CASINO SHUFFLE (18 page)

Going back through the doors would be impossible.
 
He expected them to shatter at any moment to expunge the teens from the lobby.
 
Going forward was surely to face one’s own mortality.
 
He had to get Mark Ford on the phone, but first the limousine driver.
 
When he attempted to retrieve his BlackBerry his fingers plunged into someone’s waistband.
 
He yanked his hand free.
 
The young lady didn’t seem to have noticed.

He leaned as close to her as he dared and shouted, “Excuse me, Miss!”

She stopped jumping and screamed into his face.
 
“This is fuckin AWESOME!”

“Would you be so kind as to get my phone!”

“HUH?”

“My PHONE.
 
Please get my PHONE.”

The young girl’s cheeks were slapped red from exhilaration.
 
Her head dropped quickly and hands fumbled at his pocket, then at his rear end, then at his waist.
 
She bounced back into view.
 
“HERE YA GO!”

Antonio grasped it tightly in both hands. “Thank you very much!
 
And please watch your language.”

“This is fuckin AWESOME!”

“Yes, quite awesome,” said Antonio as he fitted his BlackBerry tightly to his ear.

He could barely hear the limousine driver.
 
“…a zoo…”

“Is he IN THE LIMO with you?”

“…trapped in here.”

“Have him CLIMB THROUGH to the FRONT SEAT with you.”

“…with me?
 
Why?”

“Roll down the BACK WINDOW so they will think ONLY THE MANAGER is inside the limo.
 
Do you understand that?”

“…inside the limo?”

“Yes!”

“Getting out!”

“No!
 
Do NOT get out!”

“No me!
 
Him!”

“Who?”

“…idiot is getting OUT.”

“I thought you said you CAN’T GET out?”

“…sunroof…”

Antonio lowered the BlackBerry just as the visage of
Brandon
rose above the crowd like a levitating messiah.
 
The dome of the porte-cochere resonated with the screaming of BranFrans as cellular flashes lit the night like bursts of lightening.
 
His image flickered in the constant shutter-clicks of photos, as if he were materializing into this world from a different reality.
 
With the crazed motions of a being erupting from his worldly constraints,
Brandon
ripped off his tank top and threw it into the crowd.
 
A dozen hands swallowed it whole.
 
He raised his muscled arms over his head and shouted something completely inappropriate considering the average age of most of the young women in attendance.

Antonio stabbed buttons on his BlackBerry.

The answering voice:
 
“Where the hell are YOU?”

“Trapped.
 
Where are you?”

Mark Ford answered: “I’m in the shrubbery.
 
Can’t move any closer.
 
I was thinking about getting a machine gun.”

“Call the police.”

“Some fourteen-year-old just grabbed my ass.”

“Mark!”

“What?”

“Call the POLICE.”

“Well it’s not her fault – I kind of stuck it out towards her…”

“Call the POLICE to control this MOB.”

Pause.
 
“The
real
police?”

“YES!”
 
The glass doors behind Antonio finally gave way and slammed into his spine, propelling him headfirst into the crowd.
 
“CALL THEM NOW!”
 
He clutched his BlackBerry tightly before the riptide of madness sucked him towards the limo in a slurry of waving arms, sharp-edged hips, and whiplashing pony tails.
 

Brandon
was screaming over the deafening shouts of his fans.
 
“If you want my SEX in your SEX then you’re gonna hafta putta
HEX
ON
ME…”

Directly in front of Antonio’s suicide rush, two girls ricocheted off one another and left a two-foot void in their wake.
 
He dove for it.
 
Another throng of fleshy midriffs enveloped his person.
 
To his right a redheaded girl dropped her camera and bent over to pick it up.
 
Antonio hiked up his trousers and stepped over her into another fist of teenage angst that held him tightly.
 
He was barely two rows away from the limousine, but here the battlements were strongest: a solid wall of interlocking BranFans with matching t-shirts and hot pants was reinforced by a layer of battle-hard paparazzi, both willing to shed blood and possibly die on the battlefield.
 
Just as Antonio was considering dismissing his qualms about physically moving people out of his way,
Brandon
stomped across the roof of the limousine towards the trunk.
 
The fans followed him en masse.
 
Antonio threw himself between two BranFans, knocking into the shoulder of a paparazzo, his right arm briefly ensnared in the man’s shoulder bag, then quickly extricated his extremity just as the passenger side door of the limo popped open.

The driver shouted from within:
 
“ANTONIO!”

He dove headfirst into the leather interior.
 
A stampede of rushing fans slammed into the door, crashing it shut, a few faces hitting the window and smearing it with lipstick.

Antonio arranged himself into a sitting position and took inventory of his appearance.
 
He was missing two buttons from his jacket sleeve and his tie had somehow come undone.
 
He retied it using the visor mirror.
 
“Thank you,” he said to the driver.

“Look, I know you guys got a mess on your hands here, but I’m missing other calls.
 
The longer I sit around the more money I lose, know what I mean?”

Antonio fitted his BlackBerry safely into the belt holster.
 
“Bring down the privacy panel.
 
I want to speak to
Brandon
’s manager.”

The driver hit the button.
 
“Can you get us outta here?”

“No, but I’ve called in reinforcements.”

The back of the limo was dark save for the glow of a laptop screen illuminating a man’s face and eyeglasses.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir.
 
Are you Martin Kline, the tour manager?”

“Look,” said Marty.
 
“I know you’re pissed off about all this but the kid does what he wants to do.
 
I’m not his parole officer or his momma, not that he would listen to either one of them any more than he listens to me.”

“If you don’t mind,” said Antonio.
 
“I’m coming back to try and arrange a safe retreat.”

Marty waved him over.
 
“Come on in, the water’s fine.
 
Who are you anyways?”

Antonio swiveled around and stuck his feet through the privacy window and leveraged his body up and over, emerging on the other side sitting opposite the tour manager.
 
“Antonio Cruz, Head
Butler
.
 
Welcome to the Native Sun Casino.”
 
He pressed a button on his BlackBerry and asked, “Would you like a refill on your drink, Mr. Kline?”

“You bet.
 
And call me Marty.”

“Hello Sonny.
 
It appears that I’ll need your help after all.”
 
He constructed a fresh drink from the contents of the sidebar.
 
“Report to the recycle room on the lower level.
 
When you hear the limousine honk, raise number three bay door.
 
You will have to be ready to lower it again immediately.
 
Have two golf carts waiting in the freight elevator.
 
Security top and bottom, plus handlers en route.
 
One more thing.
 
Procure from retail a Native Sun Casino baseball cap and nylon jacket.
 
Thank you, Sonny.”
 
He splashed a touch of Perrier over the scotch and ice, and then handed it to Marty.
 
“I think you’ll find that the carbonation will settle your stomach.”

“How did you know my stomach was acting up?”

“The roll of antacids on the seat next to you.”

“That kid’s given me an ulcer.
 
Hey.
 
Do you think I say
fucking
wrong, I mean, grammatically speaking?”

Antonio was about to answer when the wail of police sirens cut through the din of BranFans.
 
“I think it’s time for
Brandon
to join us.”

Marty took a healthy slug of his drink.
 
“I guess I should go and get him.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

Brandon
’s legs dropped through the sunroof, kicking in the air until they found the seat, followed quickly by his bare torso and flushed face.
 
“Somebody called the cops!”
 
He dropped into the seat.
 
A black bra sailed through the sunroof and into his lap.
 
He picked up and sniffed loudly.
 
“Smells like teen titty!”
 
He suddenly noticed there was a third person in the limo.
 
“Who are you?”

“Antonio Cruz, Head
Butler
.
 
Welcome to the Native Sun Casino.”
 
Antonio reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a slightly smashed clipped white rose.
 
“It suffered some damage during transport,” said Antonio.
 
“But Miss Moon sends her love.”

Brandon
glanced at Marty and then flung the bra back through the sunroof.
  
“Thanks,” he muttered, taking the rose and putting it to his nose, staring at Antonio over the spread of petals.

Antonio turned and said to the driver, “We’ll be ready to leave in a moment.
 
We’re going around the back, down the delivery route to Recycle Dock Three.”

Through the tinted windows the broad backs of Connecticut State Troopers could be seen forming a barrier around the limo.

Antonio’s BlackBerry buzzed.
 
“This is Antonio.”
 
He listened for a moment.
 
“
Brandon
,” he said finally, “please move over on the seat, sir.
 
Just a bit to your right.”

Brandon
frowned.
 
“What for?”

A foot clad in a brown leather
Oxford
plunged through the sunroof and stamped down on
Brandon
’s groin.

Brandon
screamed in perfect pitch, his body jackknifing.

The foot was followed by the body of a man who, when he was finished climbing through the sunroof and sitting on the seat, said, “Hey Antonio, how’s your night going?”