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“And if I didn’t move and breathed through my nose into my abdomen, you might think I was going to meditate.”
“I’d never think that about you.”
“I have some news.”
I waited.
“Richie Morley killed himself.”
Instantly I was roused from my cabana torpor. “Richie’s dead?”
“Yes. His body was discovered by a pair of do-gooders out near Red Rocks. He drove his Jag to some vista pull-off and shot himself in the head. A couple of campers were driving by and pulled over to see if someone in the car needed help. But, by then, Richie was way beyond needing help.”
The Morleys were among the local faces of the Buckingham Palace—or what people in the know or who had never heard of British Petroleum called the “BP.” (Full disclosure: BP was also a shorthand, in some of the tonier Vegas circles, for “Bullshit Property.”) I was a local face, too, of course, a sort of low-rent equivalent to the way Siegfried & Roy were associated for years with the Mirage. Still, most of my contact had been with Artie, Richie’s brother and the sibling who’d made the final decision to hire me, though even that was limited. Richie was the property’s chief financial officer, Artie was the general manager. But even a casino with the same number of floors as tourist guide stars (three, which was generous and, I like to believe, as high as it was because of a certain tribute performer) had layers of bureaucracy between the GM and the “talent.” Nevertheless, I was stunned—and there was suicide aplenty in my family and suicide aplenty in Vegas. The city was an actual destination for people who wanted to kill themselves. Moreover, when it’s not only someone you know but also your employer who decides to call it a day, you are left with the realities of grief and the sense that your job security might not be all that you supposed it was. I worked at a second-rate casino, and now the second-rate CFO and brother of the second-rate GM was dead.
“Do we know why?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Maybe Artie knows. But if Richie left a note, it wasn’t on the news.”
“That’s where you heard it? The news?”
“Yes.”
When the Morleys had bought the place, apparently their initial plan had been to turn it into an upscale, boutique casino. They hired the likes of me. But then, I suppose, they discovered there was no need to turn it around: you could make a mint catering to the world’s castoffs. Why not bask in its tawdriness and exploit the downtrodden? Our gaming floor mostly torpedoed locals, tourists on a budget, and out-of-town gamblers who had reached the end of the line and had no business losing the little money they had to a roulette wheel. I brought in a higher-end (and older) clientele, though I’m not sure people who came to the BP to see my show from the Bellagio or the Four Seasons spent much time in the poker rooms or blackjack tables. They certainly weren’t eating at our restaurants.
“I’m in shock,” I murmured.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Maybe a month ago.” I pointed at the snack bar across the pool. “He was over there at a table. In a meeting of some sort. We waved. That was it.”
“You worried?”
He felt the same anxiety I did. Las Vegas was filled with gig performers without gigs. The BP may have been the sort of place where the room service came on chipped plates and the wallpaper in the corridor corners was peeling and stained from decades-old water damage, but Nigel and I still had a residency there. We each had a hotel suite, and if the suites were not luxurious, they were airy and bright and came with kitchenettes with coffeemakers and microwave ovens. Most performers would have killed for what we had.
“A little,” I admitted.
I heard someone approaching and felt the shade change ever so slightly. A young waitress was standing at the entrance to the cabana, and Nigel ordered us each a Bloody Mary. I didn’t know her, so she must have been new. But she knew me, introduced herself as Lily, and said it was an honor to meet me. I said it was an honor to meet her, though I wasn’t sure why either of us should have been honored to meet one another: we were both casino drones who helped people pass the time when they were tired of losing money or had simply run out of money to lose. When the young woman had retreated, Nigel said, “I should have ordered some food. Want something? The avocado toast, maybe?”
“No, thank you. You know I don’t eat much this time of day. Besides, I want to be sure the Bloody Mary can do its magic and take my mind off poor Richie.”
He reached into the kangaroo pocket of a sleeveless hoodie—he had cut off the sleeves because he liked kangaroo pockets and, I suppose, his arms, but this was Las Vegas and sleeves on a sweatshirt in August was just asking for heatstroke—and pulled out an orange vial. “Valium?”
“I already have five milligrams in me. No, wait. Seven and a half.”
“Go for twelve and a half.”
“We have two shows tonight. I should be at least a wee bit sober.”
He smiled. “I love it when you use the word wee.”
“God. Maybe I need a day off.”
“Maybe. Wouldn’t it be heaven to sit inside a cabana at the swimming pool all day long, nursing a Bloody Mary?”
I flipped him the bird good-naturedly, but I did see his point. “Okay,” I said. “A night off.”
“My favorite memory of Richie was the first time he saw the show after you invited me in. He and Artie and Eddie Cantone came backstage with a bottle of champagne, and Richie said the real Diana deserved a prince like me. It was so kind of him.” Eddie was the entertainment director at the casino, but we were small and so he did much more; entertainment director was but one of his hats.
