LAS VEGAS. Somewhere in the 2010s.
Self employment was a fresh start, but as all small businesspeople know, its never easy in the first year. You have to get your name out there, and drum up clients. He did whatever he had to in order to make ends meet.
He robbed casinos and big jackpot winners, he slept with rich heirs and heiresses to the tune of a few grand, and during his downtime he’d go diving, any excuse to show off the full body tattoos.
Americans would assume the best, thinking he was part of a circus act, a strong man or an exciting new boyfriend to some passing celebrity. Only those in the know would recognise it. So he made the most of sitting by the pool in as little as possible, polishing his tattoos with soaps and lotions while tanning in the sun.
It was fabulous advertising for any wannabe criminal with a hobby that required a broken wrist. For a solid 3 years in the 2010s he could count on one hand the number of weeks he wore clothes with sleeves. It’d become a uniform of speedos and fitness clothes, better for business that way.
At this point in his career however, he was reluctantly dressed in a bow tie and a waistcoat. He was the guard to the head of the hotel chain, a much older woman who’d inherited the empire a while back and had bold plans for the casino.
His role was (thankfully) non-sexual, he growled at business partners who didn’t capitulate, broke the arms of any angry guests willing to take their bad life choices out on his mistress, and shook down anyone who reneged on their end of the deal.
The Casino was generous with loans, and it turned a blind eye to any crimes that were below the $1000 threshold. The shows were cheap, but the performers were fairly talented, and the old woman who ran the place was clearly more interested in keeping out of trouble than chasing profits.
Perhaps it was her retirement package? Staying in a luxury hotel surrounded by nothing but the most glamorous people and living out some kind of fantasy.
In extreme cases, she’d even take pity on the poor folks who’d really crashed their lives at the gambling machines. Granted not financial pity, but she’d offer them board, lodge, and employment until the debt was paid.
His luck however would change, when he noticed a woman with short auburn hair and a suspicious winning streak on one of the regular player’s tables. She had a code of some kind, that Ted had not fully cracked, tapping certain colour poker chips at certain times without saying a word. She even seemed to incorporate her jewellery into it a little, adjusting her rings and her necklaces at certain buzzwords.
“Quite the lucky streak you’ve got going on there” Ted noticed aloud, pulling her concentration away from whichever mental arithmetic she was using to keep the ten of diamonds from being overthrown on the board.
She turned warmly, “thank you, I’ve got my husband’s lucky ring on, never let me down before” she bleated, feigning ignorance and nativity. If she could just make him believe it was beginners luck, she could walk out and switch casinos later in the afternoon when it wasn’t conspicuous.
“I’ve noticed you reach for it whenever you have an ace, also your little tap you do on the desk when you have a set of 3 high cards” Ted blunted at her, not wanting to slip from the casual conversational tone he was using to call her out. He didn’t want a scene.
She raised her hands upwards slowly, in a motion that said well you’ve caught me. “Okay, I may have fiddled the cards a bit in the last round, but you can’t arrest a woman for a nervous tick” she justified, beginning to grow aware that the grace the casino had given her was starting to run out.
“I’m happy to give the chips back if you don’t tell security, I don’t want to get in trouble” she resigned.
“I am security” Ted responded.
“In that case, I’d be happy to go in handcuffs” she flirted.
“I thought you had a husband” he replied.
“This is Vegas, and he loves to share” she began.
He sincerely considered the offer. Maybe another time. But in the meantime he’d escort her out the building quietly. Save everyone the hassle of an official document.
* * *
Later that evening, Ted received an email to his evening freelancer account. Some bouncer pissed off my wife, send him a warning shot. $2000. It read. Signed K Klein.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
If he were brighter he’d have worked it out, the interviewer certainly did. But alas, Ted bumbled into an unused office space to meet with a mobster and his redhead wife, looking to startle, threaten and potentially break the arm of a 6ft Asian man. It took until cocktail number two to realize the mix up.
Ted would swear in interviews later on that he didn’t recall the conversation, that a mixture of cocktails and concussions would erase the talking points from his brain. But he could remember clear as day the punch that started the fight. It was sharp, and quick, but without enough power to do real damage, the kind of punch someone used to back alley brawls would throw. It lacked technique but it certainly left a mark.
He stood there conflicted, he didn’t want to hurt any potential employers, but he also would not stand for someone causing trouble. Most importantly he had to keep his looks for his new career, He couldn’t go back to his boss bloodied and bruised. He served a kick and two jabs that sent the strange blonde man staggered.
There was a blunt object swung in his direction in retaliation, something chrome and heavy, he could’ve sworn it was a lamp but truth be told it’d been a long time.
The lamp was ducked under before the impact against the opposite wall shattered the light bulb and cracked its ugly lavender lampshade. His blood raced, it was the first time in a while he’d had a real fight, usually hired combat was so one sided.
He stumbled back and hopped across the island counter into the kitchenette, raiding the cupboards for a weapon that wouldn’t kill the poor bastard. Ted threw a knife towards his rival, who slipped away from it, leaving only a small flesh-wound and a tatter in his designer button up. Ted grabbed a frying pan and lunged for him, swinging it down from over his head like an axe. Klein parried with a metal chair from IKEA's pricier range.
Ted remained suspended there, catching his breath, his blunt weapon about 2 inches from the skull of Kennedy Klein. His blood pumped and his muscles bulged against the restraint of the bar stool.
Ken huffed and breathed, gasping for air.
He was an older man in the 2000s, a middle aged dad who should’ve been in offices and restaurant bars. He gave the barstool one short, sharp push to distribute the force held in their stalemate.
“You’ve got some moves” Ken remarked, “what’s she paying you?” Ted looked quizzically at the sweating man.
“50 grand a year” he admitted.
“I’ll double it.”
Ted considered his options, his waistcoat skewered by the chair legs, his weapon blocked by a robust barrier of uncomfortable titanium. He had only one option left. He breathed deep, ripped off the buttons of his waistcoat, and dipped down to evade the deadlock he was caught in.
He stood there, topless. In a stalemate with the mature man. The adrenaline was still fizzling through their bodies, and Ted began to feel Ken’s eyes over him.
He considered what his audience was seeing, and the adrenaline and the heat of the hotel. But right when he thought he’d worked out why Ken had stopped approaching, the next sentence blindsided him. “Will you sleep with my wife?” he asked candidly, “I think she’d like that.”
Ted blinked in the silence, not quite sure what the right answer was. Was this a test? She certainly was an attractive woman. Would you sleep with a mobster’s wife if you were asked? He dabbed his bloodied nose with a flannel and noticed a thimble of hair had been torn from his scalp in the altercation. He’d need to give himself a buzz cut before dawn, or at least a comb over.
“Where is your wife?” Ted asked, aware that the delicate redhead in the plunging velvet neckline had wandered off to avoid the scrap. A pacifist perhaps?
“She went back to the hotel” Ken responded, lighting a cigarette despite the no smoking sign.
A lamp had been shattered across the table, furniture had been knocked over in the tussle, and at least 3 generic soulless mugs had been kicked over in the fight. Ted looked at the broken glass and nodded.
“Tell her I’ll be there at midnight. I have to clean up” He ordered, before adding “and Mr Klein … I expect you to watch.”
* * *
back in the bunker
The interviewer stopped writing, glaring up at her companion. “Do they solve all their problems through sex?” she glared.
“That or a knife fight” Ted deadpanned.
“Its his way of keeping everyone at arms length, if they sleep together they’re disposable” he postured, unsure of how to proceed. “Its like how the Romans used to get intimate before battle to make sure they fought harder for each other” he suggested, perhaps a smidge too earnestly.
“You could write a bestselling novel on those two if you tried, ask them about the fire” Ted said without going into details.
The interviewer held the silence for a second, and decided to probe further.
“The fire?” she asked, matching his gaze.
“Before my time, but they discuss it often, on quiet nights of the soul. Absinthe confessions generally, They’re full of secrets those two. The sex, the drugs, the violence, that’s all a smoke screen” Ted admitted.
She analyzed his face, she’d talked to killers before, She’s talk to politicians before too. But his admission felt more like politics than anything said behind bars. He was calm, he was deflecting.
Lying by omission perhaps? She knew she shouldn’t take the bait when talking to a politician. You make the right noises, grunt about rivals, but you don’t take the bait.
“Which fire?” asked the journalist, aware that she shouldn’t. She mustn’t.
“New York. They talk about it all the time … or rather, they talk around it.” He said, a tad more honestly than he expected.
The journalist adjusted her notes quietly. So far she’d gotten background information, things the newspapers picked up years ago. They’d go great on the documentary, but nothing groundbreaking. But a secret the mob won’t mention would get her funded for years, no more morbid articles for yoga mums fed up of suburban life. No more teenage campfire horror stories told into podcast microphones in stale back alley recording rooms.
“What do you hear them saying?” she asked, trying not to give the game away.
Ted arched a manicured eyebrow at her, and didn’t say anything for a long time.
“They pass guilt back and forth. Blame each other for whatever happened that night” He shrugged.
“I think they lost someone? Or maybe something? And I’m the latest in a long list of distractions” he admitted.
He seemed to break from his bravado for a second when he said it, a moment of vulnerability that the interviewer almost felt guilty for.
“I know its not real, any of it.” he sighed, “I’m another Thursday night tryst because there’s nothing else on the TV.” He stood up a little too quickly.
Did he not know why they were hiding down here? Or that they were willing to surrender decades old crime family secrets just to keep him safe?
He huffed, causing background noise that didn’t pick up well on the recording. “I’m not sure recording this is a good idea” he gestured, trying to act aloof and regain his composure.
“Pretend I never said anything.”