Vegas Knockout: A Novel in Stories

Copyright 2014 P Moss

Smashwords Edition

First published 2012 by P Moss and CityLife Books, an imprint of Stephens Press

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Editor: Scott Dickensheets

Designer: Sue Campbell

Author Photo: Studio West Photography

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data available

ISBN: 978-1-935043-50-8 (print)

ISBN: 978-0-9915441-0-3 (e-book)

The blog of P Moss: pmoss.com

Also by P Moss

Blue Vegas — stories

Liquid Vacation: 77 Refreshing Tropical Drinks from Frankies Tiki Room in Las Vegas

For John O’Donnell

Las Vegas is the most extraordinary place on earth.

Its existence represents absolutely everything.

 And absolutely nothing.

Contents

Unemployed Chop Suey Salesmen

Pug Ugly

The Biggest Loser

Old Money

Bugged

Drinking Buddies

The Jimmy Dot Circus

Community Property

Waffles at Tiffany’s

Sole Survivor

Choked

Pop Tart Pop Shot

Hooked

The Real Thing

The Knockout

Praise the Lord, God Dammit

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Free Excerpt from Blue Vegas

Copyright

Unemployed Chop Suey Salesmen

Fill it up.

The waitress placed a check on top of the empty coffee mug.

I said, fill it up! A surprisingly big noise from the rawboned scuffler in a sweat-stained baseball cap who looked like he might fall over if he sneezed too hard.

Time for you to go.

I got a right to sit here as long as I want.

No more right than buying Ex-Lax gives you to hang out at Walgreen’s until you shit all over the floor. The waitress had worked this counter far too long to tolerate deadbeats who demanded free refills. Now pay for your coffee and beat it.

Lawford sat two stools down jotting something on his napkin, amused by this late-morning scene. Absorbing the local color at this no-frills, no-nonsense, fluorescently lit diner tucked between a bail bondsman and a pawn shop on the no-mans-land taint of Las Vegas Boulevard between the Strip and downtown. Where those breaking fast from the gate collided with night owls winding down the clock. Neutral ground for wiseguys and weirdos. Cops and crooks. A midget Elvis in full white jumpsuit regalia noshed pickles and pastrami with two off-duty strippers. Bookmakers commiserated bad beats while cab drivers gossiped the latest grapevine scuttlebutt.

Lawford had filled both sides of the napkin and folded it into his pocket. The waitress noticed and handed him a new one.

What’s that guy’s story? Lawford asked her, nodding toward the deadbeat who picked through pocket lint prospecting for change.

Just another unemployed chop suey salesman trying to get something for nothing. She refilled Lawford’s coffee, one eye glued to The Price Is Right on the old nineteen-inch RCA behind the counter. Complimented the stylish argyle sweater-vest that made him an odd fit in a place made up of odd fits. You in town for the fight, Hon?

Lawford nodded. A thirty-three-year-old magazine writer from New York looking for a fresh angle on what a relentless media frenzy hyped as the event of a lifetime. The Champ versus Killer Kong. The most popular heavyweight boxing champion in a hundred years squaring off against a vicious challenger who had already killed once in the ring and vowed to do it again Saturday night at the MGM. But the fight was four days away, and at the moment Lawford was more interested in the bizarre subculture he had stumbled upon at Max E’s Delicatessen. Tried to imagine the stories behind the faces. Wondered what made these people tick as he scribbled a private shorthand on the new napkin.

Kong’s gonna kill him, the deadbeat ranted to no one in particular. It’s legal murder and ain’t nothin’ the cops can do about it.

Ali / Frasier. Louis / Schmeling. Even James J. Corbet bare-knuckling the crap out of John L. Sullivan for twenty-one rounds in 1892 would blush in comparison to the Champ versus Killer Kong. And every man, woman and child from Las Vegas to Katmandu and back around the other way had an opinion on the outcome.

I’m tellin’ ya, the deadbeat’s rant rang louder. Kong is gonna bash the Champ’s brains in!

I’m tryin’ to eat here, barked a fat man alone in a booth by the window. You wanna mouth off, you’re gonna pay for that privilege.

I say the Champ gets it in the ring.

The fat man reached inside his red tracksuit, then slammed a thick rubber-banded roll of hundred dollar bills onto the table next to his plate. Ten dimes says nobody croaks in the ring. Now either put up or shut up before my eggs get cold.

Piss on your lousy ten grand, the deadbeat hollered across the restaurant. I already got a bet down.

Even a spectator like Lawford knew this wasn’t true, and not just because the deadbeat couldn’t promote the price of a cup of coffee. More money was being wagered on Saturday’s heavyweight championship fight than on all the Super Bowls combined, and most of the casinos offered a laundry list of propositions. You could bet that Killer Kong would win by a knockout. The Champ by a decision. Over / under on rounds. Which fighter would throw the first punch. What round the fight would end. Would the number of the deciding round be odd or even. You could even bet that the number of knockdowns would be more or less than the number of goals scored in the second period of the Penguins / Red Wings hockey game. The journalist wasn’t sure if it was an edict from the Gaming Control Board or just common decency, but he knew for a fact that no casino offered a price on whether Killer Kong would make good on his promise to murder the Champ in the ring.

Give me five to one odds, the midget Elvis yelled to the fat man. Bravado in his challenge to impress the strippers.

Two to one, the fat man shot back through a mouthful of eggs.

Journalists from every media outlet in the world were in town to cover the fight and each one would write a variation of the same story, but Lawford’s editor was not paying him to rehash the obvious. He needed an exclusive. Could this bet be the unique angle he was looking for?

A voice chimed in from a table near the door. Give me three to one odds.

Two to one. The fat man held firm.

Okay. I’ll take a grand of it.

Gimme five hundred, yelled somebody else.

As Lawford watched the gamblers cover their bets by placing cash on the fat man’s table, the article began to take shape in his mind. Vegas Underground. Vegas Exposé. The Real World Of Las Vegas Gambling. A scoop that would earn him a bonus. Maybe a Pulitzer Prize.

Five hundred more rang in from the end of the counter.

The flurry of speculation invigorated the restaurant and Lawford found himself being pulled into the action. What better way to research his article than from the inside. Get in on the bet. He could even put it on his expense account. Better yet, collect the cash if he won and expense it if he lost.

Another dime was bet. Another.

But what about the flipside? If he won, what guarantee was there he’d get paid? If he lost, what guarantee was there that the magazine would approve the receipt on his expense account? Was it even a bet he could win? Or was he being suckered like everybody else by media hype predicting that there would be a murder in the ring? Would he become one with the story or be simply consumed by the action? No time to sort it all out. It was now or never.

One thousand dollars, he called out, adrenaline booming his voice louder than he had intended. And with those three words, Lawford crossed the line from journalist to participant. He had become part of the story that would define his career.

Max! the fat man hollered toward the kitchen.

Max was a bushy-haired Jew who looked more like an Irishman. Truth be told, maybe he was. Max had three strict rules: No drinking. No drugs. And any bets made on the premises required cash up front to be held by the house, for which there would be a small handling charge. Failure to comply with any of the above would result in banishment from the delicatessen, a social blackball no self-respecting wiseguy could withstand.

Hold the bet. The fat man pushed the cash into Max’s hand, then pointed to Lawford at the counter. Plus a dime from the tourist.

The journalist took out his wallet and counted the cash inside. He was three hundred short.

In over your head, Slick? mocked the midget, inciting laughter from the regulars around him. You’re not in Kansas anymore, Slick. We gamble with money here, not corn cobs.

Max stood impatiently with his hand out.

Not too smart of you to blow your whole bankroll on that fancy sweater, the midget chuckled as he hopped onto the table. Posed, preened and did a little dance. Had the entire restaurant in stitches as he traced an argyle pattern in the air and sang, Look at me. I’m a metrosexual. Then stopped on a dime and lisped, You sure it’s metro, Slick?

I’m twice your size and twice as smart, you pint-sized prick. Next week my story will be read by three million people, and you’ll still be only three feet tall. He didn’t say it, but he wanted to. Thought better of it as the midget had home court advantage. A hundred eyes fixed upon Lawford to see if he could cover the bet. Sweat trickled down his brow.

There’s an ATM next door at the pawn shop, Hon.

You got two minutes. Max did not suffer tourists easily.

Lawford was back in one. Counted the bills carefully and handed $1,000 to the deli man. I’ll need a receipt.

You hear that! The midget howled with laughter, toppling backward and kicking his chubby little legs in the air. Slick wants a receipt!

Max disappeared into the kitchen with the money. And as the soundtrack of the delicatessen settled back into the usual kibitzing and clatter of dishes, reality punched Lawford in the face. He had just given $1,000 to a complete stranger. A stranger who, for all he knew, was already out the back door and on his way to the El Cortez to bet it on a hard eight. They didn’t award the Pulitzer Prize to prize suckers.

Relax Hon. The waitress put the check for Lawford’s bagel and coffee on the counter. "If you win, your money will be here waiting for you Saturday