I was in old town playing black jack. Gettin' played is more like it. I was down about $400 before my luck started to turn. I remember that part pretty clearly. The rest is a little hazy, but here’s what I do remember: A young couple came to play at the table with me. Young people don’t usually hang around old town. They like the glitz and boners of the strip. That was the only thing that seemed odd. Other than that they were pretty standard as far as Vegas goes; drunk, loud, good-looking, but not too good-looking. They could have put the pharmaceuticals in my bourbon. Or maybe it was the drink girl or whoever’s in the back pourin' watered-down bourbons. I guess none of that matters when you find yourself chained to a wall in a basement.
I tried to dislocate my thumbs to slip out of the shackles, but it hurt really bad so I gave up on the idea. At least I still had my pants on, I know it sounds weird, but if I get raped in a basement, I want to remember it. I decided to check my surroundings for clues. There was light coming in from a window high up on one wall. There was an old couch in the corner, flower print, worn out in places. A washer and dryer that looked maybe ten to twelve years old. A set of wooden stairs going up to a closed door. Some cardboard boxes with things like, “X-mas decorations,” written in magic marker. And there was a ragged P.I. with a migraine and a sore thumb chained to the wall. It looked like the basement of a typical suburban home.
I looked up above me and saw the bolt holding my chains to the wall looked a bit flimsy. I put all my weight onto the chains and wriggled about until I pulled it out the wall and fell to the floor. My watch told me it was about ten after six a.m., hopefully my captors were heavy sleepers. I stacked a couple boxes and busted the window to make my escape.
The fresh air was nice and cool. I crept to the street and looked back. I didn't recognise the house, address or street. 2115 Maple. I hid my chains as best I could and walked a few blocks over to a Denny's.
I ordered the grand slamwich and tried to pick the lock on my chains with the butter knife while I waited. By the time my food arrived, I’d managed to bend the tip of the knife pretty good, but still no progress on the lock. The waitress gave me a dirty look, and I decided not to tip her. In fact, I decided not to pay for my meal at all, fuck Denny’s!
After Breakfast, I found a payphone and made a few calls. The first call was to my bookie to place a bet on the UNLV Basketball game, I had a good feeling about this one. The second was to Sergeant Griffen to look up the address of the house I woke up in, I didn't give him any of the details about my captivity. The third call was to a guy I know with a circular saw and a surgeon's touch, these chains were really starting to chafe.
After a tense twenty minutes of having a convicted felon sawing at my extremities, I took a taxi to my office to get cleaned up. I had the guy drop me two blocks up and sneaked my way to the corner. There were two guys watching my place. Big, ugly guys. Well, one of them kinda looked like me. He was okay. I figured I’d murder him, then follow the other stooge back to headquarters.
I pulled my 1911 Colt and adjusted my sack. I was just about to spring into action when Sergeant Griffen pulled up between us. He didn’t see me and he didn’t notice them. Oblivious fuck. But it worked out perfectly. They took off on foot as soon as they saw him stop. I walked right past the oblivious sergeant and tailed them two blocks to their car. I got the plate number and watched them head west.
Back at my office, Griffen was waiting with some coffee, a box of donuts and some disturbing news about my captors. The house belonged to a local man named John Smithson, he was the head of the Las Vegas Evangelical Association. There was a big evangelical convention in town, and I may or may not have had sex with the daughter of a prominent Bible belt minister, and she may or may not have been roofied (don’t get the wrong idea, I thought she was just drunk, it was totally innocent).
While I had Griffen at my office, I asked him to use the computer in his car to run the plates of the guys outside my office. They belonged to a guy named Frank Wells who lived on the East side. Frank had a long list of priors, mostly violent. I figured it was time to go and make his acquaintance. I grabbed a cup of coffee and half a dozen donuts, bid Griffen good day and struggled my way into another taxi.
The Wells home was both quaint and ugly. There was a woman’s car parked in the driveway. Someone was home. I checked for dogs (none) then hopped the fence into the backyard. I crept around slowly until I heard a voice. A woman was inside and on the phone. She seemed annoyed. I found the back door and let myself in.
The woman was blonde and homely. I figured Frank would have to be home at some point, so I hid in the closet to try and get the drop on him. After about forty-five minutes there, I really had to take a dump, fucking coffee, I mean I had to take a dump before I stepped into the closet, but now it was pretty much an emergency. I couldn't hear anything so I cracked the closet door and took a peek. The bathroom was close and open.
As slowly as humanly fucking possible, I crossed the hallway towards the bathroom, gun drawn. I got within arms-reach when I heard the gasp. I stepped into the bedroom,
letting my colt give her the evil eye. She screamed and tried to run for the door so I subdued and gagged her and tied her to a chair. Then I dragged her chair into the shitter and could not hold back any longer.
The woman looked horrified, and I can’t say I blame her, the smells that were coming out of my body were truly horrendous. Maybe it was something I ate last night, I couldn't remember. when I was done, I flushed and left room. I closed the door with her inside. Then I went and sat on the couch and turned on the tv to check the basketball scores. Fucking UNLV!
I watched some more tv, then I went into the kitchen to make myself some lunch. The turkey sandwich made me a bit drowsy, so I lay down on the couch and took a nap. It was dark when I woke up, still no sign of Frank.
I went back to the bathroom, and after taking a piss, I ungagged the woman. “Where’s Frank?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Frank Wells, the guy who lives here!”
“Wells?” She seemed confused. “Frank Wells lives two doors down and across the street.”
I apologized for the mix up, put her gag back in and took my leave.
I crossed the street & hopped some fences to get to the back of the house two down. There was a lone man watching tv in the front room. I crept in through the back. It was him alright. The man outside my office. I quietly checked the rest of the house first to avoid any further bullshit from the fairer sex, then made my trademark move. I sneaked up behind the man and shot him in the knee.
"Who stationed you outside my office?" I demanded, narrowly avoiding saying orifice.
"Shit!" He cried in horrible pain. I saw him reach for something under the pillows and plugged him again.
"I'm not leaving til I get some answers and I have plenty of bullets." That reminded me, I was almost out of bullets.
"Alright! I'll talk. I'll talk. Just please... I have kids."
"Shut up about your kids already. Who sent you to watch my office?"
Frank proceeded to tell a lengthy tale about how the evangelicals were using their pull with local government to secure early release for prisoners that converted to Christianity. But once these convicts were released, they became indentured servants to the church, forced to be the muscle in a complicated scheme to outlaw gambling in Las Vegas, and also get rid of the Jews.
This of course, had nothing to do with me, they were angry with me because I “raped” a minister’s daughter. But now that I was involved, I had to find a way to stop these bastards; Vegas without gambling would be like A-Rod without herpes… inconceivable.
I had to start somewhere, and it all led back to Smithson. I knew then and there that I was going to have to Google that asshole. Maybe even destroy the man. But before all that, I was going to have to deal with the Frank Wells dilemma. I couldn't risk him warning the Evangelicals about me, but Griffen had run the plates for me and that would put me on the top of the suspects list. I didn't really want to drive out to the desert and dig a hole and so on. So I tied him up and gagged him and went over to my favorite all you can eat buffet in old town. He'd be fine for a few days.
After dinner I got myself a hotel room. Mostly because I always get diarrhea from that place and I didn't think I was going to make it back to the office before I shit my pants. I had the front desk send up a laptop and a bottle of Wild Turkey so I could get some work out of the way before I got too drunk.
I pooped, took a couple shots, then started my research. I read damn near every article I could find on Smithson and one thing stood out as an obvious weakness: his hatred for the queers. Not just him, but all the nutjobs who listen to him and sent him money. I figured I'd blackmail him with pictures of him romantically entangled with another man. First I'd have hire a queer. I wasn't going to seduce any man with my physique.
I'll be the first to admit that the gay hooker ads are scary and confusing and a little gross. But after a few more drinks…. I mean, hey, I’ve gone back door on a few ladies, really, what’s the difference? But I wanted the make sure I got the best gay, and I could hardly tell one from another. so I called my old buddy, Sal Silvio, the Vegas clothes king.
Sal came in a hurry, and I explained the situation to him. “I must admit, Gene,” he said, “when you asked me to meet you at a hotel in the middle of the night, I hoped you had other ideas, but I do love to fuck with the Jesus freaks, so I’m in.”
“Great, ‘cause i’m in over my head with these fa… homos.”
Sal stared at me for a couple of seconds and then looked at the gay hooker on the laptop screen. “We need a gay jock, someone who can get Smithson talking about sports, keep his guard down, make him think he’s just one of the guys, and before you know it they’re going down on each other in the men’s room.”
“That really works?” I asked thinking about all the narrow escapes I must have had in sports bars over the years.
“It happens all the time.”
We spent about an hour pouring through the ads until Sal finally found our guy. It cost me $200 to get him to come over to the hotel. He said his name was Jeff. I had to make sure he was fully on board before we laid out our plan for him.
"Let me ask you something, Jeff. Suppose you're walking down the street and you come across two bars. One of them is a sports bar with a bunch of men drinking and watching basketball. The other is a gay bar with a bunch of men drinking and watching ballet or something. Which do you go to and why?"
"It depends on which one has the man who's paying me," He said as he was obviously becoming more and more uncomfortable.
"He wants you to seduce a preacher," Sal announced. I shot him a look of angered disappointment. "What!? He wants to get to the good part."
"I'm in," said Jeff, rather nonchalantly.
"Oh, well good."
We spent the next few hours hatching a plan to get Jeff alone with Smithson and Smithson drunk and horny. According to the gays, it was going to be easier than I could ever hope.
I disguised myself with a fake mustache and a pair of glasses, and we all headed down to the convention center, and started scoping out the nearby bars. We found Smithson in the fourth bar we tried, a little dive called Charlie’s. Jeff went to work his magic, and I went to the john to plant a few hidden cameras. I had a few cameras left over so I planted them in the women’s room, to prove to myself that I wasn’t gay.
I then planted myself at a dark table in the corner to watch the action. Smithson was with a group of churchy assholes, and Jeff had already wormed his way into the group. They were all talking and laughing. It was impressive to watch really, Jeff was an artist. He casually moved about the group, all the while getting closer to Smithson until he was right next to him. He then placed himself between Smithson and the group and slowly moved the two of them to a more secluded area. Smithson was alone with a gay before he ever knew what hit him. Start to finish, it only took Jeff about twenty-five minutes before he and Smithson were heading to the bathroom together.
I got excited as the bathroom door closed behind them, then I realized what I was getting excited about and got uncomfortable.
After a good ten minutes, Jeff stepped out of the bathroom looking pretty shaken. He hurried to and out the front door without ever looking my way. Mission accomplished I assumed. I waited another few minutes for Smithson to make his exit so I could retrieve my cameras, but he never came out.
I motioned to Sal to stay put then I crept into the shitter without drawing any attention. I didn't see anyone in there. I walked down the line of stalls and saw one closed. Underneath the door I could see Smithson lying on the floor. Then I noticed the blood. I grabbed my cameras and wiped my prints as fast as I could and walked out the same way Jeff did.
I walked about four blocks and found Jeff crying in the street. I picked him up and made him walk with me. "What the fuck happened in there?" I demanded.
"I thought I had him. He wanted it, I know it. We were at the urinal together and I touched him. He pulled out a gun and said he hates faggots. He was going to kill me. I had to ... I had to do it."
I was speechless so we just kept walking. I wondered how long it'd be before Sal or anyone else figured out Smithson was dead in the john. I hailed the first taxi I saw and got us back to my office. The poor fag was so traumatized he just curled up on my couch and cried himself to sleep. What a little girl, I thought to myself.
All this gay stuff had made me horny… I mean… for women. I went back to my motel room and called a lady hooker. I banged her twice then threw her out and went to sleep. In the morning, I got a call from Griffen, Smithson had been found shortly after I’d left the bar. Griffen remembered that I’d been asking questions about Smithson’s house earlier, so naturally he wanted to make sure I had nothing to do with his death. Some people are so untrusting. I gave Griffen Jeff’s name and number and told him to leave me out of it, I really was innocent this time. Well, innocetish.
