Authors: J. Fields Jr.
Antonio nodded in greeting.
“Interesting.
And yours?”
Mark Ford found the button for the sunroof and pressed it.
“I just got hit in the face with a black bra.”
He looked at Brandon, who was curled up on the seat, moaning.
“What happened to him?”
Antonio said, “He was assaulted by your right foot.”
Marty laughed.
“At least now he has a reason to grab it.”
Antonio said to the driver, “We’re ready to move.”
He extracted the garbage bag from the trash receptacle in the side panel, and filled it with ice from the wet bar.
He handed it to
Brandon
.
“For your injury, sir.”
As the limousine slowly rolled through the crowd,
Brandon
cradled the ice bag in his lap; eyes squeezed shut, teeth chattering.
Antonio asked, “Mark, did you happen to see our Asian nemesis out among the throng?”
“No, but I was distracted by the jail-bait brigade.”
Marty looked up from his laptop.
“Are you talking about the Kamikaze Cam?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Antonio.
“He is on premises, but we have security and surveillance on the look out.
As soon as we find him he will be expelled from the property.”
“Good luck,” said Marty, and tossed back the last of his drink.
“My nuts,” moaned
Brandon
.
“M-m-m-my nuts are in my guts.”
“Hey,” said Mark.
“That rhymed.
This kid is good.
What do you think Antonio?”
“I think we may all be able to identify with that particular feeling before this weekend is out.”
Chapte
r
Thirteen
It was dead dark and the stars were all staring at him and Ang Wang was freezing his nuts off.
He felt like an astronaut pissing off the wing of the space shuttle, instead of a photographer pissing off the side of the rooftop on the 20
th
floor of the Native Sun Casino.
It wasn’t easy to zip up his pants with the climbing harness strangling his crotch.
Not to mention the Jumar SRT ascender thingy dangling between his legs.
But he did manage to get the other thingy dangling between his legs out of the cold and back into his pants.
Crunching across the drainage stone on the rooftop he got that creepy feeling that he was going to get caught.
It was some latent Catholic-God-is-watching voodoo from his childhood.
Still he imagined that at any moment security was going to come pouring through the small rooftop access door and start yelling like movie cops; Hit the deck!
Halt!
Freeze!
Well, he was already freezing.
Nighttime in the
Connecticut
woods in September was similar to a night spent in a walk-in refrigerator, only the view was slightly better.
Moonlight on treetops.
It was almost romantic.
He enjoyed the view but he had to get to work.
He was the Kamikaze Cam!
Sneaking across a rooftop twenty stories high at midnight – who else did stuff like this in real life?
Who else got
paid
to do stuff like this?
“Kamo-kah-zee!”
He pumped his fist in the air and hopped up and down like he was going to take off into the stars.
Well, sort of.
He was actually going to try and get a picture of the stars
taking it off.
Fat, fighting or fucking.
That was how you wanted to shoot the stars.
Those were the pictures that printed just like money, and Shanndon was the
Fort
Knox
of fuck pics.
If he got a picture of either one of them even
half
naked he would be set through the following year.
If he caught them in the sack he might have to actually hold an auction.
The roof he was walking across wasn’t much bigger than half a high school gym.
He’d noticed the little notch in the side of the building when he was scoping out the Sachem Suite before spending the night getting butt-raped by the pedestal safe in the armoire.
But that was the secret to his success.
It wasn’t Plan A that got him the pictures, it was usually Plan B, C, or even D…he never stopped until he got what he wanted.
He clicked on the flashlight and shined it up the side of the building.
The Sachem Suite had two balconies, on the 23rd and 24th floors of the hotel.
He’d been on both of them last night.
On the 24th floor balcony he’d clipped a rope to the metal railing.
On the end he’d clipped a ten pound weight and swung it over to land on the rooftop, where it sank into the four inches of drainage stone.
Everything was still in place.
Plan B.
Chapter Fourteen
Seemingly it was an evening predestined for repetitive actions.
For the second time in the same very long night, Antonio was having an issue with expelling one of his VIP guests from their limousine.
“No way.”
Brandon
sat on the bench seat of the limo, arms crossed over his tattooed chest.
“I ain’t going in the same door as the trash.”
“Technically, Bran,” said Marty.
“This is where the trash comes
out.
”
The black stretch limo was parked in the third bay of the Recycle Dock. With the aid of the State Police the limo had made its way around the building to the truck road, past the water processing plant, through a guarded checkpoint, and down the access road that lead to the truck docks used to transport all the dumpsters and recyclables from the casino.
Now the bay door was closed and the limousine was safely ensconced within.
On either side of the limo were green dumpsters.
Directly in front of the limo were stairs leading to a concrete landing where two casino employees were dumping a tilt-truck full of wet plastic bags into the nearest dumpster.
The aromatic ambience was something between raw meat and mop water.
“This is the safest way into the casino,” said Mark Ford.
Into his cuff mic he said, “Stand-by.
He’s on his way.”
“No I’m not.”
Brandon
waved his hand through the open door.
“And get those weird guys outta here.
They keep lookin at me.”
Mark, Antonio and Marty all turned to look at the two men dumping trash.
The men froze in their bent positions, one of them holding an engorged bag that was dripping something onto his shoe.
Mark walked closer to the landing and said, “Are you men just about finished?”
Neither of them spoke.
Antonio asked the men, “¿
Cuándo
terminaran?”
The employee holding the bag said, “Un minuto, Señor.”
“Gracias.”
Antonio turned back to the limousine.
“They will be done shortly.”
“See Bran?”
Marty lifted his laptop bag.
“We’re almost outta here.
Then you can see Shannon and I can hit the sack.
In the morning we’ll go to the club and look it over.
Okay?”
“I’m a pop star, Marty.
Do you
know
that?”
Brandon
stabbed at the air with his finger.
“Do you think
Kanye
or
Lil’
Wayne
would put up with this shit?
I should have a fuckin
entourage.
I should be walking right in the front door surrounded by bodyguards.
Why don’t I have bodyguards, Marty?
What kind of
manager
are you?
You should be worried about my safety and shit!”
“
Brandon
.”
Marty closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
It didn’t seem to calm him.
“We’ve been over all this.
You released
one
single, Bran.
Just one.”
“Just one single they play all the
time
on the radio.”
“Radio doesn’t pay.
It’s free.”
“We sold the download rights.”
“Yes, and ringtones.
And you have another single coming out next month.
That means you’re on your way to rich.
But you’re not rich yet.”
“It’s my image!
You should be worried about my image, Uncle Marty!”
“You’re dating the most beautiful young actress in
Hollywood
.
You’re in all the magazines.
That’s good enough for now, isn’t it?”
“I’ll ask
Shannon
.
She’ll buy me bodyguards.”
“Okay, okay, good.
Let’s just get out of this loading dock.”
“Take me to the front door.”
Antonio cleared his throat, somewhat discreetly, and gestured to Marty for permission to speak.
Receiving a nod he began.
“Perhaps I can explain, sir.
At the Native Sun Casino we have numerous celebrities visit us, as well as many significant individuals of some wealth, power, and reputation.
In these specialized cases we must use the utmost discretion and bring them into the building via surreptitious routes.
This is to save them from the unwanted attentions of admirers and fans, some of which can become unruly in large numbers, as witnessed by us all in the valet port.”
Brandon
sneered at him.
“You talk like a butler.”
Antonio bowed.
“I am in fact
your
butler, sir, as I was the butler for our most famous visitor to the casino, Mr. Frank Sinatra.”
“No shit,” said Marty.
“There is none, I assure you.
He came to our Grand Opening and entered through this very dock.
He had no one with him save his driver.
He carried nothing but a Jack Daniel’s bourbon, which he called ‘gasoline’, and a pocketful of cigars.
He shook everyone’s hand that happened to be working down here at the time and gave them each a cigar.
He tipped his hat to the women and gave them a wink.
There are still employees who talk about that day.
They day they met Frank, which is how he introduced himself.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘I’m Frank.’”
Brandon
looked at his Uncle Marty.
“What the fuck does that have to do with me?”