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“Haven’t heard from Frank in almost six months. As far as I know he’s in New York. The invite came from Johnny himself.” Nick flipped the thick, embossed invitation across the glass coffee table. “Word is he’s running a string of jazz clubs in California. Maybe he’s looking to expand to Vegas. Bought some big place out in Country Club Hills.”
Samson examined the invitation. “Shit, remember what an asshole he was back in the day.” Samson curled his lip. “I hated that fuckin’ guy. Always bragging about all the bitches he banged, all the money he had, never knew when to keep his damn mouth shut.”
“Hard to believe somebody hasn’t shut him up permanently.” Tension tightened Nick’s neck.
“For some reason Frank protected him.”
“Yeah, cause he was always up Frank’s ass telling him how great he was. Shit, there was nobody happier than Johnny when we pulled outta Brooklyn. Gave him an open door to be Frank’s number one.”
Samson set the invitation down. “Tell me again why you think it’s necessary we go to a party hosted by this asshole?”
“I wanna feel him out. Maybe get an angle on why he’s in Vegas. You know, the old keep your enemies close. Like you said before, I’d like to find out if Frank is behind this, cause in the old days Johnny didn’t take a shit without asking Frank first.”
“Looks like some fancy bullshit.” Samson motioned to his usual band t-shirt and low-slung jeans. “I suppose I can’t wear these.”
“You might wanna consider wearing a pair of jeans without holes.”
“C’mon, that’s the style.”
The two friends ribbed each other for a few more minutes about clothing styles. While Nick was strictly designer names, Samson looked like he belonged straddling a Harley.
Unlike Samson, Nick actually enjoyed these affairs—the word play, and the cat and mouse game the elected officials played. Most of them acted like socializing with nightclub owners was below them until they wanted a sizable endorsement for an election or a venue to hold one of their campaign parties. Then they were your best friend trying to shake down the price, and always doing it for the good of the people.
Nick would trust a convicted criminal over the elite and political hacks any day. The outlaw put it all out there with no false threats, but the privileged would cut your throat with a rusty knife while telling you it was for your own good. Bullshitters all of them.
“I just wanna make sure Johnny isn’t here as Frank’s eyes and ears. Since Frank went back to New York it’s been quiet and that’s the way I wanna keep it.”
“Agreed.”
Nick was mostly interested to see who attended. Find out exactly who Johnny knew and if any of those people could be useful, then cement those relationships and forge new ones. In the past year, Nick and Samson made Club Wicked one of the top clubs in Vegas and that’s the way he wanted to keep it.
3
At exactly five o’clock, Cheryl shut down her computers, closed the lights, and left her office. She made her way down the hall and into the vast foyer. The cold marble flooring under her bare feet sent a chill through her body. Doing most of her work in front of a computer lent itself to casual dress which usually consisted of a t-shirt, shorts, and bare feet since she hated shoes.
The caterers had been setting up all day and now the foyer was dotted with high-top tables for cocktails, and extravagant centerpieces of silver netting woven with fresh flowers in the dining room. Johnny insisted on bringing their staff from California. One of the stipulations was a room for Izzy, and Johnny conceded because making Cheryl happy far outweighed the risk of making Frank unhappy.
Service people scurried around probably not even realizing she was the lady of the house. Ugh, how she hated these parties with all the fake smiling and acting interested in people who were boring as shit.
She’d much prefer the company of the girls who worked for her as escorts over the pretentious females who would fillher home tonight. On the other hand, Johnny lived for these nights. In L.A. he insisted they entertain every other month. Since his jazz clubs catered to the Hollywood upper echelon it wasn’t unusual to see directors, producers, and mega stars in attendance. Even a few Lakers would show up when they were in town.
Johnny got off on it preening in front of the mirror like he was the next George Clooney, but no matter how many thousands he spent on his clothes he still looked just what he was—a Brooklyn thug masquerading as the elite.
He peppered his conversation with movie jargon, and believed everything he posted on social media, hiding the fact that in reality he was her father’s flunky. His followers were so gullible and desperate for anything celebrity related they might’ve gotten off on the fact he was nothing more than a fixer for the mob, but Johnny knew better than to boast about such a delicate subject.
Six years ago, when Cheryl made her deal with the devil, she insisted Johnny keep her and Portia out of his media frenzy. He grudgingly agreed and so far, he’d kept his promise.
Climbing the stairs to the second floor, she padded down the thick carpeted hallway, stopped, lightly tapped on the door, then entered.
Portia looked up from her sketch pad, her lanky legs crossed on the bed.
“What are you working on?” Cheryl looked over her daughter’s shoulder.
“Trying to get those mountains right.” Portia motioned with her pencil to the floor to ceiling window in her room with a perfect view of Mount Charleston in the distance.
When Portia was eight, Cheryl discovered Portia’s artistic talent. At ten-years-old, Portia’s teachers said she had an innateability for bringing objects to life. Cheryl enrolled her in art classes in L.A. and would do the same here in Vegas.
“I think they look perfect now.”
