CASINO SHUFFLE (14 page)

That had been part of Plan B.
 
Break some furniture in his room so the employees would have to take it to a storeroom to either get fixed or replaced.
 
He’d only had to hang around in the stairwell for twenty minutes until he heard grumbling housekeeping employees lugging furniture from his room.
 
He’d followed them, ducked into another stairwell, and when they came out of the storeroom he’d opened up the stairwell and just gotten to the attic in time to stick his foot in and stop the door from closing.
 
A matchbook shoved into the bolt plate stopped the lock from engaging, and he had himself a hidey hole.
 
He’d taken the stairwells all the way down to the lobby level, then followed the crowds to the parking garage, taken the stairwells again (there were hardly ever cameras inside of stairwells,) and gotten his duffel bag of equipment from his rental car.

He knew once
Shannon
got into the suite there would probably be security posted in the hallway. He also knew if the tuxedo had his room receipt, they had his name, and they would kick him out.
 
Maybe ban him for life.
 
Not that he cared; he still had work to do.

Walking through the jumble of furniture he found a dark corner walled in by dusty armoires.
 
He kicked one of them.
 
Stinking torture chambers.
 
He would never look at another one the same way.
 
A few more minutes of searching found a small cage where they kept replacement lamps.
 
This was what he wanted, somewhere there was an outlet.
 
Had to test the lamp before you took it out of here, right?
 
He found a few extension cords just for that purpose, already plugged into a wall outlet, loose ends coiled on the floor.
 
He dropped his duffel and went to find some furnishings, settling on a nice velvet wingback and a leather ottoman.
 
Out came the laptop from the duffel.
 
A handful of Slim Jims and a warm Dr. Pepper.
 
Leather gloves.
 
One hundred and sixty-five feet of kernmantle rope.
 
A nylon climber’s harness and some complicated doodads the guy at the recreational store said were called SRT ascenders.

Laptop hot, he scrolled through his documents and chewed on a Slim Jim.
 
He found the file he had downloaded from the internet a few days before, just in case things got complicated.

He clicked on the document and the page came up, titled
Rock Climbing Equipment and Techniques.

“Time to get Kamikaze on your ass, tuxedo boy,” he said, ripping off a hunk of beef jerky and leaning forward to read.

Cha
p
ter Nine

“If you want my
sex
in your
sex
then your gonna hafta put a
hex
on me.
 
Baby.
 
You gotta wait ‘n see. How big.
 
My sex is gonna
be.
”
 
Brandon
thumbed the digital voice notes app on his iPhone, his right leg bouncing up and down to keep the beat bouncing up and down in his brain.
 
Head bouncing up and down he clicked on the app again to record.
 
“Bouncing up and
down.
 
You gotta get on
down.
 
Get up get down.
 
Down
town.
 
Riding on my little mound.
 
Ah shit no.”
 
He snapped off the recorder, muttering under his breath as he peered out the window of the limousine at the passing
Connecticut
night. “Down.
 
Frown.
 
Town.
 
Noun.
 
Drown.
 
Aw yeah.”
 
He thumbed the touchscreen and picked up the beat.
 
“Bouncing up and
down.
 
You’re gonna wanna
drown
in my
sex!
 
That’s hot!”
 
He thumbed off the app.
 
“Marty did you hear that track I just laid down?
 
That was fuckin
hot.
”

His tour manager, sitting on the limousine side seat bent over his laptop, face washed in blue light, said, “I heard it.
 
Fucking hot.”

“No, no man.”
 
Brandon
shook his head.
 
“You’re too old to say fuckin.
 
You say it like fuck-
ing
.
 
Sounds weird.”

The forty-year-old tour manager, who was also
Brandon
’s Uncle Marty, looked up and focused through his Hilfiger eyeglasses.
 
He said, “Fuck-in.”

Brandon
barked out a laugh.
 
“Just say it quick.
 
Fuckin.”

“Fuck-IN.”

“No, no, listen to me.”
 
Brandon
leaned forward.
 
He shot his hand out and snapped his fingers.
 
“
Fuckin
.
 
Like that.”

Marty snapped his fingers.
 
“FUCKin.”

“Fuckin forget it, man.”
 
Brandon
was cracking up.
 
He stuffed his hand under his ribbed tank and rubbed his hand over tattooed abs.
 
“You say it like
get the fuck IN here
or some shit.
 
You can’t even say it.
 
Don’t say it.
 
I can’t take it anymore.”
 
He coughed out laughter and turned to the dark window.
 
“Are we in a tunnel or something?”

“It’s nighttime in the backwoods of
Connecticut
.”
 
Marty had refocused his laptop.
 
“Native Sun Casino.
 
You’re playing the nightclub.”

“Nightclub?
 
Will there be chicks there?”

“No,” said Marty, taking a sip of his Scotch on the rocks.
 
“Girls don’t go to casinos.
 
Old people go to casinos.”

“The BranFans will be there.
 
Bet on it.”

“I already made the call.”

“Why am I doing a show for old people?”

“Because,” said Marty, looking up from the laptop and sighing.
 
“Those old people
spend lots of money on presents for their teeny-bopper grandkids, all of who want your albums.”

Brandon
slapped his hands together and trilled out a high-pitched laugh.
 
“You said
albums
you dumbass.
 
You’re so fuckin old Marty.
 
Hey, hey.”
 
He leaned forward and smacked the back of Marty’s laptop.
 
“Did you call that chick?
 
The head of my fan club?”

Marty adjusted his laptop screen.
 
“Vanessa.”

Brandon
snapped his fingers.
 
“Yeah.
 
She coming?”

“Where’s the Scotch?”
 
Marty found a bottle in a panel bar and refreshed his drink.
 
“Yes, she’s coming.”

“She ain’t yet but she
will be
– damn!
 
Did I show you the pics of her?”
 
Brandon
held out his cell.
 
“Her nipples are like, perfect.”
 
He stared at the screen.
 
“I’ve never seen anything like that.
 
Makes me want to drink my milk, know what I mean?”

Marty grimaced, shook his head, and went back to work.

“I can’t even
talk
to you about this stuff.”
 
Brandon
sank back into his seat.
 
“You’re like a fag or somethin.”

“Delete that picture of the slut,” said Marty.
 
“Before
Shannon
finds it on your phone.”

“Oh thanks for the advice
Uncle Marty,”
said
Brandon
.
 
He reached down and grabbed a handful of the front of his pants.
 
He scrolled through the pictures.
 
“I’m gonna bang that shit again.
 
Make her bring some BranFans with her.
 
Spank her this time.
 
Make her cheeks all red.”
 
He scrambled around on the seat until he found his iPhone again.
 
“Beat.
 
Beat.
 
Feel my flow.”
 
He bobbed his head and stomped his foot.
 
“I’m gonna
spank
ya red and make ya wish ya
said
you wanna
bang me
in dat bed!”

“Sounds like date rape.”
 
Marty sipped more Scotch and wondered how long Shannon Moon, beautiful young starlet, was going to put up with his white trash pop star of the month nephew.

Marty had watched them together over and over, trying to figure out what his nephew had done to deserve such ridiculous luck.
 

A high school friend of his broke out for one single, a DJ remix for a popular artist, and brought Brandon along to a party held by the record label.
 
Brandon, drunk or high or both, pants hanging down so low only his ball sack was holding them up, grabbed a microphone and started doing some freestyle with his DJ buddy.
 
What was that idiot’s name?
 
DJ Benji.
 
Jesus.
 
So the record company people start to realize how awful DJ Benji was, but they have some studio time booked, so they bring in
Brandon
in the hopes that together they won’t suck so much.
 
Brandon
, young and cocky with a crooked smile, a skinful of vulgar tattoos, and killer abs, got booked on one of MTVs break-out artist shows and his single got highest download that following weekend.
 
Pretty soon iTunes picked him up for an exclusive.
 
Youtube was bombarded with homemade karaoke versions of the song.
 
Ring tone rights were sold.
 
Facebook page blew up.
 
Nationwide radio picked up the single
Sexybitch.
 
He was off and running, lucky little shit.
 
And his Uncle Marty, after having struggled his whole life as a middle-class CPA in a
Midwest
accounting firm, now spent all of his time babysitting the kid that everyone had tried not to strangle to death at family get-togethers.

And even with all the blind stupid luck in the universe, when God sneezed and the flem of fate struck an Eminem wannabe called Jerry Gertler (Brandon was his middle name) and made him famous, plus tossed in the unbelievable bonus of bumping into Shannon Moon during what must have been an amazingly needy and vulnerable time in her life, the kid just kept doing his best to screw it all up by screwing every female fan that landed in his lap.

Of course Uncle Marty enjoyed a few of them too, but his wife was in rehab somewhere in
Ohio
so what the hell.
 
He had to get something out of this for having to put up with
Brandon
, and that something was the occasional secondhand BranFan, along with all the money he siphoned into his own personal accounts.

Power of attorney was a beautiful thing.

Brandon
’s cell emitted a ring tone of his newest single
Money Stank,
which was going out on wide-release within the month
.
 
He slapped the seat, shouted something unintelligible, and then put the phone to his ear while he kicked Marty repeatedly in the leg.
 
“Hey hey hey baby wassup?
 
I was just talking ‘bout you.
 
No shit.
 
No
shit.
”
 
He showed Marty the picture ID on his cell phone.
 
It was the nipple shot again.
 
“’Course I know this is you
Vanessa!
 
How could I forget my number one BranFran baby?
 
You at the casino?
 
Whatchu wearing?”
 
Brandon
dug his hand into his crotch again.