Vegas

A man seeks revenge against his father.

Vegas

Rich kids always get the best toys, so happy birthday to me.

With fifty miles of open road to Las Vegas, Andrew tapped the SRT Hellcat's accelerator and launched from a merger lane.

This rig might last a while, provided I don't blow its main bearings like I did Reginald's Ferrari.

That was three years ago, but twenty-two-year-old Andrew remembered the incident well, Reginald's stone-cold expression, his eyes turning to furious slits while Andrew described abandoning the automobile along a stretch of Interstate 15, black smoke pouring from the engine compartment.

"I've already apologized; what else do you want!" Andrew shouted. "Is it my fault your twelve-cylinder Humpty Dumpty took a s**t?"

"Listen closely, Andrew, my house, my rules. As long as you're living under this roof…"

"Blah, blah, f**k off, Dad. Whattaya gonna do? Call in an air strike? This isn't Bagdad, shitter. Look around; you couldn't hold Richthofen's jock strap! I have one question. How many innocents did you kill flying sorties over Iraq?"

"You're not my son! Take your s**t and get out, you nervy b*****d!"

"Screw off!"

***

The guardrails turned into picket fences as Andrew hit 110 mph--balls to the wall.

Being heir to his father's pharmaceutical fortune and having a face like Steve McQueen was tough, but somebody had to do it.

He cranked the stereo and glanced at his watch: 10:00 a.m. on the button. In another two hours, he'd meet Monique for lunch at the Sands, but first, he'd park on South Vegas Boulevard and grab a cab to the Mirage.

"Back in black, I hit the sack..."

***

"How long are you in Vegas for?" asked the cabbie. Andrew glanced at the eyes in the rearview mirror, then returned to the strip.

"Speed it up, OK?"

Five minutes later, he peeled a hundred-dollar bill off a fat roll of cash, handed it to the driver, and pushed his six-foot one-hundred-and-twenty-pound frame through a throng crowding the Mirage's entrance: seedy Vegas boys in checkered pants, out-of-towners, action seekers and escorts on the arms of hobbling old men. He headed for the service counter, sizing up the desk clerk through his Maui Jims.

"How can I help you, sir?" asked the clerk.

"You can help me by not wasting my time."

"Of course, sir. How is your day?"

Andrew lowered his shades to make a show of reading the attendant's nametag.

"You can knock off the small talk... Riccardo. I wasted ten minutes at your so-called registration kiosk and got nothing for the effort. I'm preregistered, get it, or are you just broken as everything else around here?"

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir. We'll have this straightened out momentarily if I could get your name."

Andrew tossed a credit card on the service counter.

"The names on the card."

"Yes, sir, if you'll give me just one moment."

Riccardo's fingers flew over the keyboard.

"I'm sorry, sir; I've got nothing for Andrew Gadbois, and we're booked solid due to the political convention."

"See here, A*****E, do I need to call my uncle Steve over this bullshit, or are you going to find my reservation?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but…"

"That's it," Andrew said, pulling out his phone and going to contacts.

"Andrew Gadbois for Steve Wynn… I don't give a s**t; put him on the line.

A moment passed.

"… How the hell are you, Steve? I know. I promise to call more. I will. Next week is fine--the Mirage. You didn't think I'd say Caesar's, did you? Just a second."

"--Here it is, Mr. Gadbois. It just came up. These lousy computers. That was a luxury suite on the 25th floor."

Andrew waved Riccardo off and continued speaking into his phone.

"Just two days," he said, rolling his eyes, "We're good: he's running my card... Un momento, por favor. Hahaha!"

Andrew glanced around the casino, quickly picking out the secret service agents--a simple enough read: black suits and wired-up ears. He headed for the elevators, hauling his carbon fiber carry-on case.

My revenge is at hand--no turning back.

The doors opened with a whoosh. He slipped behind a couple of sunburned college boys and a woman with shimmering hair cascading down her back to the top of her buttocks. He leaned over her shoulder, reaching for his floor button, inhaling her scent, and pressing his hips against her backside. She drove a sharp elbow into his bony ribcage.

"Back off, freak." she hissed, stepping into the hall as the doors opened and shooting him a hostile glance.

Andrew pursed his lips--kiss, kiss.

The elevator started up, and he felt a wave of nausea and sweat in his armpits.

No turning back.

He stumbled past the elevator doors and into the hallway, teetering toward his room, his emaciated body weak from lack of nourishment. Reginald said anorexia was a little girl's disorder.

Stepping into his luxury suite, Andrew tossed a Louie Vuitton sling bag on the bed, flopped down next to it, took a jolt from a cocaine dispenser, and sat up wide-eyed.

Monique! I need a shower!

He stood in the suite's sprawling bathroom, stripped his clothes before a dressing mirror, and inspected his body. His ribs jutted out, and his spine resembled the links of a chain buried under his skin. Were it not for his good looks, he might be mistaken for a Xenomorph.

Warm water rushed over his body. He raised his face to massaging jets, thinking about Monique and the clothes he'd buy her on their final shopping spree together. And then his thoughts turned to Reginald--the man Andrew had loved and hated all his life, the man whose boots Andrew could never fill, the man who'd suffer his son's ire by late tomorrow morning.

***

To the great Reginald A. Gadbois, renowned pharmaceuticals magnate, fighter pilot extraordinaire, singer of sentimental ballads, procurer of luaus, a man who knew nothing of indecision, humility, timidity or defeat, Andrew was something altogether inferior, the prodigal son of a self-made billionaire. A hapless duff with no ambition.

If Andrew doubted Reginald's position, the old b*****d would launch into a diatribe, reel off a list of fuckups Andrew was responsible for, and remind his son of the places he'd failed where other sons had succeeded. Meanwhile, Andrew's mother, Jill, spent her days stoned on Prozac and purchasing furs to flaunt in the few social circles still willing to ignore the condemnation of wearing such attire.

***

Drenched in the shower's spray, Andrew felt nothing more than his lack of worth.

I never received as much as a pat on the back, let alone an encouraging word. Well, f**k them both.

Soon, Andrew's name would be splashed across the internet, The New York Times, and The Washington Post--an embarrassment Reginald would never live down.

Billionaire's son jumps twenty-nine stories' Lands on U.S. president. A nation mourns.

***

Andrew thought about his plan as he dressed.

He'd slip past the president's goons using a utility tunnel master key he'd purchased from a disgruntled casino employee, then climb a series of ladders to the casino's roof hatch. His timing must be perfect. The president's entourage would gather under the entrance canopy just as a secret service agent reached to open the limousine door. 

That was Andrew's moment.

The man in black reaches, and I leap. With any luck, I'll be on target.

***

He spotted Monique waiting for him in front of Tom Ford, looking like she'd stepped off the pages of Vogue: a white cashmere waistcoat, Valentino slacks, and Jimmy Choo pumps. She'd painted her pouty lips in beige.

On the last spree, she'd presented him with a token of her appreciation. A Pixie stick pulled from the bottom of her purse. It'd turned his tongue blue. He'd taken her to his room, snorted meth, and screwed her brains out.

Now, she wanted a crocodile skin jacket, and that was fine. Andrew didn't mind. The jacket's twenty-eight-thousand-dollar price tag didn't amount to the interest Reginald accrued in a single day. They strolled in and out of boutiques, window shopping, and holding hands.

"Oh, look!" Monique gasped, stopping before Tiffany's and pointing to a ruby bracelet.

Andrew took her arm and started inside.

"What about my Pixie stick?" he asked.

"Oh, foo, I've got something special for you today. It even flashes," Monique said, reaching into her purse and producing a plastic heart with a clip pin attached.

Andrew activated the heart's flash, then pushed the pin through his shirt, skewering an inch of skin before clipping the opposite side.

"Oh, Honey, you're bleeding," said Monique, dabbing at the growing blood spot with a tissue.

"What good is a heart that doesn't bleed?"

***

With the coming evening, they clubbed, Andrew dancing spasmodically into the early morning while Monique twirled, the crocodile jacket forming broken patterns in the relentless strobe, her bracelet flashing.

"Take me to your room and do me," she shouted.

"What?"

"F**k me."

"OK!"

***

They caught a cab to the hotel. The elevator whisked them to Andrew's suite, where they emptied his cocaine dispenser as the sun rose over Las Vegas.

At 9:00 a.m., Andrew left the room while Monique slumbered. He slipped into a maintenance tunnel, climbing ladders until he popped the roof hatch and scrambled for the parapet wall. A swat team helicopter swooped from the sky and hovered over the roof. An amplified voice cut through the windstorm.

"Get on your face!"

"Tell my father to kiss my dead a*s!" Andrew shouted, activating Monique's flashing heart, tottering for a desperate second before leaning forward and plummeting toward his target. A woman screamed as Andrew's body tore through the canopy, splattering on the sidewalk while the president ducked safely into his waiting limousine.