Las Vegas Juice

By Jerry Craig Gatch

The good times of pre-AIDS Las Vegas is suddenly interrupted for attorney and private investigator Reggie Darr; the love of his life, Carla; his muscle-bound male friends; and his unusual collection of roommates. A serial killer stalks the Strip, threatening tourism and everyday life for Las Vegas residents.

Together with the FBI and Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, Reggie devises an unconventional plan to identify and capture or kill the pervert who threatens the usual din of the Las Vegas casinos. Accomplishing this will require great sacrifice on the part of Reggie, his friends, and a couple hundred citizens of Las Vegas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514402375

Jerry Craig Gatch

Jerry Gatch has lived and worked in fourteen different cities and countries. He lived in Las Vegas for twelve years in the seventies and early eighties. His stories are inspired by people encountered and events experienced in the places he lived. Today, Jerry is a retired CPA living in Southeast Texas. His first novel, “Say Goodbye to Saigon,” was very well received, and “Las Vegas Juice” is his second attempt at fiction. Look for additional stories in the future based on Jerry’s time spent in the Texas oil business as well as living in the beautiful islands of Micronesia the Caribbean and Asia.

Book preview

1

Thanks a lot, Reg! Want to come in for a cup of coffee and a nice blow job to get your day going?

I appreciate the invite, Darlene, but I really need to get to the office.

It is 6:30 AM. I have just bailed out Darlene on her usual prostitution bust for the fifth time in a year, and I’m dropping her off at her apartment.

She says, Well, okay, see you soon then.

I hope it won’t be to bail you out again. You need to be more careful out there on the Strip, girl. Remember, if the trick will do anything illegal, he is not a cop. Get him to smoke a joint with you and you know you’re clear.

I wave goodbye and drive my six year-old Cadillac out into Paradise Road traffic. Darlene is my first paying client in two days and the fee is not much. My standard fee for a prostitution bust is $100 which includes a ride home. If a bond is required, I can write that too and collect another $100. Business is not exactly booming.

Allow me to introduce myself. Reggie Darr is my name and helping good people in trouble is my game. I am a licensed attorney in Nevada though I don’t publicly practice law. I also hold licenses as a bondsman and private investigator.

Mostly my income comes from bailing out hookers and pot smokers, collecting street debts or snapping pictures of a cheating spouse. If there is a bail hearing, I can also represent them as initial attorney of record. Any legal action beyond that, I hand the client off to my pal from law school, Morton Barker.

I don’t help violent persons, child molesters, hard drug dealers or run-of-the-mill street perverts who inhabit Las Vegas in large numbers. But, I do know every free-lance hooker who has been in town for a few months or more. I am their go to guy after they proposition the wrong man at a casino bar and wind up in the holding tank down at Metro. Most of my lady clients are real lookers, and they are all sexually talented. There are some pretty nice perks that go with this job, but that doesn’t help pay the office bills.

I stop at the Peppermill for some breakfast and grab the morning Review Journal. I scan the newspaper as I eat and look for something that might provide an opportunity for a fee. I circle a car crash story and the obituary of a 42-yo welder who died of lung cancer. There could be a personal injury client for Mort in one of these cases, maybe both. Since I own 10% of Morton Barker, Esq., P.C., I refer all the clients that I don’t want to him for full legal services.

Mort and I attended UNLV together. Then, in 1969, we graduated from UCLA law school and passed the bar exam together. Between UNLV and law school, we had been drafted at the same time though we were in separate units in Vietnam. We were and are the closest of friends. I had already decided that being an attorney was merely a credential I wanted to own. It was not how I intended to make my living. I wanted to be on the streets working with real people, not holed up in a law library.

Mort wanted it the other way. He wanted to be a traditional lawyer with a real office. Mort was not interested in one of the big law firms, however. His vision was a one or two lawyer practice with an office in a converted old house in the downtown area of Las Vegas. Mort intended to do a lot of pro-bono work with local charities and earn his overhead, primarily from wills, divorces and injury clients. He was already lined up with the Boys Clubs of Las Vegas to become their pro-bono general counsel.

Shortly before we finished law school, I received a $20,000 inheritance from an Aunt who went to the hereafter. Mort was still set on opening a law office but didn’t have a dime to his name. We made a deal where I would use my inheritance to make a down payment on an old house downtown at Sixth & Bonneville, refurbish it and equip it to serve as both of our offices.

Mort gave me 10% interest in his law practice, which technically makes us law partners. He also continues to pay me $500 a month to rent the front portion of the building where he hangs out his shingle on Sixth Street. My office is in the back with a separate entrance identified only by stenciling on the door. Mort and I each have a door to the reception area and we share a dedicated secretary/receptionist/bookkeeper, Carla Stoler.

Somehow, we have managed to survive with this arrangement for over six years now. But I need a big case. My loyal old Caddie is nearing the end of its days.

I park in my regular space at the office and get some coffee going. It is 8:30 AM, a little early for Carla, our feisty Gal Friday. Carla is in her early thirties and runs our office with amazing efficiency. She has worked for us for over four years and we are very lucky to have her. She is half Jewish, half Italian and quite a treat to look at. She has shoulder length brown hair, big beautiful brown eyes, legs to equal any showgirl on the Strip and a generous bust. I think Carla bears a remarkable resemblance to Sophia Loren, in both face and body.

The way Carla keeps Mort and I organized comes naturally from her Jewish heritage. But, when she gets her dander up about something, her Italian side takes over. My feelings toward Carla have taken a turn in the last few months which I don’t fully understand yet, although the most intimate we have ever been is a kiss on the cheek.

I drink coffee at my desk and pretty soon Carla walks in. Today, she wears tight pants and a low cut blouse. I prefer her mini-skirts but today’s blouse selection is also a treat.

Carla’s voice is rising as she approaches me, Morning Reggie. When are you going to pay First National and get that loan jerk off my back. They want their mortgage payments and I’m running out of excuses, goddammit!

Look, Carla baby, tell him that I’m out of town working on a big case and as soon as I get back, there will be plenty of money. Love the blouse by the way.

Carla’s mood softens a little, Thanks, Reg. I like this one too. And I laid that out-of-town story on the bank man last month.

Well, you’ll think of something. Business is picking up. I can feel it. I already made $200 today. Darlene got popped again last night.

And did you get the usual BJ from her, too? We can’t put that on the books you know.

She offered but I was not in the mood. I need a big client more than I need sex right now ... and I absolutely cannot believe I’m saying that!

Carla turns to walk out of the room. I’m getting the thermometer. Maybe you have a fever.

2

Mort walks into my office, Morning, Reggie.

I nod my head, Morton. Here’s a couple of things I found in the RJ that might interest you.

Mort takes the newspaper and tucks it under his arm, Ran into old Clyde Edwards last night. I didn’t recognize him at first because he had on one of his disguises. I got the feeling that they had just finished a job but I didn’t want to know any details. You remember Clyde don’t you?

I laugh, The Godfather of all slot cheats? Nobody who ever met Clyde could forget him. Was Bubbles with him? I have not seen them in a couple of years.

Yeah, Bubbles was there. They were headed in for dinner at the DI. You know, Clyde swears that is her real name. When he came along and married her, he probably saved her from the old strippers home because she was getting a little old for Crazy Horse. She must be fifty something now but still has that incredible set of tits. Mort cups his hands and holds them about a foot from his chest as we laugh together.

"Anyway, Clyde said for you to give him a call. Something he wants to talk to you about. I’ll tell you my favorite Clyde Edwards story real quick then I have a client coming in.

I represented Clyde a few years ago when he was subpoenaed to testify at a Senate hearing in Carson City on cheating at gambling. You may remember it. My main role was to scrutinize the immunity agreement the Senate had prepared so that nothing Clyde said could be held against him. He stole the show after that. Clyde can be very flamboyant and eloquent you know. His personality soon had control of the hearing. I still remember his opening statement.

Senators, I don’t know why you guys are wasting the taxpayers’ and my money by bringing me in for this hearing on cheating. I don’t cheat anybody. When my team moves on a large progressive jackpot, it is overdue to hit anyway. The casino does not lose any money because they are already prepared to pay it to someone. My guys support families and buy things in Clark County instead of sending that jackpot money off to SoCal. We keep it local.

I tell you, Clyde sounded more like a community activist than a slot cheat mastermind. Real piece of work, that Clyde. Well, give him a call. I need to go.

Clyde Edwards. I have not thought about him in a while. He must be sixty-three or four by now. He is a legend among juiced residents of Nevada. Thirty years of cheating machine games without ever even being arrested. Clyde has a crew of about forty hand picked followers from which he selects the ones needed for any particular take off.

His disguises come from years of experience with make-up, facial putty, hair coloring, a variety of speaking accents and Millie. Millie was a make-over artist in Hollywood until Clyde hired her away and moved her to Las Vegas. She has created appearance characters for the screen and TV from King Kong to the Incredible Hulk. Millie can make Clyde or any of his team look like Chinese teenagers if that’s what they want.

I know Clyde has plenty of money. I don’t know what he wants me to do but this could be the big case I have been needing to catch up the bills. I also know that a lot of the quote Mort had attributed to Clyde is true. A casino does not lose any money when a large progressive jackpot gets hit. It already has that money set aside from previous player losses to pay the big one. Maybe it’s stealing and maybe it’s not. At least there is no violence involved, only ingenuity. And, I secretly think that Clyde is a genius.

I pick up the phone to call Clyde and find the line dead. Frustrated, I call out, Carla, did you pay the goddamn phone bill?

She yells back, I didn’t have enough money in the account until Mort gave me his rent yesterday. I paid it on the way to work this morning but it was already scheduled for disconnect last night. It should be working again by the end of the day. I have this personal line at my desk. I pay that one myself. Need to make a call?

Looking down Carla’s blouse at her perfect cleavage, I stand at her desk and call Clyde’s home. A tired female voice answers, Helloooo.

Hi Bubbles, this is Reggie Darr. Do you remember me?

Well, of course I do Reggie. You came to one of my 39th birthday parties. What an orgy that turned into, huh? When are you going to come back and give me another one of your great tit-fucks. I do like that so.

I am temporarily struck with the magnificent mammary memory and then say, Well, I’m not sure when I might be seeing you again, Bubbles. Right now I’m calling for Clyde. I think it’s business. By the way, do you have another 39th birthday party coming up anytime soon?

It’s next month. I am putting you on the guest list right now. Clyde is out in his shop but I know he wants to talk to you. Hold on while I switch you out there.

Clyde clicks on and says, Well, hello Reggie! How’ve you been, boy?

I lie, Couldn’t be better Clyde. How’s tricks with you lately?

Top of the world, my friend, top of the world. I assume that Mort told you I wanted to talk to you. Can you come to my house about four this afternoon? I’m working on something important right now and I have Millie designing a special mask. Come at four and we’ll have a drink.

You got it, Clyde. See you at four.

3

Clyde’s place is a house in the same way that Caesar’s Palace might be called a bar. His estate sits on a five acre site on the West side where upscale residential development is becoming more popular because the Las Vegas valley is filling up East of the Strip. It’s a very nice neighborhood on the edge of the desert. The main home is about 6,000 square feet. Behind the great house sits a large covered patio party area and a large pool where Clyde swims laps every morning and Bubbles works on her all-over tan. Two guest bungalows are set around the pool and a small horse stable is situated fifty yards downwind.

Bubbles answers the door wearing a straining bikini top and short shorts. I unconsciously speak to her boobs, Hi, Bubbles. You look as spectacular as I remember.

My face is up here, Reggie. She is smiling as I adjust my look upward and actually blush a little.

I stammer out, Sorry, Bubbles. They’re a natural attraction for any red-blooded male.

It’s okay. I’m used to it and, besides, I like watching you admire them. Bubbles drops her bikini top and says, Go ahead and enjoy yourself for a minute but Clyde is expecting you.

I bury my face between her abundant breasts and start kissing and squeezing them all over. Bubbles is moaning as she begins to talk, You know, Clyde and I have the perfect marriage. I fuck who I want to and he fucks who he wants to. I gave him the child he always wanted and he supports me in the style I always wanted. It’s a nice arrangement for both of us but he does get upset when it interferes with his business.

I give each of her twins one last lick and say, Yeah, I better go see him while I can still walk without looking like a pole vaulter. Thanks for the delightful greeting, Bubbles. You are quite a gal. Where is Clyde anyway?

When you come to my 39th birthday party, Reggie, don’t bother bringing me a gift. I know what I want from you this birthday. She looks down at the bulge in my pants. Clyde is in his shop out behind the North cabana. You can’t even see it from the road.

Just for the record, Bubbles, what is your bra size?

Oh, it’s 38 double E. Back when I was still stripping for a living, these tits were my main money maker.

Clyde’s shop is the size of the whole service bay at a Chevy dealer. I find a door on one end and walk into what could be a waiting room at a dentist office. Four upholstered chairs, a table with magazines and a coffee pot which is empty. All very generic and no hint of what might be happening in the rest of the place. The only unusual thing is a keypad and a telephone which hang on the far wall next to another door which presumably leads to the shop area. Since I don’t know what numbers the keypad is looking for, I pick up the phone.

Clyde’s voice comes through, Yeah?

It’s Reggie.

A buzzer sounds and a solid-sounding door latch slides open. I walk inside the inner sanctum of Clyde’s research and development activities.

The front quarter of the shop is obviously Millie’s workspace but she’s not there. A half dozen head mannequins line one table. Most of them wear a disguise mask or wig in different stages of development. Another wall has a huge makeup mirror and barber’s chair with lighting controlled by a rheostat. Next to the mirror are hundreds of bottles, jars and tubes of various theatrical cosmetics. Each of Clyde’s team has to pass through Millie before going out on a job.

I see Clyde’s grey, turning white, head of hair in the far back and walk towards him. Without looking up, Clyde yells out, Come on over Reggie. I’m just finishing up here.

This place is amazing. There are twelve slot machines spread around the work area, with work tables nearby containing strange looking tools, meters and oscilloscopes. Except for three old mechanical slots which sit in a corner cluster, the machines are various models of the new electro-mechanical games which are taking over Las Vegas. Those stand with their doors open and various pieces of their innards removed. I suspect that Clyde has a better testing lab for these new games than the Nevada Gaming Control Board.

Clyde is wearing safety goggles as he bends over a bench grinding and buffing machine which is running. As I approach him to shake hands, Clyde glances at my crotch and says, I see you already said hello to Bubbles.

I stammer a second and say, Well, you know how it is with Bubbles, Clyde. What a stunning chest she has. You done good when you latched onto her. Tell me the truth, though. How much of her is real and how much is silicone?

Clyde turns off the buffer machine and holds the key he was working on up to the light. Those things are one hundred percent real, Reggie! When I met her, she was thinking about breast reduction surgery but I talked her out of it. For her age, her tits barely sag at all, even after she had Emily. She is a freak of nature and meant for pure pleasure. I kind of like her, don’t you?

Before I can answer, Clyde says, "You see this funny looking key, Reg? It’s for a progressive slot machine. The motherfuckers who sell these new locks brag that their keys cannot be reproduced. So, I went to the factory in Chicago where they make these special locks and made them think I was an Australian casino boss looking to maybe change out all 600 of my game locks. They gave me two demo locks and keys and I talked them into selling me that weird machine over there that will make new keys. The machine is only worth a couple grand but I offered them four. Everybody was happy.

So now, two years later, nearly every slot in town uses this lock which they think is totally secure. But if I get a clay impression of the key, I can make a duplicate for any one of them right here in an afternoon. Fuck those sons-a-bitches and their perfect lock. Clyde ties a tag onto the key he has been working on, looks at the log book he was using and writes Sahara $ 1147 on the tag.

We will test this key next time we are in the Sahara just to make sure it works. It goes in the key safe after that until the next time that dollar machine’s jackpot gets around $50,000 or so. That’s when we take it off.

I listen intently to Clyde’s candid information. "Wonder what other gadgets he’s got in here?"

Clyde says, Well, I’m finished for today. How about having that drink I promised you? I have some 25 year-old Glenfiddich Single Malt that’s smooth as honey.

Sounds real good, Clyde.

I converted the North bungalow into my leisure room. I have a bar in there, Clyde is saying as he locks his shop and we walk to the bungalow.

4

A little girl sits in one corner of Clyde’s leisure room playing Pong on a new Atari screen. Clyde says, That’s enough for today sweetheart. Turn that thing off and come over here.

Clyde picks up the little girl and she hugs his neck. Turning to me, he says, This is my sweet daughter, Emily. Sweetheart, this is Mr. Darr.

Emily extends her hand to me, Hello Mr. Darr. Pleased to make your acquaintance.

I take her tiny hand and tell her, You sure are pretty, Emily. And smart, too.

I know.

Clyde says to her, Tell Mr. Darr how old you are.

Four years, six months and change.

And how old was I when Mommy and I made you.

Sixty. That’s pretty old but you are still the bestest Daddy in the whole world. Emily gives him a kiss on the cheek as Clyde beams.

Clyde stands her on the floor and says, You run along now. Mr. Darr and I need to talk for a while. Tell Mommy that we will go to Alpine Village for German food tonight. Go on, scoot. Clyde affectionately pats her little bottom and Emily runs off to the main house.

I tell him, She is an absolute doll, Clyde. You must be very proud.

Yeah, she’s a good kid. But, I hope she doesn’t grow boobs as big as Bubbles. I’ll have to sit outside every night with my fucking shotgun until she finishes college.

One side of the leisure room is a beautiful mahogany bar with six upholstered bar stools. There is a full-size pool table, a competition dart board and three lit and fully operational electro-mechanical slot machines. Five or six 19" color televisions are spread around the room, no doubt for sweating in sports bets. I take a seat on one of the stools and Clyde moves behind the bar. He pulls out his prized bottle of vintage Scotch and pours two shot glasses.

He pushes one of the glasses to me and lifts the other one, To Las Vegas where anything goes and even a stupid sonofabitch like me can get rich. We clink glasses and down our shots in a single gulp.

As Clyde refills our glasses, he begins to