Mr. Lucky Strikes Again

“I swore I’d never come back to Las Vegas, and I’d never go to this convention again.”

“Aw, c’mon, Corbin, relax. It can’t be that bad.”

Corbin Mayo grips the wheel of their rent-a-car. “Three years ago, when I was here, our cheap boss put me up in a no-tell motel near the airport. When the planes weren’t keeping me awake, the drunks in the hallway were. When I first got into the room, everything was duct-taped together. The air-conditioner was duct-taped. I don’t know why, because it didn’t work. The shower head was held together by duct tape, and the couch and the desk…”

“Duct taped?” Mickey asks.

“Yeah, and on top of that, we came here in the midst of a heatwave. It was 115 or more for three days in a row.”

“So, you had a streak of bad luck the last time you were here,” Mickey says. “You’re with Mickey Magnotta, Mr. Lucky, now. Your luck’s bound to change.”

“Yeah? How’s your search going for a room?”

Mickey smiles defensively, checking his phone. “There’s three other conventions going on at the same time as ours. The Mirage, Bellagio, and Caesar’s Palace are all booked… Wait a minute, the Acme Hotel has a lot of rooms available.”

Corbin glances at Mickey suspiciously. “How many stars does it get? What do the reviews say?”

“…I don’t see any…”

“Is it on the strip?”

“Uh, no. It’s kind of in the desert. But how bad can it be?”

Corbin grunts, driving out of town.

Forty-seven-year-old Corbin Mayo’s crew cut, plastic glasses, and baggy Macy’s jacket make him look like a refugee from a 1950s sitcom, but no one knows more about toilets and bathroom fixtures than he does. The senior salesman for Royal Flush, Corbin thought he could avoid this year’s National Kitchen and Bathroom Industry Show. Then the rep designated to attend with Mickey was struck down by appendicitis.

Twenty-six-year-old Mickey Magnotta is eager to attend the convention and immerse himself in Las Vegas’s adult entertainment. He likes to call himself Mr. Lucky, although only a few positive incidents in his life suggest he warrants such a nickname. Brash and glib with the blonde looks of a naughty frat boy, Mickey is celebrated as one of the company’s up-and-coming stars.

Corbin pulls into the hotel’s pitch-black parking lot. Four skinny, sketchy, hollow-eyed-looking men disperse, two jumping into an ancient, banged-up Toyota, while the second pair recede into a nearby room.

Hauling their luggage, Corbin and Mickey approach the front desk. The pasty clerk stammers out, “Hell…Hello…can…can I help you?” while nervously twisting his greasy hair.

“We need a room. Probably for a week,” Corbin states.

“A week? Here? You don't want to stay here that long.”

“Some salesman you are,” Mickey jests.

The clerk gives them the last room on the second floor. Climbing the stairs, they walk down a long hallway where half the light bulbs are burnt out and the rest flicker and buzz tiredly.

A pile of old clothes and rags blocks their path.

Corbin goes to move the pile aside, jumping back when it moves on its own.

A grimy, unshaven face comes into view.

“Mombulu!”

Reaching for his wallet, Corbin tosses a few dollars at the man as he and Mickey politely slide by.

“How’d you know he wanted money?” Mickey asks.

“Wouldn’t you?”

Mickey swings the door open, turning on the light.

Corbin thinks he sees something scatter across the floor, but chalks it up to fatigue.

He takes a deep breath. “The air in here smells like depression, stale beer, and hopelessness.”

“Aw, don’t be such a Gloomy Gus. What say we clean up and hit the nightlife?”

“No way. I’m exhausted. I suggest you save your energy and enthusiasm for work instead of play. I’m going to take a shower and get into bed.”

Corbin moves to put his clothes in the closet, noticing four used syringes on the floor.

“Must be the maid’s day off,” Mickey jokes.

Corbin goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower. The floor vibrates, the pipes groan, and brown sludge squirts out of the shower head.

“I’m too tired for a shower anyway.”

A few hours in his needed sleep, Corbin is awakened by a cracking sound.

“Hey, Mickey. Are you eating walnuts in bed? Cut it out.”

Mickey stirs restlessly. “Huh? I thought it was you.”

Corbin turns on the light. Dozens of bugs scramble for the corners of the room.

Mickey gasps in horror as a platoon of bugs runs across his sheets.

“Are we in a science fiction movie?”

“They’re cockroaches,” Corbin replies. “The place is infested with them.”

Mickey swats at a cockroach as it buzzes by his head. “What are these, mutants? I didn’t know cockroaches could fly! And they’re the size of jets! The joke's on us…I guess you could say this room is bugged!”

Corbin calls the front desk to complain. The desk clerk shows up a few minutes later with a can of Raid and a few tentative words of advice as he twists his hair: “They… They don’t like heavy… heavy metal music.”

“Neither do I,” Corbin replies.

The pair spends the rest of the night with the radio at peak volume, being assaulted by the “Metal Mania Show.”

The semi-dozing salesmen are awakened at four in the morning by a loud thump at the door.

Rubbing his eyes, Corbin swings it open.

“I’m sorry. We’ll turn the music down…”

His eyes focus on a man in full S.W.A.T. gear.

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” he says. “We’re looking for a dangerous criminal, a real psycho. He’s carrying a machete, so there’s a good chance he’s going to go down swinging. Keep your door locked and stay low to the floor. And if he takes you hostage, don’t mention Daffy Duck.”

“Is he more of a Bugs Bunny guy?” Mickey asks.

***

Corbin and Mickey hurriedly pack up at dawn.

On their way to the office to check out, they pass an open room. The maid is standing in the middle of the room, shaking her head.

Every piece of furniture is nailed to the ceiling.

“I don’t care if we have to sleep in the car, I’m not staying in another roach hotel,” Corbin says.

Mickey’s cell phone pings. “We’re in luck. I just got a text saying there’s an executive suite available at the Wynn Hotel. It’s one of Vegas’s most luxurious spots. Mr. Lucky strikes again! We’re going from the outhouse to the penthouse!”

***

The Wynn Hotel has a cabana-lined pool, gourmet restaurants, and a lineup of top-notch entertainment. Their gold-colored room features expensive drapes, full-length mirrors, imported dressers, an 86” HD TV, minibars, and closets that are bigger than their room at Acme.

“Don’t let living like a king spoil you,” Corbin warns. “We’re still just a couple of salesmen from Mulkeytown, Illinois.”

After setting up their booth at the convention center, the pair returns to the hotel to treat themselves to a gourmet lunch.

Corbin is savoring his Kobe steak when a commotion at the next table grabs his attention.

A middle-aged woman with a silver beehive hairdo, diamond rings dripping from her fingers, and priceless pearls around her neck, is yelling at the waiter. Her husband, a beleaguered bald man with deep circles under his eyes and a hangdog expression, sinks deeper into his chair.

The woman holds up a stuffed donkey.

“I specifically made reservations for three, not two! And how dare you speak to my husband and me and not acknowledge Eeyore?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hearst. What would Eeyore like for lunch?”

“Wow,” Mickey comments. “She’s sure making an ass out of him.”

***

Despite Corbin’s objections, the pair drifts into the casino.

“Don’t forget, Mickey, the house always wins,” Corbin warns as Mickey puts a dollar in a slot machine.

“C’mon, have a little faith in Mr. Lucky.”

One seven spins to a halt. Then a second, and a third.

“JACKPOT!” Mickey yells, bouncing up and down. “MR. LUCKY STRIKES AGAIN!”

Mickey cups his hands underneath the slot machine, waiting for the payoff.

Nothing happens.

A man wearing an obscenely large cowboy hat and white boots leans over Mickey’s shoulder.

“Hoo…wee! You hit it big, son… Wait a sec… How many dollars did you put in the machine?”

“One.”

“Well, shucks, son. You have to put three dollars in the machine to hit the jackpot.”

Mickey’s lower lip quivers, and he appears on the verge of crying.

“Mr. Lucky, eh? Let that be a lesson to you. The only thing you get from gambling is nothing,” Corbin scolds.

“Thanks, Reverend.”

Gritting his teeth and muttering to himself, Mickey pumps three dollars into the machine, yanking on the lever.

“This one-armed bandit owes me a jackpot!”

“You’re never going to beat the system, Mickey.”

The dials spin and continue to revolve for the next five minutes.

“Man, this is going to be some payoff.”

Mickey and Corbin continue to stand in front of the machine for another five minutes, waiting for the cylinders to stop spinning.

A burly security guard taps Mickey on the shoulder.

“Go away, Hulk Hogan, I’m about to be rich.”

“No, you’re not. Step away from the machine.”

“So, you can grab my jackpot? Are you kidding me? Isn’t there some casino law against employees grabbing customers' cash?”

“You’ve broken the machine. You could stand here for a year, and nothing’s going to happen.”

“How do you know that when those tumblers stop spinning, they won’t hit a jackpot?”

The guard exhales deeply, his uniform expanding around his fit frame.

“I know. I’ve been here for seventeen years. I can either give you two hundred dollars and a thank you for playing, or you can pay four thousand bucks to repair the machine.”

Mickey takes the cash.

“You want a winning hand?” the guard whispers. “Try the third craps table. Ken the dealer is in his cups, and when he’s ripped, he can’t play worth a hoot.”

***

“Look at all these chips,” Mickey says to Corbin. “I must be up a couple of grand.”

“Then it’s time to quit,” Corbin advises.

A strawberry blonde with bright blue eyes and a dangerous figure saddles up to Mickey, smiling affably.

“Hi. I’m Chicky.”

Mickey loses himself in her eyes.

“Don’t fall for it, Mickey. All she wants is your money.”

“That’s not true,” Chicky innocently insists. “I know a special guy when I meet one.”

“See, she thinks I’m special, Corbin.”

“Most idiots are, Mickey.”

“You look like my fourth husband,” Chicky says.

“Really? How many times have you been married?”

“Three.”

Corbin shakes Mickey. “…Maybe you should cash in…”

“Nonsense, Corbin, I’m Mr. Lucky. When the thunderbolt strikes, you can’t ignore it.”

Mickey puts all of his chips on the table.

“…Mickey…”

“Don’t sour my luck, Corbin.”

Mickey shakes the dice and holds them up for Chicky. “Blow on them for good luck. Don’t worry, Corbin. The only way I can lose is if I roll an eight. And I haven’t rolled one of those yet.”

The crowd around the table holds its breath as the dice bounce off the end of the table.

“Eight,” Ken, the dealer, slurs.

“Easy come, easy go. You still love me, right, baby?”

Chicky’s sunny smile fades.

“…Yeah…Sure…”

Mickey puts his arm around her, whispering, “I’ve still got five hundred in mad money stashed in my shoe. What say you and I find out why things that happen in Vegas stay in Vegas?”

Corbin retreats to one of the bars. Resigned to a long night, Corbin begins to feel Vegas’s celebratory pull after his fourth Tequila Sunrise.

He heads to the slot machines, feeling confident he can change his luck.

Corbin is pleased to learn that the liquor on the betting floor is free.

A few hours later, Mickey finds Corbin draped over a slot machine, unconscious.

“We’re getting married!” Chicky announces.

Mickey pulls him to his feet. “Time to sober up, Corbin. You’re the best man!”

***

The wedding party is picked up by a pink Cadillac that would have made Elvis Presley proud.

On their way to the church, Corbin throws up in Chicky’s purse.

“Aw, man. The ring’s in there,” Mickey says.

The trio disembarks at the Love Me Tender Wedding Chapel adjacent to the Graceland Museum, Elvis Shooting Range, and Elvis Fried Banana Sandwich Snack Bar.

“Let me guess. You want Elvis-themed nuptials,” Corbin slurs.

The wedding party stops off in the costume shop, where Mickey dons a sequined jumpsuit, and Chicky dresses up in a floor-length white chiffon gown with lace sleeves and pearl embellishments that rival Priscilla Presley’s wedding dress.

Corbin is wedged into a leather outfit that’s so tight he squeaks when he walks.

Laughing at the sight of himself in a mirror, Corbin jokes, “Where’s the blue suede shoes?”

To his chagrin, he’s fitted with a pair for the wedding photos.

Outfitted like a latter-day Elvis, complete with fake sideburns, wide sunglasses, and a pompadour, Father Schlomo greets them with, “I hear you’re here for the hunka hunka burnin’ love ceremony.”

Groaning, Corbin stumbles across the room to the bar.

“I need a drink. In fact, I need a lot of drinks.”

Dressed in gold lame, the bartender, Parker Fontana, says in perfect Elvis cadence, “Nah, bro. You need a Jailhouse Rock Iced Tea. It’s a come-to-Jesus delight.”

Corbin puts a hundred-dollar bill on the bar.

“Let me put things in proper perspective. I’ll use the titles of some Elvis songs to explain my situation… ‘I’m All Shook Up,’ because we stayed at a ‘Heartbreak Hotel,’ and now my friend is in ‘Trouble’ because he’s got a ‘Wooden Heart,’ and ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love.’ ‘I Feel Bad,’ and I want to get ‘Wild in the Country,’ because I don’t want to be ‘Crying in the Chapel.’”

“That was pretty good, bro! Are you a betting man?”

“Well, this is Las Vegas.”

“I’ll give you a free shot for every three Elvis Presley songs you can name, and you can’t use any of the ones you just mentioned.”

Corbin quickly rattles off “Suspicious Minds,” “Don’t Cry Daddy,” and “Kentucky Rain.”

“Set me up.”

The room begins to spin after a dozen shots. It fades altogether when Corbin gurgles out, “‘You Were Always on My Mind,’ ‘I Beg of You,’ and, you’re, going to love this one, ‘Do the Clam.’”

***

Corbin wakes up next to Parker in the pink Cadillac with a fried banana sandwich and a target practice pistol in his lap.

He shakes the bartender awake.

“Great googly moogly, it’s ten o’clock,” Parker says. “I got a hunka hunka burnin’ hangover, but I’ve got to get back to the chapel. We open in an hour. You can keep the outfit, bro. It’s part of the deluxe Elvis honeymoon package.”

***

Corbin staggers to his room. Mickey and Chicky greet him at the door.

“I was wondering what happened to you,” Mickey says. “The last I saw of you and Parker the bartender, you two were speeding down the Vegas Strip, and you were standing up in the back seat singing, ‘Viva Las Vegas.’”

“I can’t wait to get out of here.”

“About that…,” Mickey begins. “The boss called a little while ago. We’re setting up a store here in Las Vegas. You’re going to run it. You get to stay here!”