Sin City

“We’ll be there shortly, ma’am.”

My driver, Pete, cuts through the comfortable silence that’s enveloped the Escalade for the last hour.

“Thanks so much.”

I smile at his kind, wrinkled eyes in the rearview mirror.

I don’t usually have a driver, but when The Victory Hotel contacted my manager about a last-minute slot to open for Rob Arc, they threw in some VIP perks to sweeten the deal.

“You like Vegas, ma’am?” Pete asks.

The flying cacti and brush that span the entire drive from Palm Springs to Vegas have lulled me into a silent meditation that I hoped to continue the rest of the drive, but I have a soft spot for people like Pete. Their jobs are thankless, often demeaning, and at the end of the day their customers will remember nothing about how they made it from point A to point B.

“Well, I do love the energy when I play here.” I reflect back on the other two gigs I’ve played in Vegas, both intimate hotel bars, very different from the club I’ll be playing tonight. “People are just happy, you know? It’s pretty easy to make them even happier.”

“Yes, ma’am. We’re in the business of making people happy here.” Pete chuckles and shakes his head. You can tell he’s thinking about the demanding clients he’s had over the years, but he cares too much about his job to share the details. “Doesn’t matter what they want, right? We’re there to make sure they get it.”

I smile and nod. I hope that somewhere out there Pete has a child or niece or nephew who will capture his stories before he leaves this earth. I would read that book.

“How long have you been driving, Pete?” I ask.

“Oh about 25 years, ma’am. Been with The Victory for 15 of them. I started out doing airport transfers and the like, but I’m happy to be mostly working with the special guests like yourself now.”

It’s strange to hear that. Special guest.

“Well, thank you for getting me here safely.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

The Victory comes into view as we round the corner. A gaudy gold building that takes up a whole city block. To get to the hotel you must circle the four- tiered fountain that makes up the entrance – its bursts of water timed perfectly with patriotic music piped through outdoor speakers.

Every one of my senses is firing as I exit the car. The late spring air is nearing oppression already, and hotel guests in every state of consciousness pour in and out of the building. It’s nearly 1pm and I haven’t slept in 24 hours. Last night’s private party hangs on me like a wet towel and I suddenly feel desperate for a shower.

“Lady V?” A baby-faced bellhop extends his hand to relieve me of my bags.

“Valerie, please.”

My stage name, the one I gave myself six years ago as a starry-eyed college grad, started to feel trite and juvenile once it was coming out of a mouth other than my own. My agent says it’s my brand though, so I’ve cemented my place in society as a “good girl with great tits.” Her words, not mine.

“I’ll show you to your room,” chirped the bell hop, Chad according to his name tag.

“Thanks, Chad. Oh!” I turn to Pete who has been guarding the doors of the Escalade and press fifty dollars in his hand. It’s half my cash for the weekend but I make a mental note to get more.

“Drive safe, Pete. Watch out for the crazies.” He chuckles at the little phrase my Dad always said to me before I got in the car as a teenager and shakes my hand.

---

The suite is somewhat underwhelming compared to the grandeur of the building and marble-clad hotel lobby, but the king size bed is the most beautiful sight.

“Here you are, Miss! I hope the accommodations are suitable for you.” It’s not until now that I notice a slight British accent in Chad’s voice.

“Oh, absolutely. Hey uh, where are you from?”

Chad’s eyes shoot straight to mine and a goofy grin grows on his red-tinged face.

“Liverpool, Miss! But I’ve been trying to get rid of the accent. See, I’m trying my hand at acting and I’ve been told it’s a handicap.”

“Well. I like it. Maybe you just haven’t found the right role.”

“Yes, maybe…” Chad said forlornly. “Well anyway, ring if you need anything and the club manager, Angelo, will be by at 9:30 to walk you down.”

“Oh, great. Thanks.”

I peel off another $20 for Chad and promptly shed all my cigarette and vodka stained clothes. I hardly make it five minutes in the shower before collapsing in bed, my skin still slick on the fresh sheets.

---

I’m awoken by the blaring of the room’s telephone, a horrible rattle that I think is meant to mimic an old rotary phone.

“Yes hello?”

“Good evening Miss Valerie! This is just a courtesy call to let you know the manager of Club Ex will be at your room in 30 minutes. Have a great night!”

“Uh…” There’s a violent CLICK on the other end before I have a chance to ask for a quick meal.

By the time 30 minutes have passed I’ve dressed and managed to down two bags of mixed nuts, a pack of dry cookies, and two bottles of Evian. I force myself not to tally the cost of the mediocre snack. I’m sure Rebecca, my agent, will eagerly send me a bill not two hours after I’ve left the hotel.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

“Valerie? It’s Angelo!” booms a muffled voice.

Before I can even open the hotel room door fully, Angelo embraces me in his meaty, tanned arms. His thick gold chain cold against my bare chest.

"Great to have ya here!” his accent is Greek…maybe Italian? “Ready to go?”

“Uh, yeah, let’s do it.” Angelo is clearly in a hurry and I don’t dare delay us. The sweat across his forehead indicates I’m not the only “special guest” he’s attended to tonight.

“So listen, honey…great outfit by the way,” he stares at my chest as I walk next to him down the hotel hall. My go-to Vegas outfit of cut-offs and a plain white tank top always seems to be a hit here. Americana, I suppose. “So, we’re really glad you could make it. I’m just gonna talk you through some of the VIPs we got tonight, there are some big ones.”

“Okay, sure,” I say, accustomed to granting photos in the booth and anything else people can brag about to their friends the next day.

“The hotel owner’s nephew, Oliver, is here with some friends. They’ve got the Main Stage table. They’re the main focus for tonight, we have to make them happy,” Angelo says sternly. We’re in the elevator now and the air his thick with his cologne. “Hopefully you can visit their table after your set.”

“Sure if…”

“And then we’ve got a couple athletes,” he interrupts, “an NBA player and some rugby guys visiting from the UK. I’ll let you know if they need anything. Of course, Rob will be in toward the end of your set. Ah! Here we are.”

Angelo ushers me through a back door and down series of dark hallways that end in a cavernous club. The booth is in the center of the room under an enormous chandelier, the surrounding bars glamorous and draped in red velvet.

“I’ll let you get set up, we open in 30 minutes,” Angelo says, already walking away. “Good luck.”

I feel nervous for the first time all day, but find some comfort in the familiar enclosure of the booth and the state-of-the-art equipment at my disposal. Right before every set I put my headphones on, blast the music, and look out at the empty room. I like to imagine I’m pulling every malleable body into the space with the shear power of my music.

As I start to turn the volume up on the speakers and guests trickle in, I settle into a comfortable rhythm. The bass fills my body and the endorphins pump through my veins as the crowd grows and sways to the patterns I create.

The set soars by and with 20 minutes left I see Angelo push his way to the booth. More sweat has accumulated on his brow and his eyes seem to be going ten directions at once. He slithers up behind me, an unwelcome hand on my back.

“Nice work, gorgeous,” he shouts. “Rob will be here in five minutes. Come by the table over here when you're done, I’ll give you your check.”

Angelo points to a table of six men somewhere in their late 20s to early 30s. They’re pawing bottles of liquor and taking turns pouring shots, messily, in each other’s mouths. I assume this is Oliver and his friends.

My hand-off to Rob Arc is smooth and I’m feeling the thrill of the crowd’s cheers and claps as I leave the booth. I decide to make the most of my obligation to Angelo and then reward myself with a bottle of wine and bath in my room, blissfully alone.

As I approach the table a tall, shaggy-haired man comes to greet me. His gold shirt is almost entirely unbuttoned, and I have to avoid looking at the greasy coils of dark hair all over his chest and stomach.

“Valerie! I’m Oliver,” he extends his hand and then keeps mine trapped in his grasp while his other arm reaches for a shot glass. “Join us!”

I take the glass he offers me as he grabs another for himself.

“Cheers!” He shout over the music.

“Have you seen Angelo?” I ask, my hand over my mouth to ease the burn of the alcohol.

“He’ll be by soon, I’m sure. Here sit sit.” Oliver motions to a velvet couch and then says something I can’t hear to one of his buddies.

After a few minutes he seems disinterested in me so I continue to scan the room for Angelo and sway along to Rob’s music. Exhaustion hits me hard and I settle into a trance, the couch enveloping my body like a black hole.

“We’re closing in ten minutes!” Someone shouts, pulling me out of my daze.

“Wait, what?” I say to no one in particular. Did I fall asleep?

I try to stand and am stopped by what feels like an invisible hand pushing me back down. My head throbs. The people around me are a blur, but I reach for the tall visage I think might be Oliver.

“I need…check…and my room.” I croak, but all I hear are laughs in return.

I try pushing my body up again and once airborne, I feel gravity dig in its nasty claws. I brace for impact but am caught by two long arms.

“Time to go,” someone says.

I can tell when we’ve left the club because the lights burn so bright I can barely keep my eyes open. Between the panic and my body fighting to maintain consciousness, my heart thunders in my chest. _Think, Valerie._

“Bathroom!” I shout, squirming under whoever is carrying me. “Bathroom!”

“Damn it.” The man says.

“Let’s find a bathroom, man. We don’t want her puking all over us.” Someone else in the group whispers. “We’ll watch the door.”

My escort drops me outside a small bathroom where I seek safety. I furiously search the little clothing on my body for my phone, but of course, there’s nothing. I slide my back down the cool tile wall, close my eyes, and try to assemble my thoughts into an exit strategy.

“Hey, are you okay?” A gentle voice asks.

“Um…” I mutter trying to readjust my eyes to the light. When they come into focus I see a beautiful red-hair woman wearing a trench coat over a tiny, sequin dress. Her stilettos are hanging from her fingers.

“Hey have some water,” she says extending a bottle of Evian. “Did you take something?”

“Um, the men outside…I think. They gave me something.”

I hate saying it out loud.

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I’ve been there.” The kind stranger sits on the floor across from me and slowly reaches to flip the lock on the bathroom door. “What’s your name?”

“Valerie.”

“I’m Patience. Now, you said these guys are right outside?”

I nod.

“And you’re staying at the hotel?”

I nod.

“Look we need to get you out of The Victory. I’ve got a…” Patience hesitates, “I have a security guard of sorts. He was about to take me home. How about I have him come get us and you stay with me. Just until you feel better.”

Maybe it’s the drugs, but I trust Patience instantly. Plus, I can’t bear the thought of facing what’s outside that door alone.

“Yes, thank you.” I answer.

Patience pulls out a phone and begins speaking quickly in a language that sounds like Russian.

“He’s on his way.”

“Thank you, really.”

Patience and I sit in silence, the seconds dragging as I wait for my rescuer. I keep stroking the parts of my arms that were gripped by rough, greedy hands. The goosebumps won’t recede.

"He’s here." Patience stands. “Follow close behind me. Don’t make eye contact.”

What happens next is a blur. In one swift motion, Patience ushers me through the bathroom door and into the arms of a large, tattooed man. I hear a “what the fuck” somewhere behind me, but we’re through the hotel lobby and into the warm, early-morning air before I can look back.

The guard slides me into the back of an SUV then gets in the driver’s seat. As the car starts to move, I lose it. I feel Patience put a soft hand on my heaving back.

“I feel…so…stupid.” I sob. “I thought..this…this was my chance.”

"Your chance at what?” Asks Patience.

“No one’s…ever…taken me seriously. I’ve been…doing…what…they tell me. M-my manager, the clubs, the sleazy…men. I just…I wanted this one for me.”

“You were the DJ tonight, right?

I nod.

“I was there earlier tonight with my client. I saw you. You looked…transported.” Says Patience. “I’ve never seen anything like it. And you held that crowd in the palm of your hand”

I finally look up at her and wipe away my snot like a child.

"My dad was a musician" I say. "He died when I was 18, but, he taught me everything I know.”

"Mmm.” Patience hums. “And your mother?"

“Not around. I’ve been on my own since he passed."

“Valerie, people are always going to take what they want from you. You’re an

entertainer to them…or a tool, or play thing, or a sex toy… whatever they want you to be.”

"So, you’re an entertainer too?" I scoff.

"Sort of, I’m on escort.” She meets my eyes and I flush. "I took care of myself though. Now I get to choose my clients. I could retire, actually.”

“Why do you keep going?” I ask, hungry for the answer.

“Because, fulfilling someone’s fantasy for the night is intoxicating,” she says. “And I’m in control. Always.”

“Are you?” Patience asks after a moment.

"Am I what?"

“In control.”

“We’re here," says the guard, pulling up to a beautiful Spanish-style home overlooking the desert.

“Look, take this card. It’s a driver who will take you anywhere you need to go tomorrow morning.” Patience says, putting a business card in my hand. “Stay here tonight I’ll show you to your room.

Patience starts to get out of the car and I look at the card. Pete. I smile.

“You good?” Patience asks.

“Yeah, great. I think I’ll um, I think I’ll have him take me home for a bit.”

“And where’s that?”

“Arizona.” I say.

“Perfect, that’s a nice long drive. Make sure you have Pete tell you some of his stories. He’s got decades of them.”