Vegas Short story part 1

Beginning.

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

The man watched as the sun descended past the neon sign, taking with it the only natural light that bathed the city in the distance. The pink horizon faded, its colour washing away into a dull glare from the lights below, the city’s own personal sun blazing into life. An electronic hum gently rose as the motel’s own sign brightened in a flicker, jaunty letters at odds with the very building it presented.

The trip had been long, the plane touching down upon the tarmac and jolting him awake. A bleary glance out of the window revealed the lights in the distance, as if beckoning its new arrivals to approach into its glamorous jaws. They had said the trip would be comfortable, his stay as pleasant as a holiday. As pleasant a holiday as one could make within Las Vegas, absent of its vice. The man turned back from the balcony, stepping into the room behind. Against the backdrop of wealth and wastefulness, the hotel was a sordid pit. The walls were an off white, stained grime and unnameable marks of grey and brown. He seated himself within one of the broken and battered chairs so courteously provided by his benefactors for his brief interlude within the city of sin.

That was another aspect of his trip; his markedly casual appearance. It was obvious he was not a high roller, but neither was the man a bottom feeder. The clothing was acceptably made and comfortable, well cut but not quite expensive. His benefactors did not wish to risk any aspect of their venture. Even his shoes had been carefully tailored to minimise the sound of footsteps, for what possible benefit that may hold he did not care to speculate. The undertaking was supposed to be clean. They had promised him this much.

His anxiousness along the nerve wracking journey was gone. It had felt as if it would never depart, every moment spent aboard the plane teetering on panic, yet he forced the emotion down, as he had all the others. Now, the man only felt a shadow of that former fear. Boredom had forced it away, anxiousness ebbing with the sheer mindless monotony of his dull interlude upon the outskirts of the city itself. From the airport he had been driven by a silent hulk of a man, guiding him wordlessly into the hotel before disappearing off over the horizon. The key had been ready, the insipid boy behind the desk staring dully as he handed it to him, deigning to offer him the grace of stating the room number rather than guide him personally away from his creaking chair.

The man only had one bag, fortunately. He had no intention of staying any longer than necessary. The room stood on the first floor, the staircase leading to it littered with strewn debris from the carpark. It was a popular dumping ground for drivers to eject the waste of their Sunday dinner from the window. Glass fragments sat in scattered piles, tossed from the cars and shattering on the gravel for the next passer-by.

He ascended the staircase to his room wordlessly, the lock clicking open after a moment’s fumbling with the worn keys. He had not held high hopes for the room. It failed to meet even those low expectations. He hadn’t dared attempt to use the bathroom, fearful of what the pipes may splutter forth into the filthy porcelain. The only water that had touched this building had been rain, what little the county could offer within a desert.

They had said he would wait in the hotel until further notice, to enjoy himself with tantalising thoughts of exorbitant wealth the future held. The suggestion offered little comfort, the man staring downwards at the bare floorboards beneath his heels. The room offered little in the way of entertainment beyond the sweltering and oppressive heat of the desert, its shade a mere drop against the ebbing tide of the sun. The gaudy pink globe had settled below the horizon quickly as he watched from the balcony. There was little else worth gazing upon. The desert pan stretched across the horizon, its sun beaten sand scattered with the rusted hulks of abandoned cars and dead plants. In the far distance, lofty towers rose above, glittering in the darkness that had descended in a veritable swath of colours.

They would contact him soon, tomorrow most likely. All he could do was wait. His benefactors may skulk within the dim shadows of civilisation, but they were not immune to the vices of the city, laziness and self-entitled arrogance the two hands shaping their little transaction.

The man’s only choice was to sleep. The bed was hard however, like sleeping atop ribbed square of ice, rising in waves to force itself between his shoulder blades and the small of his back, yet dipping away as if only to highlight the discomfort it so proudly thrust upon him. He hadn’t even seen fit to place his bag atop the bed. He hated it. The armchair provided his sole comfort, the bleak view of a stained wall an accurate observation to the future vistas he would likely see. Grey walls and iron bars, the occasional flash of blue and black, both upon the guards and his body after their visitations. The man had promised himself he would avoid this self-contemplation, but it seemed inevitable.

Hopefully this short interlude would be but a brief part of his tenure within Las Vegas. Hopefully the man added quietly to himself. Slowly, the man’s eyelids drooped, darkness descending amidst the idle daydreams of wealth in all its forms. A familiar slot machine span its wheels jauntily as it swam across his vision. They clicked into place, a scythe marking his winnings as rats poured forth from below.

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

Awakening - Reno

A light ticking broke the silence of the room. Prepared to strike the hour, the clockwork wheezed into life. The dented bronze bells atop it rang once before the mechanism caught, its rusted spit breaking loose. The clock breathed its last, spilling its metal guts across the bedside cabinet in a light shower of gears and springs. The man it had intended to wake turned over in his bed, staring up from the pillow at the distasteful decoration it had become, standing amidst toothless cogs. It lacked a bell, a handle, even its own legs, propped up against empty glass bottles. The still clock face presented the time at least, for now.

“Fuck.” The man groaned, rolling onto his back and wiping his face with his hand. It was too early. The others wouldn’t be there for another few hours, but he had to get up now. The treacherous time piece would trick him otherwise. It wouldn’t be the first time, but it would definitely be the last now, judging by the springs buried partway through its cheap clock face. The man heaved himself out of bed, stumbling through the apartment over the detritus he called his home. It wasn’t filthy, but he never cleared the rubbish away. He didn’t have the time, or the interest. The man stopped by the taps, kicking the exposed pipes below without bothering to turn the knobs.

The spout guttered, water coughing out in spurts before flowing freely. He splashed his face with the cold water, the sharp taste of alkali spilling onto his tongue. It wasn’t the best water, but it wasn’t his either, so he wasn’t going to complain. He turned his gaze upwards, staring out into the street below through the grimy window. At the very least the view was his. The room below had been cheaper, yet he hadn’t cared a great deal for the thought of staring out into an alleyway, its only break in scenery the lines of bins. He called it ambitions. His friends called it a waste of fucking money.

The man turned back to his room, sorting through the pile of clothing at the foot of the bed. Perhaps he could take another piece of furniture from his mother’s house. She hardly needed all of those cupboards, and he needed the space. Perhaps he could even save for a television again, or his own heating. He was growing tired of wearing the same three jumpers his mother had made for him, at his age, every winter. This was, unfortunately, a common train of thought which never found its way to completion. It tended to crash into the other trains that had been forgotten along the track.

The man knew what he would spend the money on, and it was never improvement. Cheap thrills, entertainment. Participating in the very same drudgeries and poisons he saw fit to peddle for whomever had hired him today. It was fortunate he was not a gambler too, or otherwise he would have made more enemies than himself. At least when you’re your own worst enemy, the man knew what to expect. He was trustworthy, for a given level of trust. He would fulfil a deal, avoid breaking a bargain as best he could. Expecting him to refrain himself from drugs or whores however was a foolish concept.

So bereft of entertainment within his own home, it was almost a cruel joke if not for its own cruel irony. The man was far from the most savoury of characters, he knew that himself. He held a strange, twisted sense of pride however. He was not a bad man. He did not beat women, he did not abuse the poor or murder. Petty theft, perhaps. Misinterpretations of the law. He was the downtrodden, and work was hard to come by in Reno. So, he was a man for hire. Not an assassin or a heister. A peddler, a dealer, a thug, a locksmith, courier. The man was whatever you needed him to be, as long as the pay was quick and the risk was low.

(Can’t decide whether to keep this part below or remove it.)

The man tugged his clothing on. Serviceable workman’s attire. It was all he could afford. He quietly thanked himself it was still summer. A jaunty Christmas jumper peeked out from beneath the bed, its arm snaking across the floor as if reaching out to him. It was a strange quirk of his mother’s that he had always considered. She knew her son was a criminal. She lived here herself, after all. The man would never have described her as a loving woman. She was a hard mother, but it was a hard town to live in. She held firm to her faith however, eking out the pitiful existence one could untrained, unskilled and poor. Despite all of this however, she would still knit her son socks and that terrible jumper, knowing full well he couldn’t afford heating with his ‘proclivities’ in work.

At least it saved him on clothing. He hardly had a reputation to defend, although a criminal in a Christmas jumper would soon find work was hard to come by. So, he saved them for winter, in the privacy of his own home. It was the only time he truly spent long periods here. The walls were barren, every available surface populated with notes, bags, bottles. They all had significance once. Half-forgotten efforts, drunken concepts within the middle of the night. Fortunately he never remembered them afterwards, or ever bothered to glance at the papers when he was able to stand without the assistance of the bedside table. If he so rarely had an intelligent plan when he was sober, how likely were any of the plans to be viable when he was inebriated?

The man opened the door to his ramshackle house, scattering an overflowing bin of glass bottles across the floor. His chest heaved into a sigh. One day he would clean this up, but it never seemed worthwhile when he felt the inspiration. His eyes caught sight of a scrap of paper within one of the bottles; another reminder left and forgotten. Its text clearly read “Clean this up”. He bent down, collecting the bottle and stepping out into the pavement. A figure stood in the alleyway, a thin trail of blue smoke rising above. “Finally cleanin’, are you?”

The man tossed the glass bottle into the bin, landing softly atop the already overflowing rubbish bags. The figure at the end of the alley detached themselves from the wall, peering at the bottle. “Just the important parts, anyway.” They snickered. “Jimmy…” The man began, offering the thin figure a withering glance. He grasped the neck of the bottle, holding it above the shorter man threateningly. “I can give you a reminder too.” He said, the paper square rattling within.

“Hey, hey!” The shorter one called Jimmy exclaimed, holding up his hands. Small and wiry, there was something undecidedly rattish that the man had attributed Jimmy to. The cigarette smouldered within his mouth, tobacco stained teeth spreading out into a wide grin. “Just a joke, just a joke. I’ve got my own reminder!” Jimmy delved into the greasy overcoat he was wearing, tugging out a piece of paper triumphantly. He brandished it before him, as if it were a ward protecting him from the man.

He stared at it levelly. “Well, what is it?” He asked. Jimmy’s grin spread further, the cigarette rolling from side to side. “It’s the money, get it?” He said, jabbing the man in the ribs with his elbow. “You know, from that…” His voice dropped to a low whisper. “…job…” The man snatched the paper from his hand. It was an envelope, stained brown from the inner pocket of Jimmy’s coat. “Is this all of it?” he asked, his own tone inevitably dropping to match the conspiratorial air. Jimmy shuffled from side to side. “Well… yeah, it is…” He said, turning his gaze to the side.

The man leaned closer, his hand encircling Jimmy’s neck. “Now, Jimmy…” He began quietly, his fingers gripping the envelope. “We discussed this… as a group.” The man said. “Didn’t we, Jimmy?” The smaller man seemed almost to shrink into his coat, disappearing into its greasy leather like some manner of wizened turtle. “Yes…” The envelope rustled with bills, its thickness beneath his fingers notably lacking. “And is it all here?” The man asked.

Jimmy squirmed in his grip, but the man tightened his arm, clenching him in place. “Alright, alright!” He muttered, dipping his hand into his pocket once more and drawing out a thin wad of bills. “Here. I was only tryin’ to… you know… skim a little off the others. Not you, though!” He swore, swiping his hand through the air. “Never you! You made the plan after all. You did it. The others, well…” He shrugged slowly, offering the man a suggestive wink. “They aren’t as useful as us, are they?”

“No no, of course not, Jimmy.” The man replied sarcastically, peeling open the envelope and returning the notes to their rightful place. It still wasn’t quite as thick as he would have hoped, but the man doubted Jimmy would have taken anymore. He was a petty criminal, not a rat. Well, the man corrected himself, not that much of a rat, at least. “Where are the others?” He asked, slipping the envelope into his inner jacket pocket, Jimmy’s eyes watching it until the last corner disappeared from view.

Jimmy shrugged. “What’s the time?” He asked. The man glanced at his wrist before he could stop himself, staring blankly at his bare arm. He hadn’t had a functioning watch in weeks now. For all the ‘Real fake watches’ he sold to tourists and teenagers, he had never brought himself to buy one. Likely for the best. He has seen those watches rust in minutes in the rain, and fall apart at the drop of a hat. Its ticking seemed to shake the entire shoddy mechanism held in the cheap pot metal. The man glanced upwards at the sky, the sun only just starting its upward march towards the zenith. “Eight… nine?” He suggested. Jimmy shuffled on the spot. “Probably at the bar by now, then.”

“Early morning celebrations?” The man asked. “Na.” Jimmy replied, shaking his head. “This is PRE celebrations.” Jimmy grinned at him. “You know, it’s where you spend all the shit you’ve just earned before you’ve even got it?” The man sighed. “This again? You know Joel doesn’t like that, and I heard he had started hammering nails into that club of his.” Jimmy merely shrugged again. The motion seemed to cause his entire coat to rise around him, as if his head were separate from the body trapped inside the ancient leather. Jimmy didn’t drink anyway. Tobacco was far cheaper, especially the kind he bought.

The man nodded down the road. “Come on, let’s go, then.”

The bar - Reno

The man slapped the notes onto the sticky table, the sound muted against the thick wood. “Here.” He muttered, drawing his hand away, although not without reluctance. The bartender pinched the notes between his fingers, tugging them gently. “And they aren’t even fake, either.” He commented in mock incredulity. “So nice of you to pay, for once.” The bartender turned, ambling away back towards the counter. The man glanced at the two seated in the booth with frustration. “You had better have only spent your shares already…” He warned, slipping into the seat beside Jeff. Jimmy sat opposite, gingerly lifting a half empty bottle of whiskey onto the table.

Jeff at the very least offered him an apologetic look. Paul only slumped in his chair, too blind drunk to care for the admonishment, if he was even aware of it in the first place. The table was littered with shot glasses, half of them scattered on their sides in front of Paul, his face pressing against the table. “He’s only had that bottle since the shots…” Jeff muttered, looming over the others as he hunched his shoulders. “That bottle of what?” The man asked. Jimmy turned the bottle towards him, peering at the label. “Ah… some cheap shit. It isn’t even branded. 100% proof?” He snickered, spinning the bottle back into place.

The man dropped the envelope into the middle of the table in its only dry patch, one third of the notes noticeably absent as they scattered out into an expanding sheaf of coloured squares. “That’s Paul’s share gone already.” He said, licking his thumb and carefully leafing his way through the top of the stack. “And here….” He began, tugging away a bare handful. “Is what you have left.” He said, dropping them in front of Jeff beside him.

Jeff pinched the thin pile between two fingers the size of sausages, slipping them out of view beneath the table. “Why do I let him talk me into these things…” He muttered, wiping his face with his hand. The man shrugged. “You know how he is. If he has eaten into my share again…” The man leafed through what remained of the piles, splitting a singular dollar from the envelope. “How much has he spent?” He asked. Jeff rolled his shoulders silently, the shifting boulders of muscle beneath his ill-fitting suit like a landslide waiting to happen. “Most of it. He said he wouldn’t go over again.” Jeff stated, although his tone suggested that the reliability of the person in question was not only to be doubted, but completely disregarded.

“Wonderful…” The man breathed, lifting the drunken figure’s head and sliding the note beneath it, before dropping him down onto the table with a hollow thud. “The rest is ours, then?” Jimmy asked amiably, splitting the pile with a hurried air. The man watched Jimmy’s hand as it worked. “More debts?” He asked, Jimmy offering a pained expression. “Don’t ask.” The man shrugged. It wasn’t his business to pry. He knew the others, anyway. If it wasn’t for him, they wouldn’t receive the jobs regardless. Even then, however… The man gazed at the bundle of notes left for him. Save for Jimmy’s, it was by far the largest stack of crumpled fives and tens. Why didn’t the others care their pay was miserable?

The man stuffed the notes into his inner pocket, frustrated at the thought that no matter what his effort, all he could ever manage was these pathetic gigs. It was like playing within a band that was forced to play only the smallest venues, no matter how capable their playing. He glanced sidelong at the others. Well, his playing, at least. Perhaps that was his greatest restriction. A rumble interrupted his thoughts. “Not gonna buy a drink?” Jeff asked, subtly probing that his own large glass was indeed empty, and was certainly open for charitable donations from the wealthiest man present.

The man eyed him levelly. He patted his coat pocket. “I believe I will decline on that possible venture…” He replied in a dry tone. “Leave ‘im, Jeff. He just thinks he’s worth more.” Jimmy said amiably. Jeff turned away with a glum expression, staring into the empty glass. “When’s the next job?” He asked after a short pause. The other two simply glanced away. “There isn’t one.”

“No job?” Jimmy leaned forward, his suit creaking atop his bulk. “You tellin’ me this is all we’re gettin’ this week?” The man shrugged. “There’s nothing in Reno. Jobs’re taken. They’re hiring hobos now.” His lips curved into a sneer at the thought. A handful of change and a bottle of alcohol to replace them, although when he glanced at the slumbering Paul, the thought arose that perhaps they were not overly separate from their new competitors. He glanced back at the table. Or separate at all.

“Eh, why don’t we ask Lex?” Jimmy suggested. “Sellin’ loose cigarettes, I think he got himself down by the school this week.” Jeff shrugged. It was better than nothing. The man stood up to allow the large mass in a cheap suit to pass, Jimmy hastily shaking Paul awake. “Take him with you, see if you want throw some water over him.” The man said, waving a hand at the blearily eyed alcoholic as he was dragged from his chair. “You ain’t comin’?” Jimmy asked. The man shook his head. “No, I’m going to stay here and… think a while.” He murmured, lost in thought as he stared into the bills clutched in his hand.

The others merely glanced at each other, Jeff shrugging as he forced Paul into a half stagger, the trio stumbling off. The man sagged in his chair. Was this it? Was this all he could ever anticipate from his life? The constant petty larceny and drudgery, pitiful payment upon pitiful payment until he was finally mugged in an alleyway, abandoned to the gutter until he bled his last drop. It was an unfortunate analogy for his life up until that stage. One drip at a time, draining him of everything he had until nothing was left but a mere husk, finally discarded. The crumpled notes in his hand returned his gaze impassively. The others didn’t bemoan their fate.

Why did he?

Arrogance, perhaps. A belief he was greater than this, whilst all of reality spoke otherwise. If he were truly greater, why did the man live in the fashion he lived? This was the first time he had refused a drink in months, and the concept was dizzying. It seemed so petty now, when one was not staring at their life’s work through the warped end of a glass bottle. All he had to his name, clutched in one hand. The man glanced at the seat Paul had so recently slept within, the imprint of his face left upon the rum stained worktop.

The bar part 2 - Reno

The bar jostled with noise, its usual regulars crowding on every sticky surface. They held no favourites, but they tended to keep to the same corner day in, day out. They had filled the bar during his wait, returning from their work to their brief reprieve. The man was no exception, seated at the bar on an abandoned corner. Out of work, out of money, out of mind. Reno was dead. The old boys around him would reassure him whenever he voiced his complaints. “Reno ain’t bad!” some drunken old fool would spew forth, along with his drink. “Better’n Vegas!” At this, there was always the murmur of approval from the bar.

He had been sitting there ever since they left. Never speaking, never drinking. He couldn’t afford to. He had the common sense not to spend the last of his change as the others did. A shame that good sense quickly ran short after the bar, and found itself frittered away in another equally useless venture. A temporary thrill, a quick pleasure. So much ash in his mouth, in his hands. Everything gone, and he was back to where he had begun.

What did he need? The man wouldn’t grow any brighter, or any more skilled. He was unskilled labour from a labourless town, with a series of bad habits and an arrogance to never admit so to another. He glanced off to the side, idly watching a bar fight, judiciously supported by the patrons rather than prevented. It was entertainment, relief during their off time. Shattering glass and laughter. Two sounds he had grown accustomed to.

The man glanced back at the table, his hands moving of their own accord. A finger, scribbling in the spilled alcohol atop the table. “Vegas” the liquid drops stated to him, before he dashed it away with the back of his hand. Vegas. That was always the thought though, wasn’t it?

The underlying temptation. It was a considerable gamble. The more ambitious amongst them found themselves drifting inevitably towards Vegas. Sometimes they returned, wealthy beyond the (admittedly limited) imaginations of the Reno inhabitants, never speaking a word of how they acquired it. Other times, they never returned at all. Whatever the implications of this were, the man was uncertain. He knew where to turn, however. They were always here, always recruiting. Reno was an easy location for the kind of man who won’t ask questions and won’t balk at orders given, no matter what.

The man turned his eyes sidelong towards the opposite corner. They spoke in hushed voices. The pair were dressed in tasteless suits, but the jewellery adorning their body marked the very wealth they promised. Without a thought, the man rose from his chair, slipping down into their booth as he passed. The pair didn’t even blink at the sudden approach. “You want in?” The right figure asked. The man nodded silently in response, eyeing the suitcase in hand. A down payment. “No questions. No fuck ups. Understand?” The left figure stated. “Short trip, low risk.” They spoke with the casual ease of experience on the matter.

“What about leaving?” The man asked, the only question he intended to. “Car.” The left man said. “Our car. Our job. We’ll take you there, then out of Vegas. Outside of the bar, one hour, alleyway.” Clipped commands, simple and to the point. They kept their voices low, but everyone knew what they were doing. “Reno’s just a smaller Vegas anyway. It’ll be just like home.” The right man added, his teeth flashing gold in the dim bar.

The two men rose to their feet, slipping out of the bar without another word. Atop the table, an envelope sat. The contents of the case, most likely. He slipped it into his pocket without glancing at its contents. It was likely money, to inspire his loyalty. As if he required it. It was surprising how few didn’t simply take the envelope and run. Perhaps they were aware of what occurred if the Vegas men saw you again, or perhaps they were simply drawn in like fish on a line, the prospect of wealth too tantalising to resist.

The man sat as patiently as he could manage, slipping out of the bar and into the alleyway through the back door. The bartender had been offering him a disapproving gaze, intent on stopping him as he left. The night air was cold, yet the briskness seemed only to enliven. A man was waiting in the alley, a black bag in hand. “Are you ready?” He asked in a gentle voice. It was almost strange to hear it, in such a situation as this. His hands busied themselves out of view, the sound of tape encasing plastic the only interruption to the quiet.

“Your car will be here soon.” The pleasant man intoned, wrapping the last of the unidentifiable package. “You know what to do?” He asked. The man nodded, taking the black bag in hand. Lights flashed at the end of the alleyway. The man walked to the end of the alleyway, and into the car.

Work.

The man awoke, staring up at the ceiling. A fan creaked overhead, lazily spinning off kilter from its axis. Bright sunshine filtered through the moth eaten blinds, marking the wall in an alien pattern of patches and shadow. It reminded the man of a blood, splattered across the wall. He had slumped within his chair, his clothing dishevelled from the night’s rest. He had forgotten to remove them, the material now creased and crumpled. He didn’t care. He already believed the precautions to be pointlessly excessive.

The possibility of breakfast within the hotel was laughable. He would be fortunate if they did not attempt to steal from his bag. The man rose to his feet, drenched in sweat from the heat and hungry. He had not had time to eat over the trip before being abandoned within this dreary building. A quick glance at his bag revealed it to be fortunately untouched. A wayward thief would soon find the game was rigged from the start if he attempted to take the gamble of its contents. You could never sell it in this town without his benefactor’s relentless vigil turning to face them like some ancient and crumbling god, its gaze condemnation and judgement upon the fool who had sought to enter its domain. And that is what this was, truly. He was entering a domain he had never known of, another world beyond the world above, seedy and black like a diseased heart that bore itself along with an unholy vitality. The man could only hope that the game had been rigged in his favour, when the cards were finally dealt. He glanced around the room. It wouldn’t be safe to leave it here, even beneath the bed or an errant floorboard. The hotel owners would know every nook and cranny.

The man slung the black bag over his shoulder, its non-descript appearance belaying the value of its contents. He unlocked the door and stepped into the sunshine, the baking sand whistling across the carpark in a gust of wind, its mournful cry rising from the floor and into the distance. He locked the door behind him for security’s sake. The room may be used once more at best, perhaps twice, but he didn’t wish to return to unwanted surprises at the end of a suppressed barrel. Other parties would be in motion as the events unfold, and it would suit his benefactors most if they did not… interfere.

He descended the staircase, dropping down into the car park below. Other cars had arrived in the night, large trucks and smaller family vehicles inevitably transporting far more than that. Vegas seemed to hold that queer attraction for visitors, as if placing enough lights and even more money in the centre of a desert would hide the nature of the beast and its means to survive. Jimmy had suggested a trip, on occasion. Just the four of them, he would say, as if the four of them could hope to afford such a trip.

The thought offered the man pause as he crossed the car park, avoiding the few figures seeking refuge from the sun within their cars. Perhaps he could take them all here, after this. The man would not be the first to admit that he was trapped within a life of his own creation. Was it truly so hard for him to simply leave Reno, and seek something elsewhere? The man wasn’t used to this level of personal distaste of his choices. He rarely gave thought to any of his actions, truly. Thugs utilised their muscles. It saved on time.

He only offered the reception a brief glance. The youth was still in place, busy with his only customers. Others were mingling, at the very least. He walked up to one, an old man with a sandwich, dressed in a floral shirt and khaki shorts, in that ever classic tourist design. It seemed so dated to the man, but perhaps it was fitting; the motel was an aging relic, bordering the city on the outskirts of a desert. “Where did you find that?” He asked, hopeful the old man wasn’t simply deaf.

The elderly man peered at him, milky grey eyes taking in the sight of his clothes, the bag, tense pose held beneath a veneer of calm. Above all he stared at the bag. “Oh, you a tourist too?” He asked. “The motel don’t give any damn ‘bout its guests for food. “Damn. Fine, fine. Thanks.” The man muttered, turning to walk back to his room. Perhaps there was a place that would deliver here, although the man didn’t hold that hope highly. “Hey now.” The old man exclaimed, tapping him on the shoulder.

“Brought this m’self, but you’re welcome to it.” He said, unzipping the bag beside him and handing the man a crumpled sandwich, encased in foil. The man accepted the offer graciously, mumbling a vague thank you to the old man. The charity was more than he had expected from Vegas. An idle thought rose to the forefront of his mind; he should at least speak with the man who had offered his own food. “Come here often?” He asked, the question decidedly stupid, but it was all he could consider.

“Oh yes, yes.” The old man nodded, balling the last of his foil in his hand. “Business trips, y’see?” He said, thrusting his head towards the motel’s rooms. “I stay here. S’cheap, y’know” He remarked idly, gazing out towards the city. Its spires were less visible during the day, the haze of heat rendering it almost ethereal in its appearance, lofty spires rising out of nothing, entirely at odds with the uniform landscape. “What about you?”

The man looked sidelong at the old tourist, still staring wistfully off into the distance, towards the city. “Business trip.” He replied, equally vague. He bit into the sandwich, intent on eating what he could. The man had offered it after all. The bread was dry. It didn’t taste overly fresh at all, as if the old tourist had prepared it long before his trip. “Same idea?” The old tourist asked, nodding to himself. “Breads’ a little dry. Got any water in that bag?” He inquired, his inflection on the question rising ever so slightly in that hopeful wheedling tone of a man who had already offered his charity.

“None.” The man stated, shaking his head in response. “just a few changes of clothes.” The old tourist only nodded in response, almost as if he had anticipated the response. “N’mind, nev’mind. I’ve got some in the car.” The tourist hefted himself to his feet, the man almost anticipating the creak of rusted metal by the exaggerated display of feebleness. There was something strange about the old man.

“Help yourself to one?” The old tourist offered to the man, biting into the remnants of the sandwich. The man nodded, rising to his feet and walking across the car park towards some dated sedan, parked out at the very edge. Water was water, at the very least, no matter his suspicions. The man was likely paranoid. The nature of the trip and the rampant speculation that followed was leaving him on edge, hostile. The old tourist fumbled with his keys, opening the boot of his car.

The back area was covered with a large tarp, obscuring its contents from any casual strollers at night curious for a souvenir or two. He reached in, tugging out a similar black bag to the package. Same type, even. The man narrowed his eyes at the sight, the old tourist unzipping its top strap. He reached in, past something black and metallic, before the light refracting from the water blocked his view. “Here.” The old tourist passed the water bottle to him, slipping the bag over his shoulder, just as the man had done. “I keep m’bag in the car, most of the time.” He remarked. “Too heavy for me, these days. Not like you.” The old tourist grinned. “You’re young!” He waved a hand vaguely towards the shining spires. “All of Vegas to enjoy and you’re stuck with an old man, listenin’ to him talk.”

The man merely shrugged. He hadn’t anything else to do anyway, but it was best not to offend. The old tourist seated himself on the bank, staring out towards the city once more. “Don’t meet many young’uns who are on their own. Or on business trips.” The old tourist murmured, the man joining him a moment later. “So why’d you take business in Vegas, son?” He asked. “Why…” The man replied, his tone somewhat uncertain. “Business was business. It was an… opportunity.” He said, intent on remaining as vague as possible, both on his purpose and his goals. They were mere vagaries even to him.

The more he considered it, the less his reasoning held under the scrutiny. He hadn’t had a great deal, save for the sheer temptation of it all. “You know how it is.” He murmured. The man worked in Vegas, after all. The old tourist nodded. “Oh yes, always the young. I bet you don’t even care about Vegas, do you?” He asked. “The gamblin’, the drinkin’?” The man shook his head. He had plenty of that in Reno. It was a sobering thought.

“Not at all.” The old tourist continued. “I’m just like you, y’know. I don’t care for any of that…” The old man waved his water bottle through the air vaguely before his face. “It’s just a waste. You come down here, all across the states, just to throw it all away.” His words were deprecating, but the tourist’s tone sounded benign, disinterested, as if it were a speech, purely to reassure the man. Perhaps it was. They were only passing the time after all, staring out across the salt flats and wasteland.

“Maybe.” The man said noncommittally. “You’re carryin’ light anyway. Someone give you a lift?” The old tourist asked, glancing at the car park. It had slowly emptied as they spoke, vehicles pulling away one by one as their drivers sauntered off towards the city. “Yeah.” The man nodded. “I’m waiting for someone, actually. They’re taking me in.” The old man’s questions were beginning to grate him, but he quelled the suspicion. He was just a tourist, like him. “Ayup, I know the type.” The old tourist said. “Get a lot of those types around here. Out there, too.” He pointed towards the baking sands.

“Out there?” The man asked. There was nothing there, save for the litter beneath the shadow of the city. “Oh yes, yes. Even out there. It’s surprising what you’ll find.” He shifted in his seat, voice dropping to a low murmur. “Those bright lights just cast deeper shadows.” The old tourist straightened himself, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He smiled at the man, his demeanour shifting with that alarming rapidity once more. “Speakin’ of shadows, let’s get into the shade. No use sittin’ here in the sun, is there?”

The man stared at the back of the old tourist’s head. Suddenly he wanted to be far away from here. Far away from this old man and his strange statements. He had felt unhinged from the reality of his decision, to risk this strange endeavour purely on the sake of self-destructive pleasure, had been content to simply coast along this desert highway straight into the city and perform his part. A silent thug, a bag carrier. If only he had an interesting uniform, he would call himself a henchman.

The man wasn’t enough to be a henchman, however. He simply didn’t hench enough; he was never used as the muscle. That was Jeff’s job, when they worked as a group. The man was just that; a man, of no particular qualities and riddled with vices. The walk across the car park seemed to last for too long. The strange old tourist seemed to inspire a morbid fear, as if he embodied some of the dark whispers he had always heard of Vegas. Reno, the threats and actions… they had never held any risk. There was too little money involved to warrant it. Here, the old tourist spoke of other things, of a quiet word and a quiet gunshot, taken out back like a lame horse. If the man held any creativity within him, he may even said it were almost religious; a sacrifice to their lord and saviour sin and power. Blood for the money, enrich the sands.

Finally, they stepped beneath the suspended floor above, dropping into the motel’s own weak shadow. The heat dissipated immediately, that jovial grin returning to the old tourists face. He seemed less and less like a tourist by the minute. He was too at ease with the strange allusions he made, and hardly seemed to care about the man’s own blank reception. Once more, he felt the strange sense that this was all planned.

Planned for what, however?

The man glanced down at his hands, a thin dribble of water left in the bottom. He hadn’t even noticed himself drinking it, too lost in his own thoughts for the heat to even affect him. “here, l’mme take that for ya.” The old tourist stated suddenly, shifting his bag to the front. The sounds in the courtyard seemed to have stopped silence dropping over the motel. They were alone now, standing beneath the rooms and between the separate foyer.

The old tourist reached into his bag, unzipping its identical black shape. The man’s muscles tensed in silent fear, a cold sweat chilling him in the shade. The tourist didn’t take his bottle. The black metal shape was a dull outline in the shade, the tourists’ hand slipping beside it. A single set of tyres rumbled softly in the distance, the only noise to break the silence. His arm was spotted and baked in the sun, thick veins pressing against his tight skin at the sudden noise. The tourist’s lips seem to press into a thin white line ever so briefly, so short the man wasn’t certain he even saw it.

Then the hand was reaching out and taking the bottle, tucking it before the material and the object. “I’m off for now, son.” The old tourist said, grinning once again. He turned, slinging the back over his back, just as a truck began to pull into the car park. He marched off across the sand and gravel. “You stick to the shade now, out of light. The shadows’ll do you good.”

Meeting.

The truck turned into the empty car park, abreast of two spaces, as if it truly mattered. Two unfamiliar men stepped out from its doors, dressed in those same white suits and thin smiles. They strode across the tarmac, eyes hidden beneath black sunglasses as their teeth shone with fake brilliance. They were flashier than the men within the bar, intent on being seen, intent on drawing a certain kind of attention to their appearances, and not their actions.

The sallow faced partner approached, throwing his arms wide in a welcoming embrace. “My man!” He exclaimed, his thick showman accent grating across the man’s mind. These were his two designated partners, sent to ‘instruct’ him on the events to come. The man didn’t reply as the whey faced white suited figure he thought of as ‘The showman’ draped an arm across his shoulder. “Hey, let’s go to the room, eh?”

He asked. “You’ve got the bag? Good, good.” He nodded, guiding him towards the staircase. The other man was silent with a pensive expression, a heavy gym bag draped across his shoulder. It probably didn’t hold any shorts and trainers. The trio stepped into the room, the gym bag slung atop the bed. The man placed the black bag beside it with more care. Its importance was too grand to warrant carelessness now. The showman seated himself in the only chair, the silent partner standing beside the doorway, flicking his lighter beneath the “No smoking” sign. “I hope you’ve enjoying your stay.” The showman began, grinning that everlasting cocksure smirk. How he wanted to stop it. On the old man it had seemed friendly, a toothless knowledgeable grin of the way of the world and his snub to its hardships. On the showman it just seemed arrogant; flashy and without meaning, just like their clothing.

“Now, we’ll be picking you and your cargo there up and taking you right into the heart of the City. You.” He said, pointing a tobacco stained finger at the man. “Will take this bag down to the drop off, with a stop first. We’ve got this nice little place. You’re gonna love it. It’s called... called... Fuck, what was it?” He asked, turning towards the other. “The Halloway.” The smoking man muttered through a pull on the cigarette.

“Yeah, yeah, the Halloway… great place.” The man said, his showman pitch not even broken by his complete lack of recollection of the ‘nice little place.’ He shifted in his seat. “From there, you’re gonna meet the clients. No more us, you’ll be with the big boys.” He laughed, dropping the man a wink and nudging him with his elbow. The man almost felt like agreeing. As much time as possible away from the people he was dealing with. “The big boys will take care of you, but more importantly this little baby.” The showman said, patting the black bag.

“They’ll take it off your hands, and you’ll have your money. Hey, why not use it whilst you’re here?” The showman asked. “Dope, women, slots. We’ve got all kinds. I know this great place for hookers, all addicts, they’ll do anything, eh?” He laughed once more, his shit licking grin now simply lecherous. The man had not even offered a word in edgewise this entire time, the showman listening to his own voice and nothing else.

He wanted to stop him. Wanted to thrust his fist between those fake teeth and choke his breath from his body, a waste of oxygen. To do so was suicide, the man knew. He was no murderer, and playing the thug now wouldn’t serve him. So the man sat, peaceful and quiet, awaiting the moment he could finally escape this snake’s nest with his money and dignity intact, or perhaps slightly tarnished. The more he heard of Vegas, the less he cared for it.

The showman continued talking, but he wasn’t listening; none of it was important. He would be guided by the hand through the city, a living embodiment of the value of the package. The man could only hope that same value remained after it had left his clutches. Thoughts of the potential surprise awaiting for him in his hotel room arose once again, but now it would be at the hands of men like these. The quiet one. The man turning his gaze upwards at the smoking figure. The butt of a handgun peeked out from beneath his cheap suit, no attempt made to conceal it from view. His eyes caught the quit partner’s own, the showman unaware or uncaring of their exchange as he continued with his glib speech.

The plan was straight forward, even while he was only partially listening, tearing his gaze away from the other man. He was to protect the package until it arrived at its predetermined destination with his benefactors. Others might interfere to take the package, but they wouldn’t be so direct as to simply kill him, but if he were to accidentally lose the bag whilst distracted by what the city had to offer… they could hardly be blamed for his own mistake.

“..nd that’s the breaks, shakes.” The showman said as the man turned back to him. “Halloway. Casino. Our organisation, shall we say.” The man listed, raising a finger as he listed the steps. “Package to them. You’re given your money, and everything’s clear, alright?” The showman asked. “Yes.” The man said, the first word in their entire conversation. He hadn’t much choice, regardless. The package was too valuable to entrust to its courier alone, but that assistance would vanish the instant trouble began, leaving him alone in a hostile city with as much evidence as he could carry in that slim black bag.

“Good. You scratch our back, we scratch yours.” The showman’s’ grin returned as he winked. His strange American wise guy act was offputting. The cheap white suit, his speech mannerisms. It was such a bare stereotype it was difficult to know whether it was put on or wholly natural. It didn’t matter, either way. The showman turned in his chair, nodding towards the doorway at his partner. “Let’s go.”

Without another word, the pair were gone, the door clicking closed behind. He knew the game now, and held some of the cards. Just enough to guide himself. The only problem was he didn’t know the rules, and they held both decks and the table. The man had the bag and the date. Nothing written. Too easy to trace. The man couldn’t even remove the contents of the bag. For a party so used to undercutting the laws of the land, their alleged fear of the handling of the package struck him as worrying, especially as its designated courier. He glanced down at his watch. The man had hours, the car not due for a long while. After a moment’s thought, he reached over towards the phone beside the bed. The man dialled. The phone crackled for a few moments before clicking. “Hey mum.”