IV: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Dixie and Johnny made it to a roulette table with a $500 minimum bet. They sat down, and several others shifted away from them. They had already placed their bets, so they had to see this through. Johnny held out the chip. The croupier took one look at it and seemed genuinely shaken. He signaled to the pit boss, who arrived at the same time as the security guys. Seeing the chip, the pit boss silently signaled for security to back off, and spoke quickly and quietly into his own earpiece.
Within seconds, casino staff appeared with trays of drinks and hor-d'oeuvres. A woman from the spa arrived with hot towels and began cleaning their hands. Two more staffers brought expensive hotel robes and covered them, while gently coaxing the buzzard from Dixie’s grasp.
Dixie and Johnny took the chip and placed the whole thing on black.
The door closed behind the man from the casino’s VIP Services team, leaving the shifty and eccentric Johnny Go and his beautiful and psychotic sidekick Dixie Doublestacks standing in the middle of a stunningly lavish and expensive hotel suite with a sweeping view of the lights of the Las Vegas strip. They looked from the view to one another and back a few times.
“Wow,” Johnny said.
“Yeah,” Dixie replied.
“Fucking Elvis, man,” Johnny muttered.
“Even his ghost holds weight in this town.”
“That’s somethin’ to aspire to.”
They were both wearing hotel robes, but were still filthy from their time wandering in the desert only a few hours earlier. They said nothing for a moment longer, then both rushed toward the well stocked bar that sat along the wall of the suite’s sitting room. They yanked the cabinet doors open and began pulling out bottles of liquor, tossing them all onto the plush carpeting while they decided which to drink first. Dixie then stepped to a small refrigerator and opened it, taking in the selection of beer while Johnny moved to the climate controlled wine fridge and did the same.
They crouched down on the floor, selected a bottle each and got to work.
Two hours later...
The suite was in utter shambles. Empty beer and liquor bottles littered every surface. Several room service carts were parked throughout, their contents half eaten or flung around. A swan squawked from the bathroom, and the sitting room furniture had been rearranged to create a fort in the middle of the room.
Dixie and Johnny sat in the fort, profoundly drunk and covered in various sauces, crumbs, and powders. Dixie was stuffing leftover calzones into one of the couch cushions and humming softly to herself. Johnny was lounging on his side, smoking through a long, slender cigarette holder, and wearing a Hunter S. Thompson mask on the back of his head. He flipped idly through a catalog for an extremely expensive escort service.
“You think they’ll comp me one of these broads?” he asked. Dixie stopped humming and looked over.
“I mean, the book is in the room, right? Anything in the room is fair game.”
“True,” Johnny said. He took a long drag. “That’s my evening sorted, then. I wonder why none of these ads say whether they’re, whatayacallit? Chimeras?”
“I think it’s a discrimination thing.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Prolly have to ask when you call.” As Johnny started hunting around the rubble of the room for the phone, Dixie got unsteadily to her feet.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she said, “I’m gonna go down and turn this free money into free money.”
“Burn it down, Dix,” Johnny called as she staggered toward the door.
“Yes, hello, this is Johnny Go and I’m a big shot. I’m calling to order your finest Chimera,” Johnny’s voice drifted from the fort. “No, the girls with animal parts. Head of an owl would be ideal, but it’s been a while and I’m not picky.”
***
Dixie drifted across the gaming floor of the casino, her bare feet treading lightly on the garishly patterned carpet, her robe coming dangerously close to falling open and revealing her goods to the masses. Heads turned as she passed, and for each one that made eye contact, she smirked and snatched their drinks.
After visiting the cashier, where she had converted the entire line of gambling credit extended to her by the casino to chips, she made her way to a blackjack table and sat down, squeezing between two mildly attractive Midwesterners. Eyes bulged in disbelief as she leaned low across the table, reaching to place a chip directly in front of the dealer.
“Deal me in or whatever,” she told him. She then flagged down a passing waitress and took the entire tray of drinks from her, lining them up along the edge of the table. By now, word had spread through the casino staff of the two disheveled strangers who had wandered in from the desert carrying Elvis’s Chip, and so Dixie’s behavior was tolerated, and her every whim indulged.
Within a couple of hours she had exhausted the entire line of credit, along with a second, smaller line. She was a woman of many talents, but the hard truth was that Dixie Doublestacks was no good at gambling.
She headed to the bar to consider her options. She sat down and ordered a Rattlesnake, and when the bartender delivered it to her, she immediately ordered another. After drinking several more drinks, and violently denying the advances of all of the men who approached her (she was skilled with a toothpick), she decided to give it one last go and went back to the blackjack tables.
Fifteen minutes later…
Dixie was out. She had lost the remaining money from the line of credit, along with the money that a big shot from Silicon Valley had given her because he was enjoying her company at the table. Actually, he was enjoying how belligerent she was being toward the other players, but it didn’t make a difference to her. A man from the VIP Services team appeared at her side and attempted to speak to her discreetly.
“Ma’am,” he said, leaning down close to her ear. “We’re going to need to talk about repayment.”
“Repay this!” Dixie shouted, tossing a drink over her shoulder. Apparently used to this kind of thing, the man stepped skillfully aside.
“Ma’am,” he said again.
“Sporky,” Dixie said to a man sitting next to her. “Loan me a fiver, will ya? I gotta win enough to repay the hornets.” The man shook his head, collected his chips, and scuttled away. The big shot slid a small stack of chips toward her.
“Allow me,” he said, then turned to the VIP guy. “She’ll have you paid back in no time,” he said with a wink. The VIP guy crossed his arms and waited, watching.
Dixie went all in, and on the second deal, she doubled down on eleven and lost it all. Again. The big shot from Silicon Valley looked at his watch, and stood up.
“Tough break,” he told her. “I have to get going. It was nice meeting you.”
“Meet this!” Dixie cried. She merely waved her fists at him, though. Then she sighed and turned slowly around on her seat to face the music. “Ok,” she said to the VIP Services guy. “We can go to my room, or we can just duck under this table…”
“We… What?”
“Well, I owe ya, right?” she asked. The guy realized what she was saying, and was about to react when another casino employee appeared carrying an envelope.
“Ms. Doublestacks?” he asked. Dixie looked from him to the VIP Services guy.
“Listen, Seaweed, I get that I owe you guys some money, but I don’t appreciate the pile on,” she said. The new employee gave the VIP Services guy a confused look.
“Uh,” he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ma’am. I’m just bringing you this Express pouch. It came by courier this morning.” He handed the envelope over to Dixie, who snatched it from his hands and tore it open. Inside she found two documents. One was a standard letter with three pages stapled together. The other an older legal document, stamped with the official seal of the state of Texas. Dixie read the letter first.
Boudin Bradford Blunze
Attorneys at Law
Dallas, TexasMs. Catherine Margaret Rowan Lane
(aka Ms. Dixie Doublestacks)
℅ Caesars Palace
Las Vegas, NVDear Ms. Doublestacks,
This letter is to inform you of the passing of Ms. Patricia Lane last Friday. As Ms. Lane’s personal representative, I have the sworn duty to discharge her assets and holdings.
At this time, you have been identified as Ms. Lane’s only living relative. Ms. Lane left no will or final instructions, and therefore under the laws of the State of Texas, all of Ms. Lane’s personal possessions will be distributed to you. A full accounting of Ms. Lane’s assets can be found attached to this correspondence.
In order to transfer these assets to you, please sign the enclosed affidavit and return it to me. The deed to the property in Texas is also enclosed. I will file the change of ownership once I receive your signature.
Please accept my most sincere condolences on the loss of your cousin. On a personal note, I got to know Patty very well over the years and she was continually a bright light in this world. If you require our firm’s services, please do not hesitate to contact us.
Sincere regards,
J. Dumont Boudin
Dixie finished reading the letter, then flipped to the inventory of her cousin’s assets. There were only two items listed: an album of family photos, which the lawyer had indicated were being held at his office, and the family’s twenty-five thousand acre cattle ranch outside of Dallas. Dixie snorted.
“Photos,” she flipped to the affidavit page, then looked at the employee who had brought the documents and snapped her fingers. “Gimme a pen, Squish.” Obediently, he reached into the pocket of his shirt and handed over a pen.
Dixie signed the document in the designated area, her signature surprisingly confident considering that she’d been drinking nonstop for the past thirty-six hours and was coming down from a hell of a psychedelic journey. At the bottom, she included a note: “Burn the photo album and stick the ashes up a clown’s ass - thx”. She then flipped to the official document and saw that it was, in fact, the deed to the ranch. Dixie smiled and looked up at the two men standing over her. “Looks like you’re about to get paid,” she told them before turning and placing the deed on the blackjack table.
***
For a solid half hour, Dixie was up. It wasn’t any particular skill, though, and soon enough she was down again. The VIP Services guy had wandered off.
“Tough break,” said a sleazy mob-looking guy who had sidled up next to Dixie, and who was keeping a close watch on her game. “You have one more hand.”
“Thanks for the update, Señor Sagacity,” Dixie said. “I fucking realize that.” She played the final hand and lost. The remaining players at the table continued on, and Dixie stared at what used to be her inheritance in disbelief.
“Lost the deed to your ranch, huh?” the mob guy asked.
“Fuck you,” she said, with much less force than usual. She stayed seated, and eventually the mob guy won the entire take. As he raked the pile of money, chips, and the deed to the ranch, he looked at her with a grin and an old timey shrug, then reached into his pocket for a pack of matches.
“See this?” he asked, taking a match out of the pack and striking it against the strip on the box. The match caught; the smell of sulfur briefly engulfed them. He kept his eyes on the flame. “If the devil is nearby, the empowered flame will burn down the whole match. Right to your fingers.” He watched as the flame did just that, reaching the tips of his fingers before blinking out in a puff of ash. “That’s how I avoid him.”
Dixie nodded slowly and assessed the man. He was a throwback to an earlier era. He had a Rat Pack look, although at this point he appeared to be more rat than pack, and seemed to sort of be losing his shit. She took him for an easy mark. She leaned in, placing her hand on his knee.
“Hey,” she said. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Love to, Snoops, but I need to shimmy.” He started to gather up his winnings, wrapping the bills around a room key, which Dixie noticed was for room 837, then making a big show of carefully folding the deed to the ranch and placing it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Gotta lotta things to see to. Make hay while lady luck is shining, that’s what I always say.” He stood up and began to walk away.
Dixie instantly stood, as well, and grabbed the chair he had been sitting on. She raised it over her head and brought it down with a fury not evident in her stoic facial expression. She aimed at the mob guy’s fedora’d head, but just before it connected, the man spotted someone he knew at a nearby table, and leaned in to greet him, speaking into his ear and clapping him lightly on the back. Dixie’s chair smashed into the casino floor in an explosion of splintered wood, twisted metal, and seat padding.
Standing up, the man looked back at her with a smirk, shot her a finger gun and a wink, and moseyed across the casino floor. Dixie stood, fuming, then spun on her heel and headed back to her room.
***
Inside the suite, Dixie found Johnny lounging on one of the couches, looking spent. A ruckus was coming from the bathroom. Feminine screams and loud squawks and honks were punctuated by crashing sounds and swearing. Johnny looked at Dixie and shrugged.
“They sent a girl with a mask,” he said, “Can you believe it? Total rip off. She was alright for just a regular human, but still. I’m glad it’s not my money.” A moment later, the bathroom door flew open and a scantily clad woman raced across the room toward the door without looking back. A moment later, the swan followed, and managed to make it out into the hallway before the door closed.
“How’d it go?” Johnny asked.
“I lost the family ranch,” Dixie replied.
“You lost it?”
“Well, I inherited it first. Got a telegram. But then I bet it on blackjack and lost.”
Johnny nodded thoughtfully. “Did you lose it to the house, or just to some rube?”
“Some rube. Looks like a mob guy.”
“Oh, easy. We’ll just put a dead hooker or showgirl or whatever in his room, then offer to help him out of the jam. Then in exchange, he gives us the ranch back.”
“Where are we gonna get a dead chick?” Dixie asked.
“I found a room full of ‘em down on four,” Johnny replied, getting up and heading toward the door. “Come on, this should only take a sec.”
They took the elevator down to the fourth floor, which had standard rooms. They passed no one in the hall as they walked. They stopped at the end of the hallway and Johnny pushed the door to one of the rooms open. Sure enough, there were several dead men and women strewn about. All looked like they’d died recently.
“Huh,” Dixie said as they walked in and looked around.
“Yeah, I’m not really sure what this is about,” Johnny said, lifting the arm of one of the women up, then letting it drop to the bed. “Doesn’t seem like a serial killer, though. Too much variety.”
“Yeah, and no teeth marks, so it isn't bears.” They looked at one another and shrugged. Dixie pointed to a woman in a glittery body suit. “That one ok?”
“Looks good to me,” Johnny said. Then Johnny took the head and Dixie took the feet, and they heaved the woman out of the room.
When they got the woman in the elevator, they stood her up in the corner, and Johnny placed his Hunter S. Thompson mask on her face so that if anyone got in the elevator, they wouldn't notice that she was dead.
“You know his room number?”
“Yep, 837,” Dixie replied, pushing the button for the eighth floor. The elevator lifted up, but stopped at the fifth floor. An elderly man stepped on. Dixie and Johnny both began stroking the dead showgirl lovingly, and the man looked on with undisguised jealousy before getting off the elevator two floors later.
When the elevator doors opened on the eighth floor, they hustled the woman out and down the hall, stopping outside of the mob guy’s room. Dixie got to work jimmying the door open, and a short while later they were inside.
“Hey,” Johnny said as they heaved her up onto the freshly made bed, “We oughta go down and see if we can find this guy. You know, hang out with him and make sure we’re right there when he gets accused of murder.”
“I already tried to seduce him and hit him with a chair,” Dixie said. “I should probably stay out of sight on this one.”
“Good point,” he replied.
“You go, and I’ll keep an eye on you from the bar.”
***
They spotted the guy in the lounge, sitting along the back wall and watching a Wayne Newton impersonator on stage. He was drinking a martini and smoking a cigar. Dixie went to the far side of the bar and took a seat so that she could have a clear line of sight. She ordered a martini. Johnny marched right up to the mob guy and sat down beside him.
“My man,” Johnny said, sticking out his hand. The guy didn’t seem at all surprised. He’d been in Vegas a long time. “Name’s Johnny Go. Great to finally meet you.”
“Johnny Go, eh?” the guy replied. “Johnny G! Quite the coinky-dink, cause they call me Johnny C.” They shook, and Johnny C waved to get the attention of a passing waitress. “What’s your drink?”
Johnny Go eyeballed the martini on the small cocktail table. “Martini, doll,” he told the woman. “Extra dirty.”
“So, Johnny G. What brings ya to this berg?”
“Well, I-” But before Johnny Go could finish, Johnny C began convulsing. He stiffened up, his glass tumbling to the floor. He gasped and was still for a long moment before losing consciousness and sliding to the floor after his glass. His body was then rocked by tremors as he flailed and thrashed, knocking the table over. Johnny Go looked over at Dixie and shrugged.
After a long two minutes, Johnny C’s convulsions subsided and he was still on the floor, unconscious and breathing raggedly. Dixie made her way over and stood, looking down on him.
“I think I killed him with my mind!” Johnny Go exclaimed. “Quick, check his pockets.” They began rifling through Johnny C’s pocket, and while they found a decent amount of cash, some cigars, and room keys from several different hotels on The Strip, they didn’t find the deed to the ranch.
“Shit,” Dixie said. “It’s probably in his room.”
“Well, he’s not goin’ anywhere,” Johnny said, getting up. In an instant they were back at the elevators, heading to the eighth floor. This time, they let themselves in with the room key.
The dead showgirl was on the bed where they’d left her. Dixie and Johnny got to work rifling through Johnny C’s belongings, looking for the deed. After trashing most of his belongings and emptying all of the toiletries in the bathroom, they found nothing of note. Johnny turned to the closet.
“Who uses the hotel closet, anyway?” he asked, flinging the slatted doors open. Johnny C had hung up one suit, but otherwise it was empty, save for the hangers permanently mounted to the rod, and the safe.
“You mean other than to burn trash?” Dixie asked, walking over to stand beside Johnny. “I bet it’s in this safe.”
Johnny reached in and rattled the safe, but it was securely locked. “Bastard,” he muttered.
“If only I had my welding equipment,” Dixie said.
“Let’s just take it with us,” Johnny suggested. “We’ll figure it out.” They were about to heave the safe out of the closet when the sound of the door opening stopped them in their tracks. Johnny quickly reached out and closed the closet door, sealing himself and Dixie inside. They held their breath and looked out through the slats.
“Aw, not again!” came the familiar sounding voice. A moment later, Johnny C stepped into view. He crouched down next to the bed and felt for a pulse on the showgirl, then, sighing, he walked to the phone and dialed. “Skinny, it’s Johnny Catatonic. Yeah, I’m in room eight thirty-seven. Probably two.” He hung up, then sat down on the bed next to the dead woman and clicked on the TV.
Fortunately for Dixie and Johnny, it was only a short while before Johnny C’s buddies arrived. The two burley men quickly rolled the woman up in a rug that they’d brought themselves, then silently carried her out of the room. Johnny C looked around the room for a moment, smoothed the bedspread, then left.
Dixie and Johnny burst out of the closet gasping. Dixie checked to make sure the door was closed, and pulled the security bar over it.
“What’s with this guy? He came back from the dead?”
“And he’s got his own crew of fixers?”
“Ok, new plan,” Johnny said. “We need to separate him from his crew. I’m gonna convince him that he needs to flee. When he tells me he owns a ranch now, I’ll suggest going there and hiding out until the heat dies down. Then he just has to have an unfortunate accident.”
“Works for me.” They headed out of the room, the safe forgotten.
***
Dixie and Johnny wandered around the casino for a while, looking for Johnny C. Eventually they spotted him at a burger restaurant off of the gaming floor. Johnny Go cracked his knuckles.
“Ok, I’m going in,” he told Dixie.
“Yeah, I’m’unna wander around for a little,” she replied. “Meet you back at the suite?”
“Sounds good,” Johnny said, before dashing into the restaurant. Dixie strolled across the casino floor, taking everyone’s plastic cups of quarters as she went, and left the building.
***
After spending several hours in the burger joint with Johnny C, Johnny Go was no closer to convincing the man to leave town with him, or to getting the deed to Dixie’s ranch. Worse, the guy wasn’t actually that fun, and Johnny Go was tired of his old timey quips and corny catch phrases. He longed to just let loose and get tanked, but for once, responsibility urged him to stay more in control of the situation than usual.
“Where to next, man?” Johnny Go asked, hoping to prompt Johnny C into leaving the burger joint.
“Eh, let’s sit a spell,” Johnny C replied, leaning back in his chair with a yawn. “I’m awfully tired for a guy who sleeps as much as I do. Involuntarily, but I’m still out probably half the day.”
“Why’s that?”
“Eh, I get these seizures, you know. Come on outta nowheres, knock me right on my ass. I’m out for a while, but then I don’t remember anything for a while after that.”
“Is that right?” Johnny Go asked, intrigued. “Y’ever get up to anything good that you don’t remember?”
“Boy, oh boy,” Johnny C chuckled. “Do I ever! I’ve been in some real scrapes on accounta this business! This one time, I woke up in-”
He didn’t finish because at that exact moment, a seizure took him. Johnny Go watched for a moment, then jumped into action, dragging the convulsing body of Johnny C out of the burger joint.
On the way through the casino floor, he ran into Dixie. She looked from Johnny C to Johnny Go and raised her eyes.
“He go all spacko again?” she asked.
“Oh yeah. Turns out it’s a condition. Been happening to him all his life.”
“Wel, that oughta make it easy, then,” she said. “By the way, a tour bus from the Vatican came through when I was over at Mandalay, so I shoved one of the archbishops into the tiger pit. You know, just in case. Shredded him pretty good, but I stashed what's left out by the service entrance.”
“Great,” Johnny Go replied. “He should be out for a while, so I have an idea.”
***
One of the casino’s more upscale buffets, known as Neptune’s Harvest, was about to open. The staff had set up everything moments before, while the doors to the dining room remained closed to the public. Outside, a line of gamblers, tourists, businessmen, and other assorted slobs, waited impatiently to be let in.
A short while later, the diners entered and made a beeline to the seafood portion, which was piled high with shrimp and crab legs and scallops. As they approached the tables, they were surprised not only to see someone already there, but that the person had bellied up to the buffet itself and was seated there in a chair, about to dig in. The diners were indignant, and stormed to the table to confront this rogue.
There, in the middle of the pile of crab legs, was the mauled and mangled body of the dead archbishop. And in front of him, clutching a gigantic knife in one hand and a huge carving fork in the other, was Johnny C. His eyes were just slightly open, and he was clearly not conscious. He had a lobster bib tied around his neck, and his hat was tipped to the back of his head.
“Oh my stars!” screamed the first lady to arrive. She dropped her plate and covered her eyes, then staggered backward. Another patron grabbed her before she could hit the ground. Several other diners rushed forward to see what the fuss was about, and soon the room was full of the sounds of screams and vomiting.
A moment later, Johnny C came to, blinking in the dramatic lighting of Neptune’s Harvest, looking around slowly, taking it all in. When his gaze finally settled on the buffet table right in front of him, and the mangled body of the archbishop, he sighed.
“Huh. I don’t even feel hungry,” he said with a shrug. He was about to get to his feet when the group of diners surrounding him realized that he was conscious, and turned on him, menacingly.
“He’s awake!” one of them cried, pointing.
“He’ll try to get away!” shouted another.
“Grab him!” They took a few steps toward him, and just as a man lunged forward to grab Johnny C’s arm, Johnny Go swooped in, pulling the mobster from the seat and whisking him toward the side entrance. The crowd, stunned, gave chase, but Johnny Go had a head start, and once through the door, pulled a mop through the handles. They stood for a moment in a service corridor.
“What the hell happened back there?” Johnny Go asked, innocently.
“Eh,” Johnny C replied with a sheepish look on his face. “Comes with the territory of my condition. Never sure what I’m gonna get up to while I’m out. They don’t call me Johnny Catatonic for nothin’, you know?”
“We should get out of here,” Johnny Go suggested. “Maybe get outta town. Find a place to lay low until the heat dies down.”
“No, it’ll be ok,” Johnny C said. He fished around in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, then casually lit up. He took a long drag, adjusted his hat, then began to walk down the hallway back toward the casino, completely unconcerned. Johnny Go had no choice but to follow him. “My pack, you know. They’re always lookin’ out for me. They’ll take care of it. Hour from now it’ll be like this never happened.”
***
“His fucking fixers!” Johnny Go exclaimed. He and Dixie were back in their suite, taking their frustrations out on the furniture and the bar. In their absence, the suite had been thoroughly cleaned and repaired from the duo’s previous escapades. They hardly noticed, though. Dixie had tipped the couch up onto its end and was working her pearl-handled pocket knife along the lining, exposing the springs. Johnny Go was using a lamp to smash the coffee table.
“And he’s got this fucking thing where he does so much weird shit without realizing it that he just accepts that he’s an actual monster,” Johnny continued. “Nothing surprises him.”
“And then these smarmy punks bail him out,” Dixie spat.
“Every time,” he brought the lamp down again on the coffee table with a crash, finally splintering it into pieces. Johnny kicked at the remains.
“Maybe we gotta take out the fixers first.”
“Yeah, but who knows how many of them there are?” Johnny said. “It’s Vegas. Old ratty mobsters are as thick as flies.”
“And we haven’t slept with any of ‘em.”
Johnny went to the bar and extracted a bottle of Jagermeister, then slammed the cabinet door so hard that it cracked off of its hinges. He took a sip. “We’re gonna need to go big, Dix. Bigger than we’ve ever gone. And we’re gonna need an audience.”
“I can’t think in this room,” Dixie declared, toppling the couch back into place. “I feel too confined. Let’s go for a walk.”
***
They walked down The Strip, their hotel robes blowing in the warm desert winter breeze. Other tourists gave them looks, but ultimately everyone who witnessed these two disheveled strangers assumed they were having a more authentic Vegas vacation than they were and resolved to get into more trouble. While Dixie and Johnny would never know, their stroll on The Strip resulted in a sixteen percent rise in calls to the local police that weekend.
They both carried mixed drinks in to-go cups in each hand, and they sipped and puzzled their way from one end of The Strip to the other. They stopped in the World’s Largest Gift Store, where they bought a bag full of shot glasses and ashtrays, charging them to their room and asking for them to be delivered for them. They also each stole a pair of Elvis glasses.
They kept walking until they got to Circus Circus, where they spent a half hour shouting at the sign for the casino, which depicted a huge clown, and making as many rude gestures as they could. Then they turned and headed back.
“Ok, so sharks are out,” Dixie said, unscrewing the cap from a bottle of Mad Dog she’d stolen from the liquor store near Circus Circus. “How ‘bout a golem?”
“I haven't successfully pulled one off since I was a kid. Besides, they're just such a pain in the ass, what with the care and the feeding and the keepin' it occupied. So needy.”
“Good point. Keeping stuff alive is just so tedious.” They walked on in silence for a while, thinking.
“And we can’t blow up the casino on accounta we might end up burning up the deed to the ranch,” Johnny said. Dixie handed him the bottle and he took a long drink.
“Right. And since we don’t know where he put the deed, we can’t just kill Johnny C and his buddies.”
“Well, that and we haven’t slept with any of them.”
“Yeah, and I already tried to seduce Johnny C. That guy’s impervious to my charms.”
“Also he’s totally not my type,” added Johnny, passing the bottle back to Dixie.
They neared an intersection. As the light turned red and the traffic along the Strip came to a stop, the driver of a battered Ford Bronco leaned out the window and screamed something incomprehensible at them. Dixie turned and hurled her mostly empty bottle at the car. For a drunk, her aim was terrific and she caught the driver square in the face. He reached up in agony, holding his nose as blood poured both from the break and from the shards of glass sticking out of it.
In the haze of pain, his foot slipped off the brake and the Bronco rolled slowly into the intersection where, a moment later, it was collected by an ambulance. Dixie and Johnny watched in something almost like interest as the ambulance driver raced out to check on the driver of the Bronco, who was slumped lifelessly over the steering wheel. Other witnesses began stopping to see if they could help, and disinterested drivers impatiently eased their way around the chaos.
Dixie and Johnny stood there, watching, until the light changed, then they continued on their way. They didn’t give a second thought to the catastrophe they’d just caused.
“Something with snakes, maybe?” Dixie suggested as they reached the far side of the street.
“See, the trouble with snakes is,” Johnny started, but stopped mid-sentence when something caught his eye. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk outside of yet another unnecessarily grand casino, and stared at a lighted, animated billboard advertising the casino’s shows to passing motorists. “Boom.”
Above them, the glowing, glittering billboard showed scenes from a stage production, which was by far the strangest thing Dixie and Johnny had seen in a long time, and the two had a history of coming across extremely strange things. Several giant pandas on leashes crawled about the stage timidly with their handlers, while humans in panda costumes sang and danced. Acrobats, both adults and children, tumbled extravagantly; musicians played, blasting horns and banging drums; a large screen behind the performers projected a bizarre series of imagery, including military parades and shots of citizens who appeared ecstatic at the sight of their leader. Sparklers sprayed from all sides. The audience reacted. The screen on the billboard went blank before flashing the name of this production.
Xióngmāo!
“Boom indeed,” Dixie replied. The two stood, starting at the billboard in awe.
“Bless this land of spectacle,” Johnny muttered, crossing himself and bowing his head. Dixie blew a kiss up to the signage and they skipped off to track down Johnny C.
***
Johnny Go found Johnny C at the craps tables. He was on a hot streak. Johnny Go stood to the side and watched Johnny C as he bantered with the crowd around the table, clearly playing to his audience. He joked, rhymed, and charmed those around him. He was close to upstaging the dealers and the stickman. He flirted with the ladies, asking those near him to kiss or blow on the dice for good luck. He loosened his tie.
A woman sidled up close beside him and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. He nodded to her, then looked up at the dealer. “A deuce on the boxcar, Sam. My lady’s feeling lucky.”
The dealer nodded in return, then signaled for bets at the table to close. Johnny C was still the shooter, and a moment later the Stickman gave him the go-ahead. He raised the dice to his lips and planted one on them, closed his eyes and rolled.
“Triple dipple in the lucky ducky,” the Stickman called. Johnny C’s eyes shot open and he leaned over, planting a kiss on the woman beside him. The dealer passed over Johnny C’s winnings, and he handed a stack of chips to the woman.
“Well, Mouse,” he said, “Since you haven’t been wrong yet today, I’ll leave the choice to you: Head up to my room for a little hey-hey, or stick around here and parley?” The crowd at the table hung on every word, and held their collective breath while they waited for the woman’s answer. She put a cigarette in her mouth, and Johnny C pulled out his matches and lit it for her. The woman took a long, slow drag, then exhaled the smoke in little rings, watching the rings drift toward Johnny C and dissipate as they bumped into his lapels. She smiled.
“Shoot the whole wad, Pussycat,” she replied. A cheer went up at the table. A man in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts reached over and slapped Johnny C on the shoulder.
“Atta boy!” he exclaimed.
“Plenty of time for a clambake later,” Johnny C told the man, nudging him with his elbow, “The chick is right. You don’t stop when you’re in the groove. Besides, the more I have, the more she’ll like me. Chick like this you gotta go full eighteen karat, am I right?” The dealer called for final bets, and all eyes turned again to Johnny C, who hadn’t yet placed his bet. He looked dramatically around the table.
“I’m gonna roll these dice,” he told the table, his tone serious. “One roll. And on that roll I’m gonna bet each of you one thousand dollars against your soul.” The group was silent for a long moment.
“Now wait a minute, big buster!” the woman at his side said, finally. She grabbed his arm, but he kept his eyes moving around the table, resting an uncomfortable moment on each player, until finally, he burst out laughing. “You cats fracture me!” he exclaimed. The table, finally getting the joke, followed suit..
“Time’s tickin’, Johnny,” the dealer reminded him. He nodded.
“Full odds on the ten, two hundred on the hard way, the limit on all the numbers, two hundred fifty on the eleven.” A gasp went up from the group. The Hawaiian shirt guy took a step away from Johnny C, as if reassessing his sanity. The dealer nodded and the Stickman got to work. He passed the dice back to Johnny C.
He rolled.
***
When Johnny C finally strolled away from the craps table, arm draped casually over the shoulders of the woman in the tiny dress, who was eagerly and greedily counting a large stack of bills, the first person he saw was Johnny Go, who was conveniently turning away from the bar, two martinis in hand.
“Johnny G!” he called out gleefully.
“Johnny C, what’s it gonna be!” Johnny Go replied. He handed a drink to each, nodding his head to the woman. He was about to turn back to the bar for another martini when Johnny C stopped him.
“Just the man I wanted to see,” he said, then turned to the woman. “Doll, Johnny G and I have some business to discuss. Why don’t you scamper on up to my room and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be along in a jiff.” He reached into his pocket for his room key and handed it over to her. “Eight thirty seven.”
The woman gave him a sly smile, then turned and sauntered off, taking the martini with her. Both men stared at her ass as she walked away.
“Hello!” Johnny Go exclaimed.
“Talk about a barn burner. I’m gonna enjoy that later!” Johnny C turned back to Johnny Go. “What’s the word?”
“Come with me, man,” Johnny Go said, “I gotta show you this.”
***
A short while later, Johnny Go and Johnny C sat in the theater that Dixie and Johnny had passed earlier, waiting for the panda show to start. They had walked down The Strip, with Johnny Go telling Johnny C that there was something important he needed to show him, and supplying him with a steady stream of drinks all the while. By the time they reached the theater, they were both very drunk, and Johnny C was easily persuaded to see this weird spectacle.
The house lights dimmed then, and an opening act of sorts took the stage. Johnny Go hadn’t realized this, and he scanned the theater impatiently, looking for Dixie. He spotted her several rows ahead, all the way at the end in the aisle seat closest to the door. Dixie, too, was looking for Johnny, and when the two locked eyes, they wordlessly communicated their irritation.
A moment later, when the opening act actually took to the stage, Dixie and Johnny were so disturbed that they each considered abandoning their efforts.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for Signers of the Times!” The crowd applauded politely, except for two rows in front who were obviously affiliated with the group and whooped loudly, and for Dixie, who booed. A group of ten kids, ranging in age from six or seven years old, up through teenagers, rushed out onto the stage. They wore black stretch pants, white sneakers, and white t-shirts emblazoned with the name of their group. The t-shirts on the younger kids were far too large. The group took its place in the center of the stage and waited.
The first strains of Dancing in the Streets drifted across the theater. Johnny Go groaned. Across the room, Dixie gripped her head in apparent agony.
“Calling out around the world,” the song began, and as it did, the Signers sang along, signing each word in American Sign Language. They danced a little, with terrible choreography, but the focus was mostly on their hands. With each verse, the audience grew more receptive, and Dixie and Johnny felt like they were dying inside.
Johnny C, on the other hand, watched the Signers of the Times in awe. He found the whole spectacle to be oddly touching, and was impressed by the kids on stage. At the end of the performance, he jumped to his feet, clapping and whistling. Johnny Go watched out of the corner of his eye, rapidly losing any respect he might have felt for the fella.
As the Signers left the stage, Johnny C collapsed into a seizing heap on the floor.
***
The finale of Xióngmāo! was a culmination of every weird thing that had happened in the stage show previously, but louder. The Signers of the Times had been invited back on stage to sign the closing medley along with the other singers, dancers, acrobats, and pandas, both live and costumed.
Johnny C came to in the middle of the song, standing center stage with a blowtorch in his hand, where Dixie and Johnny had shoved him moments earlier. On the ground in front of him, a man in a panda costume screamed and thrashed, trying desperately to put out the flames which were rapidly consuming his suit. It was useless, though. The material was cheap and the producers had opted to skip the flame resistant treatment.
“Huh. This is a new one,” Johnny C muttered to himself. He turned to look around at the rest of the stage, and succeeded in blasting several more cast members with his blowtorch. As one acrobat screamed and leapt across the stage to escape the flames, he bumped into a few of the Signers, setting them ablaze, too. The children panicked and began running in circles, frantically signing that they were on fire, and won’t someone please help.
At this point, the audience seemed to realize that this wasn’t part of the finale. The majority of the theater rushed toward the exits, proving that even when up to code, most modern theaters are not capable of handling an emergency. A small handful of theater-goers rushed to the stage to try to help, grabbing fire extinguishers on the way, but when they failed to properly discharge them, they only ended up catching fire themselves.
Johnny C took a staggering step stage right, but still hadn’t managed to extinguish the blowtorch. A shriek from behind him caused him to pivot, and as he did, he grazed the ass of one of the live pandas. The beast rose up in fear, then barreled across the stage, dragging its handler with it, and attempted to reach safety by climbing the stage curtains. Its weight proved too much for the drapes, and they came crashing down a moment later, enveloping the panda, its handler, and several of the burning dancers. It took only a second for the curtains to catch.
Someone finally had the sense to pull the fire alarm, and sirens could be heard in the distance, but the disturbance on the stage continued unabated. Even the sprinkler system, which kicked in far too late to actually save anyone, did little to suppress the fire. Johnny C finally managed to drop the blowtorch and began to look for a way out. The smoke was so thick on the stage at this point that he could no longer see an exit.
Suddenly, through the haze and sparks and disarray, walked Johnny Go. Shoving a burning six year old out of the way, he marched across the stage and gripped Johnny C by the arm.
“Come on, man!” he shouted over the chaos. “Let’s get outta here before the fuzz shows up.” Johnny Go dragged the man across the stage to a side door, kicking actors and dancers as he went. He threw open the door to a long hallway which was rapidly filling with smoke. At the end of the hall, Dixie stood, holding open a door to the outside. She waved so that Johnny knew where the door was, then disappeared outside so that Johnny C wouldn’t notice her. When the two Johnnys burst through the door moments later, she was gone.
***
“We’ll get off The Strip, stick to the back roads until we get far enough away from here that no one will suspect we were there,” Johnny Go said as they made their way through a parking area alongside the casino. “Then we just find a rental agency, grab us a car, and high-tail it outta here.” Beside him, Johnny C began to cough. He stopped and bent over, placing his hands on his knees, and continued coughing for a solid five minutes. Johnny Go waited. When he finished coughing, he straightened up, fished a pack of smokes from his pocket, and lit up.
“Thanks for your help in there, man,” Johnny C said after taking several long drags. “Not sure where my boys were today.”
“No problem,” Johnny Go said. “Only thing I’m worried about is that whole shebang was recorded. You’re gonna need to lay low for a while.” Johnny Go started walking again, more slowly this time, since Johnny C either couldn’t, or didn’t want to, hurry. Eventually, they neared the backside of the Stardust and Johnny C stopped again.
“I’m a big-leaguer,” he said, finally. “Even without my boys, I can handle whatever comes up.”
“C…” Johnny Go started. He didn’t want to come across as desperate, but he was really getting sick of this guy. Before he could say anything else, Johnny C continued.
“You and me have been through a lot together in the last few days, Johnny G. We got outta some real scrapes. You’re a stand up guy. You’re platinum,” he paused then, and lit another cigarette. He watched as the flame burned the entire match down to his fingertips. “Anyways, I won the deed to this shithole ranch in Texas offa some broad the other night. I want you to have it. You’ve got a lotta living ahead of you, so you should go. Beat it. Scramsville.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the crumpled deed to Dixie’s family ranch and handed it to Johnny Go, who took it and turned it over in his hands slowly. What Johnny C took for him being genuinely moved by the gesture was actually Johnny Go being stunned that the deed had been on Johnny C the entire time. Hadn’t he checked that pocket? Finally, Johnny Go looked up at Johnny C.
“Pallie. I don’t know what to say.”
“Aw, it ain’t the grand gesture it looks like. I haven’t left The Strip in forty years, it’s no good to me.”
With that, Johnny C flicked the cigarette butt onto the ground and walked slowly into the rear entrance of the Stardust. Johnny Go stood there a moment longer, stunned, then raced back to the hotel to tell Dixie the news.
***
“He WHAT?!” Dixie shouted. She stood on the dining table in their suite and was in the process of unscrewing the light fixtures in the ceiling above it. Around the room, other fixtures had already been removed. She looked down at Johnny in disbelief.
“Just fucking gave it to me,” he said, waving the deed around. “I didn’t have to ask him for it or nothin’.”
“And he just had it? Like, in his pocket?”
“Yeah,” Johnny said. “Which is magic or some shit cause I know I checked all his pockets the first time he went all bluppo, and he didn’t have fuck all in ‘em.” Dixie jumped down off the table and took the deed from him, opening it and looking it over to ensure that it was, in fact, the deed to her ranch. Satisfied, she handed it back to Johnny, who would hopefully be more responsible with it than she had been.
“Goddamn it,” she said. “I wanted to get him!”
“I know. It’s like, is this even winning?” He headed over to the bar, which had been restocked, and took out two bottles. He handed one to Dixie and they flopped down on the couch. They sat there, forlornly sipping tequila and staring off into space.
Finally, Johnny spoke. “Well, if you want, we can take another run at him. He went in the Stardust.”
“Meh,” Dixie replied. “I feel kinda indifferent to the whole thing now. I think I just wanna strip this room for everything it’s got in it, and get the fuck outta here. Fucking Vegas.”
“Good idea, Dix,” Johnny said. He got to his feet and took a long draw from the bottle, then screwed the top on and slipped it into the pocket of his robe. “While you do that, I’m gonna go downstairs and pump some quarters into one of those slots with the car in front of it. Meet me down there when you’re done?”
A half hour later...
The Mustang in the center of the casino floor shook ferociously. Its brand new shocks, driven only from the lot, to the tow truck, to the casino, were aging rapidly with each thrust until they were groaning like a Model A. Gamblers approached the car tentatively, wishing to plunk a quarter into the slot machine in the hopes of winning the car, but not wanting to actually see what was going on inside it. Those who dared to approach were treated to a view of Johnny Go’s bare ass, visible under his plush, but now stained, hotel robe. The showgirl writhed beneath him, her shrieks of pleasure fortunately drowned out by the general din of the gaming floor.
Dixie Doublestacks crossed the casino floor carrying two pillowcases stuffed full of everything she could take out of her suite, and Johnny C’s, which she’d broken into on her way down. There wasn’t much of value, but she helped herself anyway. She had tied the pillowcases to the barrel of a shotgun, and was carrying on her shoulder like a bindle. In her other hand, she swiped as many plastic cups of quarters as she could, emptying them into the pocket of her hotel robe as she walked.
When she reached the Mustang, Dixie tossed everything into the back seat, the quarters spilling out all over the floor. She walked around to the passenger seat, and Johnny looked up.
“You ready to go?” he asked, his motion unceasing.
“Yep,” Dixie replied. She opened the passenger door and Johnny extricated himself from the showgirl and gave her a shove. She rolled out the door and landed in a heap on the floor. Dixie stepped calmly over her and took the passenger seat. Meanwhile, Johnny sat up and settled himself into the driver’s seat a moment, then began hunting under the dashboard for the appropriate wires. Finding them, he yanked them apart and had the engine running within moments.
As Dixie closed the door and Johnny put the car in gear, a scantily clad cocktail waitress passed by carrying a tray of martinis bound for a private high roller room. Johnny reached out and lifted the tray from her hand. With the grace of a ballet dancer, he transferred the tray from his left hand to his right, while pressing the pedal to the floor and aiming the Mustang toward the front doors of the casino.
