Sin City (7 page)

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Authors: Harold Robbins

BOOK: Sin City
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She stood upright on the stool. Her short, thin-strapped black dress only came halfway down her thighs, exposing her copper-toned bare
legs, which were firm and smooth and shined as if she had nylons on. When she reached up to fiddle with the little screws that held on the glass cover, her short dress went up and I saw her black panties covering her crotch. I didn't know if it was my shaking hands or the shaky stool, but she lost her balance and started teetering.
I stood up, grabbing her bare legs. She fell against me and slid down. I kept my hands around her and she slipped through them, my hands going up her bare legs and into her dress until I had a handful of bun in each hand by the time her feet hit the floor. She looked up at me, her mysterious eyes barely open. Her little breasts were pressed against my chest. She said something, I wasn't sure what. My hands were burning, brain frying. The smell of her jasmine perfume stole my mind. I squeezed her buns. She stood on tiptoes and pulled my head down with her hands. Her lips were hot and wet and tasted like sex as she pushed her tongue into my mouth.
When she pulled back, I was almost breathless and just stared at her, my throbbing penis ready to burst. A shoulder strap had slipped down and her breast was exposed. I felt its sexual message down to my toes. She smiled and kissed me again with her wet lips as she pulled down the other shoulder strap. I put my hand on the exposed breast but she pulled it away and led my head down to it. I kissed her breast and tasted her nipple with my tongue. The guys at school were all breast men, the bigger the better they said, but I always thought that anything more than a mouthful was a waste.
I was shaky and scared and needed to release. My dick pressed against my pants so hard it hurt.
Suddenly her hand went down inside my pants and she grabbed my penis. “Nooo!” I cried. I leaned against her as the volcano in my pants erupted.
“It's okay,” she whispered. “Boys can have many times.”
She led me into the bedroom and to her bed. She quickly pulled her dress over her head and stood before me, breasts naked, wearing only bikini panties. I fumbled off my clothes, all except my underwear. I was a cherry, nervous as hell, and had already pre-ejaculated.
She came and put her arms around me and rubbed her naked breasts against my chest, then pulled down my shorts. I stepped out of them and tried to steer her onto the bed, but she slipped from my grasp and pushed me down on the bed, on my back. Working at the
top of my head, she started kissing me, licking my neck, going down to each of my nipples. I thought breast-fucking was only what guys did to girls, but I was wrong. When her erotic tongue teased my nipples, I felt it down to my toes.
Her tongue continued down my stomach, then to my penis, still limp. She held it up and kissed under it, running her tongue over my testicles and sucking my balls, then coming up and putting my whole penis in her mouth. As she sucked on my penis, it started to stiffen and get bigger. It grew in her mouth until she couldn't hold it all. Her mouth slipped off my erection and she grinned at me. “Boys good for many times.”
She slipped off her panties. I tried to pull her down and mount her like I had once seen a guy do with a girl in the backseat of a car at a drive-in, but she pushed me back down and straddled me, kissing me as she rubbed her cunt against my hard-on. She was soft and wet and I slipped in easy and started pumping and I gasped as her strong legs tightened their grip on my penis.
“You want to fuck daughter, but mother better.”
I loved Las Vegas. Not just the Strip but even Glitter Gulch downtown, which was a whole lot seedier than the Strip. Vegas really had stolen the title of the biggest little city in the world from Reno, which had become a poor cousin. To me, Vegas was like Hollywood, bigger than life, but even better because Betty told me that there really wasn't any place called Hollywood, that it was just a cheap and dirty street in Los Angeles and “Hollywood” was really movie studios and thousands of people scattered all over the L.A. basin. I guess the thing I liked most about Vegas was the vibration—you felt it everywhere you went, driving down the Strip or Fremont Street, walking through the casinos, in restaurants, hell, even getting gas at a self-service convenience store. The vibration came from the sound of money. There was no place else in the world where money made a louder noise than in Vegas. Some of that noise came from a guy Betty said was my father.
During the first couple of years Betty and I were in Vegas, Howard Hughes was always in the news because he was buying up the town. He even bought Harold's Club in Reno. People called him “the man who owned Las Vegas.” But they also said things about him that weren't as flattering. He stayed at the top of the Desert Inn like some kind of spider spinning webs with his money. Everyone had a Hughes story, and all of the stories were about how weird and crazy he was. It made me wonder whether being crazy could be passed from father to son.
Betty had finally broken down and told me how he ran us out of Vegas when I was only a few months old. She made me promise never to say anything about him being my father. I would have gone up and told the guy off for what he did, but I kept my mouth shut because Betty was scared of him and she was doing good in Vegas. She was in her late thirties now, still pretty but a little worn. She still went
twenty-four/seven, but there were a few lines on her face and sometimes her feet hurt from being on them all night.
But no matter how much I told myself I didn't care, the fact I passed by the Desert Inn almost every day and knew a guy who was my father and who owned the place lived there, sometimes stuck in my craw. I told Naomi about it, after swearing her to secrecy. “No father's better than a crazy one,” she told me. She had only a hazy memory of her own father, who cut out when she was three, and it was more a feeling than an image of the man. “Violence, yelling, my mother crying, that's what I remember about him and I don't want him back in my life.”
Yeah, well, at least she had that.
Like I said, I loved the Strip. I was too young to gamble, but kids could walk through the clubs to get to restaurants, shows, and hotel rooms, and I'd do that just to hear the music of the casinos, the spin of the roulette wheels and wheels of fortune, the shuffle of cards, and the jingles and jangles of the slots. So much money, so many people, and everyone having a good time—except for the sore losers.
And the celebrities—all the ones you'd want to see, guys like Elvis and Wayne Newton, Jimmy Durante, Sammy Davis, Jr., but the King of the Strip was Frank Sinatra, though you either worshipped the guy or hated him. My favorite Sinatra story was the one about a casino manager who knocked out Sinatra's two front caps. After Howard Hughes bought the Sands, Frank, who had been the top bill at the place, got pissed because he wasn't getting the respect he thought he deserved and Hughes wouldn't return his phone calls. Frank wasn't the kind of guy who controlled his temper.
Angry when the Sands casino boss cut off his credit line, he went across the street and signed to perform at Caesar's Palace, then he came back and had a confrontation with the casino manager to rub it in. Frank called the guy a few names and got popped in the mouth. Hey, maybe the tourists loved Sinatra, but the little people on the Strip had had it with him. Pretty soon the posters went up that said that the guy who popped Sinatra ought to be mayor.
I used to hang around the parking lot in back of the Desert Inn in between checking on my crew, sometimes sacking out in the Olds to get some shut-eye. I woke up in the dark one night, it was just before Thanksgiving, not that the holiday meant anything to me—Betty worked holidays because people were more generous with their tipping. I had gotten out of the car to take a piss near a Dumpster when a security guard opened a service entrance door. Headlights and engines went on and three vehicles, an ambulance and two limos, lined up at the door. Other men came out and then a man came out on a stretcher. The guy on the stretcher was naked except for a hotel towel thrown across his midsection. He was skinny, no, more than that, he was wasted, emaciated, a dried mummy almost, skin stretched taunt from bone to bone. His skin was so pale, he glowed in the dark. He had long unkempt hair and a scraggly beard. I couldn't help but stare at his sunken cheekbones and eyes that were dark sockets, his fingernails and toenails so grotesquely long and curled.
No one noticed me standing by the Dumpster except the dude himself. When the attendants paused before lifting the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, the guy's eye caught me and he turned to stare. For a moment I was jolted by recognition, not that I knew the guy, but a feeling that I should know him.
Then he was gone, hustled into the ambulance, a flock of other guys jumping into limos, and the motorcade took off like it was carrying the president or somebody.
I hailed the security guard as he was closing the service door. “Who's the roadkill?”
“You just saw Howard Hughes, kid, the richest man in the world. He's leaving Vegas. He's been here for four years, almost to the day, and damn near owns the whole state.”
“Where's he going?”
“With that guy, who knows. Probably to hell.”
 
Suke taught me more about sex in a month than the regulars at the Pink Lady had learned over a lifetime. People related in different ways and Suke was a sexual animal.
“Lo-key, all men too impatient,” she told me, as I eagerly jumped on her naked bones. She pushed me to the side. She was small built, but every ounce was muscle. “You have to talk to woman with hands and lips before you pump like dog fucking leg.”
She had me start at the top of her head, coming down the side of her cheeks, my lips caressing the soft skin of her neck and under her ear, down the lush valley between her breasts, running my tongue over her nipples, slipping down to tease her bellybutton with my tongue, working my way down the insides of her thighs and to the soles of her feet before my head disappeared in the pink between her legs. She taught me to lick her vulva and go back to her lips so she could taste her own femininity, going back slowly to the pink and the sweet little button there.
“Work it slow,” she told me, moaning with pleasure as I wet-kissed her neck while my penis spoke to her womanhood.
After a month, I considered myself quite a stud.
“You very good,” Suke said. “Your cock not as big as Naomi's Bobby but you know how to use better.”
“You fucked Naomi's boyfriend?” I was shocked.
“Only once. He love himself too much to give a woman good pleasure. But he hung like horse.”
“The big spender wants your personal attention,” the bar service manager told Betty. He jerked his head toward a guy sitting alone at a cocktail table.
The guy was big, with hulking arms and legs, a big round face, bald pate, and thick neck. Still solid, some of his pumped-up chest had slipped down to hang around the belly and hips as fat. He wore a thick gold chain around his neck, flashy gold Rolex, and a big gold ring with a ruby on his pinkie. His powder-blue shark-skin leisure suit was the kind of thing guys wore who wanted to imitate the Rat Pack. It matched the yellow silk shirt open at the neck, showing a puff of black hair like a furry cravat.
She recognized him. He had been in the lounge the night before, demanding to be comped for drinks because he dropped a wad at the craps table. He was loud and a little obnoxious, the owner of one of the big Chicago-area used-car dealerships, but he had given her a twenty-dollar tip.
She went over to him. “Hi. Matt, isn't it? A ball and a beer, Old Thompson's?”
“You got it, babe.”
When she brought the drinks, he tossed a twenty-dollar chip on her tray.
“It's comped—”
“For you, pretty lady. You know, you're the best-looking doll I've seen in Vegas.”
“Oh, com'on, this is a showgirl town.” But Betty blushed anyway. She had a vain streak in her that ate up compliments from a man. The only approval she got in life was for her looks.
When she got off her shift at midnight, he was waiting for her with a bottle in a bag. “Thought we'd have a drink in my room.”
He looked like he had already put away several drinks. Betty hesitated
but he grabbed her arm and guided her toward the hotel elevators.
“The first time I saw you, I flipped, and that's no bull. I have so damn much money I can't spend it all and I've never found a woman to really enjoy spending it on until I laid eyes on you.”
Yeah, it was bullshit, Betty knew it, but the guy had money and liked her, so why not show him a good time? Who knows? she thought, maybe they'd really click. He was probably lonely despite his money and business. Lots of guys she ran into in Vegas were like that. They spent all their time getting rich and then didn't know how to spend the money. Once in a while a girl got lucky and hit the marriage jackpot with one. And when they didn't, the guy usually gave them a nice tip for their time.
She wasn't a whore, even prided herself that she wasn't into the soft prostitution that many of the lounge girls practiced by going up to a room with a guy and picking up fifty bucks for half an hour's work. She believed that she had true affection for all of the guys she slept with. She never asked for money and was always a little shy when it was offered. She would push it back and make the guy offer it again before she'd keep it, then give him a peck on the lips.
Once they got inside his room, Matt was all over her like a wild animal in heat. His big sprawling hands started pawing at her breasts, then he ripped open the thin cotton blouse.
She pushed him back. “Hey, dammit, that cost me money!”
“I'll buy you a dozen blouses, babe.”
He managed to get her skirt and blouse off and pulled her slip up over her head. Standing in her pink panties and bra he forced her roughly down on the bed and sprawled on top of her.
“Jesus, slow down a little.”
“I know what you want, babe.” She felt the throbbing bulge against her skin. As he unzipped his pants, he hungrily devoured her thin lips and forced his tongue in her mouth. He tasted like whiskey.
He jerked off her panties and with one violent motion thrust his phallus deep inside her and started pumping. The intensity of his passion increased and she was about to scream for him to stop when he finally exploded inside her. He felt heavy on her and she pushed him off her body as he lay gasping beside her. She felt used, dirty, and her body ached. She never dreamed it would be like this. He was dozing
off when she quietly slipped off the bed and got dressed.
“Bastard,” she muttered under her breath as she examined her torn blouse.
He had thrown his fat money clip onto the end table and she picked it up, peeling off a ten, a five, and two ones—the blouse had cost seventeen dollars. She put the money clip back on the table.
As she turned around, he came off the bed yelling, “Thieving bitch!” He moved fast for a big guy. His big fist caught her in an uppercut, slamming her gaping mouth shut, breaking her jaw, and driving her teeth into her gums. The punch lifted her from her feet and sent her flying backward against a wall. She bounced off and he hit her again, this time the punch landed on the side of her head. She fell to the floor, her brain bleeding inside her skull.

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