Pushing Forty

Chapter One “Naked midgets!” Giacomo Valle declared, raising an index finger as if he were adding a nonverbal exclamation point to the end of his brief pronouncement. Valle’s dark eyes shifted from the burly armed security guard to the two douche bags sitting in the plush, black leather chairs on the other side of his big glass desk. “Two of them,” Valle continued, “faces painted fluorescent pink, and handcuffed to a light post in the Luxor parking lot. One had donkey ears on his head; the other wore a Groucho Marx nose and glasses. They had been deposited there by a hooker who’d robbed them of their cash, their clothes and, as it seems, their dignity, what little of it there was, pun intended.” “That’s harsh, man, even for Vegas. Plus, fluorescent pink is really feminine,” one of the douche bags said. The talkative one was a broad-shouldered man, about five-eleven. A floppy hat covered his short, reddish-brown hair. He wore a rubber red nose with white clown makeup on his cheeks and chin. His old black sport coat, white shirt and brown pants were tattered and torn, and his black loafers had seen much better days. The other aging punk was slightly taller than his buddy, but not as wide-shouldered. He was dressed like Humphrey Bogart circa Casablanca in a white dinner jacket, black bowtie, black trousers and shiny black shoes. His dark brown hair with a few strands of gray was tussled. His face wore the overtired look of a man who had spent far too many hours of his recent days awake, gambling, drinking and otherwise carousing. Valle had seen that look a great many times during his long career in Sin City. “Another time,” Valle said, “I get called down to the casino floor of this hotel because of a disturbance security insists needs my immediate attention. Guess what I find when I arrive.” The clown shrugged. “I give up, but I bet it’s a good one!” “A sixty-six-year-old Mennonite woman had cold-cocked her sixty-nine-year-old husband with a tube sock full of half dollars because he’d abandoned her back on the farm. He apparently wanted to see what all the fuss was about in the modern world. Took twenty-two stitches to patch up the old duffer’s cranium. The wife spent a night cooling off in jail.” “Are you sure they were Mennonites, dude?” The clown arched a painted eyebrow speculatively. “They’re supposed to be peaceful people.” Valle gave the clown a reproachful look but held his tongue. Although he was a patient man by nature, Valle had dealt with more than his share of irritating customers. As general manager of the Athenian Hotel and Casino, he had met with many angry guests demanding to see him and threatening lawsuits if their wishes weren’t promptly granted. He had met even more who thought they knew everything, and that was certainly the case with the clown, James L. Dockerty of Kingsford, Massachusetts. Valle knew Dockerty from many previous visits to the Athenian. Dockerty was a man who loved the sound of his own voice, a voice that was ripe with a grating Bostonian accent. Valle also knew the clown enjoyed being a wise-ass, judging by the sophomoric antics and ideas Dockerty had been part of during his organization’s conventions over the years. Last year’s pallbearers’ casket relay race that Dockerty had set up on the mezzanine overlooking the lobby would forever be etched in the hotel manager’s mind. Early yesterday morning, hotel security personnel had discovered Dockerty wandering through the ninth floor of the Athenian’s Olympus Tower while dressed in a regimental beret, Black Watch tartan, matching kilt and navy blue knee socks. At the time, Dockerty was playing “Stairway to Heaven” on his bagpipes because “Revelry,” he said, just didn’t sound right on the instrument. That afternoon, the food and beverage manager had called upon Dockerty to intervene when one of the degenerates in his group made a stink and refused to leave the dining room until making up for his gambling losses in the hotel casino by taking full advantage of the all-you-can-eat lunch buffet. Unfortunately for him, lunch had ended and the staff was preparing for the more expensive, more formal dinner crowd. Somehow, Dockerty had managed to talk the food and beverage manager into picking up the tab for the lousy gambler’s meal—and finagled himself a free dinner, too. Tonight, James Dockerty was once again causing trouble. This time, his buddy, Robert S. Carmichael, had been caught up in Dockerty’s latest juvenile actions. On this night, Dockerty, despite all the business he had brought to the Athenian Hotel and Casino over the years, may have supplied the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, the broken straw that could get him banished from the hotel forever. Giacomo Valle would like nothing better. Glowering at the clown, Valle was reminded of the many unusual sights and sounds that had greeted his sharp eyes and ears over the years, from his early employment as a desk clerk, through his ascendency to his current post as the Athenian’s top employed official. Tonight might not have been the most shocking thing Valle had seen, but it was unique and irritating—a sorry state of affairs that was only made worse by Dockerty’s sarcasm and his annoying voice. Valle leaned back in his massive, black leather chair, took a deep breath and looked around his stylishly appointed third-floor office. He had worked hard to get here, and his great view of much of the casino, as well as the Strip, reminded him of how far he’d come. He was a tall, broadly-built man with slicked-back gray hair, a neatly trimmed pencil-thin moustache and perpetual stubble. He wore a black Armani suit with a crisply-pressed white shirt, shiny black tie and jade cufflinks. His big hands were forested with dark hair and four of his thick fingers wore rings of silver and gold. He looked like a stereotypical Mafioso Don, but was really an essentially honest and benevolent man, except when dealing with clowns like Dockerty. Looking at Dockerty, Valle pondered what it might have been like to work for his uncle back in Palermo, where irritating fools were not easily suffered. “What I’m trying to get at is the reason for this,” Valle stated, waving a hand over the plastic bag lying on the desktop blotter. “I also want to know why I have a pair of hysterical employees being comforted by their supervisors and asking for a HazMat team as we speak. I’m also wondering why I haven’t called the police so you can become their problem and not mine.” “I can’t do time in jail,” Dockerty said, setting his fear-filled eyes on Valle’s. “I’ve seen prison movies. You know what happens to pretty boys like me in the slammer? We’re made somebody’s bitch and traded nightly for a pack of smokes.” The clown shuddered. Valle rolled his eyes at the drama. “Then give me a reason not to call the cops, because I don’t care if an inmate thinks you’re as attractive as you believe you are, Mr. Dockerty.” “Well, for starters, you might want to keep in mind the two hundred-plus rooms my group booked here this year,” the clown suggested smugly. “Not to mention the prospect of repeat business next year. In a sluggish economy, you have to be careful about who you offend, don’t you think?” Valle smirked. In his mind, he imagined picking up Dockerty by the belt and tossing him through the plate glass window facing the street. Maybe James L. Dockerty would find himself impaled on the hood ornament of a passing car. Wouldn’t that be fun? “Let’s get down to business, Giacomo. Can I call you that, Giacomo?” “No.” “I’ll take that as a yes, Giacomo,” the clown said, ignoring Valle’s reaction to him. “What exactly do you want us to tell you? ’Cause I’m not interested in chit-chatting with you all night.” Dockerty reached a hand toward the cigar box sitting on the desk and raised the lid. He let out a sharp yelp when Valle slapped his hand. Valle said, “Let me tell you something, Bozo.”