.

He hadn’t known what to expect, really. The cold air was washing away the fugue that had enveloped him however. Water was seeping into his shoes, but that was fine. It was cold, sharp, something to feel and experience so that he could set his mind on it. He stepped forwards, glancing down into the alley. Tall buildings, decaying brickwork to match the Holloway, enclosed the area into something similar to a courtyard. It curved around between two other buildings, before coming to a stop, the only entrance the door he had passed through. It made sense; why would they have such simplistic access to the back of the Holloway, after all. A private courtyard, for want of a better word, seen only from the rooftops and illuminated by the moon. It was well past evening by now, a bright orange glow suspended perpetually above. The man wouldn’t be seeing any of the stars whilst he was in Vegas.

The anticipated bins and abandoned cardboard boxes were unfortunately absent, the alleyway courtyard bare of signs of apparent usage. Stooped black piles of bin bags sat in the corners, but they seemed recent. They didn’t appear to be mouldering, plastic intact from whatever was held within. He idly prodded at the pile, plucking at the bag ties. Maybe they stored objects here, away from prying eyes. Anything that they needed to discard discretely. The bag spilled open, carefully packaged squares falling out onto the ground. Money, drugs. The bag slipped away, the shift in weight forcing the pile to slide gently to the side, four oblong lengths encased in opaque plastic foil lying at the very bottom revealed.

Bodies.

He stared at them for a few moments. He had known such things occurred, inevitably so. He just hadn’t ever seen it up close. He was small time; murder was far out of his circles. Businesses such as this however… the thought jolted him into movement again. He hastily shifted the bags back into place, covering the wrappings. Would they notice the changes? Probably not. Something was leaking from the bags, a puddle growing at his feet. He couldn’t see what it was in the darkness. He had been out here too long already.

The man stepped back into the casino, shutting the door behind him as quietly as possible. He steadied himself on a nearby pillar, checking the soles of his boots. He hadn’t left any obvious prints behind. No one seemed to have noticed his departure, so far as he could tell. For all he knew the door was alarmed. It was too late now. The man slipped between the pillar and the nearest row of slot machines. He was idly tempted to sit down and distract himself for a while, but he didn’t feel like gambling any more. All of this was too big a gamble to begin with.

His hand dug his wallet out of his pocket, prying the pocket open. A handful of dollars, coin pouch clinking with a few coins. Not enough to gamble with, let alone the slot machines. The man shoved the wallet back into his pocket, fingers brushing across something plastic. His hand drew out a small plastic bag; the chips from earlier. He had practically forgotten about those. Useful for a handful of games, not that they would honour any winnings. Their chips, their winnings.

He left the rows of machines, leaving the standing arms to the few gamblers that perused them. He was back on the velvet path, the only routes leading to the blackjack or roulette. Blackjack. The man was more at home with cards anyway. It was difficult to play roulette without a wheel, although they had tried. Apparently a marked dustbin lid wasn’t good enough.

There was a woman at the table, flipping cards vaguely to the empty stools circling the front of the table. She looked tired, smoking. No “no smoking” signs to be seen. An illegal gambling den was hardly the place for health and safety, anyway. The man sat down on the nearest stool. “Dealing?” The woman looked at him silently, smoke lazily drifting up in a gentle spiral between them. She gathered the cards up, carelessly dealing the cards with one hand, her other on the ash tray. “Hit or stay?” The woman finally asked, cigarette smouldering on the edge of her lips. The man glanced at her, folding the cards up to peer at the corners.

16.

“Hit.” The woman flicked a third card down.

20.

“Stay.” He tapped the table. The cigarette tip flared. She set another card down, followed by a second. The cards were flipped. Twenty again. They glanced at each other as she gathered the cards up again. “You normally this lucky?” She asked. “I’m not sure. Is it lucky to be here on this job?”

“That’s pretty damn unlucky.” The man set another chip down. “Well what about you, you’re working here too.” She flicked the cards down. “Did I say I was lucky either?” They checked their cards. He called. She lost. “Well why not leave?” The man pushed the chips he won back onto the table. “Some of us aren’t so lucky we can take a trip to Vegas for fun.” The woman eyed him, but he returned her expression. He had seen too much now to think of this trip as anything entertaining. The worst part was what he had not seen, what was implied, hidden just under the surface. The constant nagging sensation of putting your foot down in the wrong place in a minefield. Nothing but friendly smiles that never reached the rest of the faces of those who gave them.

She must have known this too, her eyes flickering in the direction of the door he shouldn’t have opened. “Or lucky enough to leave.” She dropped her voice down to barely a whisper, dropping the next cards into place to mask it. “It’s the bag, isn’t it? That one on your shoulder. I’ve seen people carry them before. I don’t often see them again.” Her eyes were on the cards, as were his. To everyone around them, focused on their game. “When did you see the last guy?” The man replied in equally soft tones.

“A few days ago. Maybe a week now.” The recruiters hadn’t been in Reno a week ago, but they didn’t need to be. There were plenty of places they could reach out to. It made sense to recruit thinly; you couldn’t have too many turn up missing from one place, after all. “They don’t always disappear, but…” How many others had she tried to warn in the past, he wondered. Probably not many. She wouldn’t be here otherwise. She would be out there, in the alley. The man took a card from the deck. “Do you think I could slip away?” He slotted it into his hand.

11.

Hit.

12.

Hit.

17.

Hit.

18. Too many chances, just like the cards. Too many opportunities for him to slip. “Fucking joke…” He muttered. The stress was getting to him, but it was good. He could use it, as long as he didn’t slip. “Maybe. If you don’t take the bag with you, don’t annoy anyone… and you were fast.”

He gathered up his cards before him, propping his elbows on the table between them. There was a flicker, on the edge of his vision. The door in the shadows was open, two men carrying something out into the courtyard. “Just don’t piss these people off.” He dropped his cards down, spreading them out in a fan. The woman hadn’t taken another card. Slowly, she placed them before his.

21.

They stared at each other for a moment. The man reached down, dropping the bag onto the table, still half full despite his luck. It wasn’t a pleasant reminder. “Thanks.” He gave the woman a nod, turning from the stool and striding back towards the entrance to the gambling hall as casually as he could manage. He could feel eyes upon him, but there were always eyes upon you here. It was just paranoia. He would go back, leave the bag in his room and slip out of the hotel. It shouldn’t be hard for him to find a car at this time of night, a taxi; anything to drive him out of the city.

Recompense.

He didn’t get very far.

They stopped him on the staircase, suspicious of his departure from the casino. He was to stay there, after all. They didn’t lead him back to his room. Did they know what he intended to do? Probably not. He suspected it didn’t matter however. They were suspicious people, and the kind of person to deal with uncertainty with very certain approaches. He saw the Grey Man, down by another group of guards. The two guards guiding him stopped him behind the group, before the Grey Man waved them on. They passed through the lobby, having grown into a small group now as men were pulled into their wake. Back, through the building, small glimpses of unseen corridors and into a loading bay.

They didn’t bother to hide anything here. Pallets stacked with small wrapped bundles lined the edge of the wall, the concrete stained with oil. Anything could be in them, no doubt valuable to a place like Vegas. Two long limousines sat waiting in the bay, the metal shutter door creaking open into the night. They were nice cars, bound to draw suspicion in any other city. But not here, not in a self-styled “city of light” as Las Vegas. The man hoped it was just the final stage of the trip, to drop off the package. The rest of him didn’t believe it.

The cars shone in the moonlight, the cold air an unwelcome change to the warmth of the casino. He hadn’t even gotten rid of the bag. The man could run. Straight through the doors, out into the unfamiliar city, followed closely behind by several armed thugs… One of them moved him towards the car, the door opened by a man in a suit and hat. A chauffeur, as muscle bound as the rest. The other men climbed into the second car, leaving him alone with the driver and the bag.

He kept his seatbelt off as the car pulled out into an alleyway and into a road. The other car followed closely behind. It was difficult to see where they were going, the smoked glass of the limousine obscuring the view both outwards and inwards. The cars glided through the streets silently, dim shadows of buildings and lights barely visible through the blackened windows. He tried the door handle. It was locked.

He might have been able to jump out of the car and leave the bag there, but someone must have tried it before. The man in the front wasn’t in any position to stop him, and he couldn’t tell how fast they were driving, or where. The man turned, kicking out at the window with his feet. His boots rebounded against the stiffened glass, their surface barely marked. He swore, grasping around the dim interior for something to break the door open.

The driver must have heard his movements, the barrier separating out the front from the back blackening as a panel rose, sealing him entirely in the leather upholstered box prison. The seats were equally unyielding, the entire car seemingly purpose built to hold him in. The man slumped against the chair. The rising panic and racing fears seemed to be subsiding, a dreadful apathy seeping in for what was almost certainly at the end of the ride, and the end of his trip.

Nothing reminded him of home now.

The car was speeding up. He reached across with numb fingers, pulling the seatbelt into place. He stared into the window, approaching lights as bright as distant stars. High pitched engines whined outside, the car lurching to a stop so suddenly the seatbelt threatened to choke him before he fell back. There was a sound of a door opening, footsteps on gravel or sand. He couldn’t see the silhouette of the driver anymore.

Three lights glared in the darkness, bright coronas flaring in bursts as steel jacketed rounds riddled the car. They punched through the metal, burying themselves in the sands opposite. Brass casings rattled against one another before the thunder died, the deafening cacophony gone from the silence of the desert. A figure stepped forward, approaching the riddled car. He reached through the broken window, the armoured glass scattered at his feet as he grasped the bag, its surface barely nicked by the gunfire, and pulled it through.

The man stared up at the black clad figure as it reached across him. The shadow returned the gaze impassively. The shadow retreated. Embers sparked beneath the car, orange tongues licking upwards at the metal underbelly. It was the only light within the desert, save for that of the city itself, aglow in the distance. Engines whirred into life as the cars left, like dark beetles scuttling back to their nest.

The sound of rubber on sand faded into the distance, leaving the man to the crackle of the growing flames. He could feel the heat rising through the torn seat. Vegas seemed almost to loom over him, as if the heat were its own. The source of all this; the holes, the punctured metal, the torn and ragged body stained red. Now it would reward him, as it had so many before. The man stared out of the jagged edged hole towards the city in the distance.

They said it would remind him of home. It didn’t.

( Written at so many different points of the year, it so many different places, I suspect the flow of this story is entirely broken. Certain sections were written in different countries, others on the train. One or two chapters whilst I was in a small village, the train having thrown me off due to a break down further along the tracks. I was sitting on my bag simply writing to while away the time. I’ve added a fair sum and rewritten a large majority, to change the story for the most part. Critique is always welcome. )