Annabel - A Las Vegas Affair

Saturday The bouncer's fist slammed into Jack's face, sending him crashing to the floor. He shook his head, trying to recover from the blow, and with the corner of his eye scanned the far end of the Bellagio hall. No one was watching. Scenes like that weren't unusual in casinos, and they rarely sparked much interest. When the gorilla grabbed him again—probably to toss him out—Jack resisted, and the man bent his knees to hoist him over his shoulder. But Jack caught him off guard by suddenly going limp, throwing all his weight backward. They both toppled onto a roulette table, flipping it over and sending chips flying everywhere. Two players tumbled to the floor, and finally, most of the people nearby—including the surveillance cameras—started paying attention.   1 That night, Jack had already lost a lot without finding the woman he was looking for. By now, he'd met every hostess in the place, and none of them seemed to fit—except for one tall stunner he'd never seen before. She moved among the customers smiling, but didn't stop to talk to anyone. When he'd crossed paths with her, he'd had the strange feeling of being invisible: she hadn't even glanced at him. He'd been hanging around that casino for a month and had already checked every slot machine. Nothing unusual. The machines paid back an average of ninety percent of what they swallowed, even though the law only required seventy-five. He had to act fast or he'd be out another million dollars come Monday.   2 Jack was a good-looking thirty-year-old. Neatly combed black hair and a hint of a mustache—just enough to give him a slightly scruffy edge. Too polished meant low on cash; too messy meant broke. He struck the perfect balance. Black tuxedo with satin lapels, white shirt with gold cufflinks, black skinny tie, patent leather shoes. His bow tie was made of pure silk shantung. He always tied it carefully so the knot was perfectly symmetrical. A woman notices things like that. She thinks: if this guy has time to tie a bow tie like that, he's probably not a wage slave waiting on his Christmas bonus. More likely, he's the one handing out bonuses. With a perfect bow tie, you'll take home twice as many women, his father had once told him. That's why, before approaching any woman, Jack made a habit of adjusting his bow tie to draw attention to the flawless knot—in case his dark eyes or his bearing hadn't already done the trick. It was hard not to notice his six-foot frame and well-built physique, the result of an hour in the gym every day since he was seventeen. His father—rest his soul—had taught him other principles too, and Jack remembered them all. Especially the golden rule for a man who lived in casinos: “When you're down a million dollars, you either shoot yourself or keep playing.” Jack was already down a million. Shooting himself wasn't an option. He'd gone to the bar and ordered a double whiskey. Took a sip, then poured most of it on his jacket and pants. Then he headed for the VIP room in the center of the main gaming hall—the one with the hundred-dollar slots. He knew the bouncers only let in regulars escorted by a hostess, but it was his last shot at stirring the waters. As he walked toward that area, the new girl gave him a casual glance, and this time, he was the one to ignore her. He kept his eyes on the glass, making sure to pass in front of a few columns lined with reflective panels so he could watch her without being seen. Just before he reached the VIP lounge, she studied him carefully for several seconds. But at that moment, Jack couldn't be sure if she was really interested in him—or if she was just reacting to his approach toward the VIP zone. Maybe Jack was right. Or maybe not.   3 "Where do you think you're going, sir?" one of the two gorillas posted at the entrance had snapped. "To play, can't you tell?" Jack replied, pretending to stumble. The man—a bald, sunglasses-wearing pachyderm weighing at least 260 pounds—grimaced at the smell of whiskey on Jack's clothes. "This room is restricted, I'm sorry, sir." "I know. It's restricted to me. I still have plenty of money and I want to lose it all right here." "Sir... please step back," said the second gorilla, gently taking him by the arm. Also bald, same build, same shades. Jack looked at them both, one at a time, just to make sure he wasn't seeing double from the whiskey. Even their clothes matched: black suits, shiny designer shoes, limbs stuffed into their Men in Black uniforms. "You think I'm drunk?" Jack shot back. "Half the people in here are, but you don't throw them out until they're cleaned out properly. I want to play in the VIP room, and you can't stop me." "I'll say it one last time," the first gorilla grunted. "No one gets in unless they're escorted by someone who knows them." "Nice to meet you," said Jack, freeing his arm and offering a handshake. "I'm Jack Wilson." The man ignored the introduction, staring him down with a look like he was just about to snap—but didn't. So Jack pushed further. "Now you know me, so I can go in. Step aside before I hurt you. I'm a black belt and I could knock you both out without even touching you." Then he boldly stepped forward to cross the invisible line formed by the two guards. As he did, he stepped on one of their feet. The guard bent down to check if his shoe had been scuffed—unfortunately for him, his sunglasses fell off, and Jack immediately crushed them underfoot with suspicious clumsiness. That's when the bouncer's punch landed, sending Jack flying—and the scuffle began. All the nearby cameras were now trained on him. As the players at the roulette table got back on their feet and the hostesses rushed in to gather the scattered chips and restore order, Jack felt himself being grabbed once again by the two bouncers. Calm and collected, they each took an arm, lifted him effortlessly, and began carrying him toward one of the many restrooms. Jack realized his plan hadn't worked. Once he was out of sight, he was going to get thoroughly worked over. He might have been able to handle one of those guys—especially since they were big and slow—but two was too many. That punch had already made it clear: another couple like that and he'd be dreaming of unicorns. He glanced left and right, searching for a way out—when he locked eyes with the new hostess. She had come closer. The show could go on.   4 "Only friends of the mighty Santini allowed in that room?" Jack shouted as they dragged him away. "All the money's for them, and we're supposed to settle for scraps, right? You two are slaves and don't even realize it! Rebel against your masters before it's too late!" As he'd hoped, his shouting drew even more attention from the woman, who intercepted the group just a few feet from the restroom door. The two men stopped with a sigh and let Jack place his feet on the ground, though they kept him in an iron grip. When she reached them, the woman said, "Frank, Wolf, what's going on here?" "This gentleman fell down after drinking too much. He's not feeling well," Wolf explained. "We're just helping him to the restroom," added Frank. "That's not true. I just wanted to play the Triple Diamond in the VIP room," Jack cut in. "Some idiot bumped into me and I spilled my drink, but I'm not drunk." The woman looked at Jack's wet suit, then into his eyes, then at the gorillas. "Alright. I'll take care of him." The two men exchanged glances, lowered their eyes, and released him. Jack straightened his collar and adjusted his bow tie. "Nice to meet you, gorgeous. I'm Jack Wilson." "My name's Annabel," she said without smiling, "but you can call me Ann." "Thanks for getting me out of trouble, Ann." Annabel was a very attractive young woman. She was thirty-two, with long dark hair falling over her shoulders—her left shoulder completely bare under the sleek Bellagio uniform. Jack figured she must be a special hostess, assigned only to high-rollers. The others stopped to chat and brought drinks to anyone who asked; she didn't do any of that. Dark eyes, oval face, and with her heels she was the same height as him. Her posture and stride betrayed a former career in modeling. Her bust was generous—Jack guessed a full C cup. The white uniform dress, with its hem exactly eleven inches above the knee, hugged her hips and backside just right. In Las Vegas, skirt length had to be pleasing to the eye—but not too much, so as not to distract customers from the main purpose of the casino: gambling. This matter had been studied carefully by world-class experts, and the answer had been: eleven inches above the knee.

Daniele Missiroli

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