Divas Las Vegas (19 page)

"Do you think anything is wrong?" Justin asked, with
real and unexpected concern creeping into his voice.

"Probably not. It happens all the time around here.
Not to sound bigoted or anything, but a lot of the foreign
workers in the hotels have problems. Sometimes with immigration, sometimes with money. Who knows? But I'm sure he's okay. Hey, if you like, you can leave me a message and
I'll make sure to give it to him should he come back," he
offered, nice as he could be. It was refreshing to see such a
well-mannered genie for a change.

Justin wrote Ahmed a note on a napkin. It said to meet
him in the food court at New York-New York at seven.
That sounded like a good idea to me, as I was seriously
jonesing for a Nathan's hot dog. Justin handed the note
to the bartender, who promptly folded it and placed it in
his pocket. We thanked him for his help and left. And if
you find it strange that we were in a bar and didn't order a
drink, well, hey, it was killing me too, but we didn't want to
chance another run-in with the evil genie.

"I'm glad you didn't write down where we were actually
staying, Justin. Good idea," I told him.

"Yeah, why take any chances. Besides, I have this sudden
yen for a Nathan's hot dog." (I guess after spending so many
years together, our minds were finally on the same wavelength. Too scary, huh? Well, I prayed that he was finally
thinking like me and not vice versa.)

We made a hasty retreat from the Aladdin, and were
on the sidewalk for less than a minute before we heard
another "Psst." We both jumped at the sound. Recent events
had made us both rather edgy, what with possibly being
murdered and all. And when we turned around to see who
was making the leaky tire sound at us, we were surprised to
see Ahmed himself, in the glorious flesh.

"Ahmed!" we both shouted, causing our seemingly
missing friend to wince.

He walked toward us very fast, with a nice-sized backpack slung over his shoulder and a worried look on his
otherwise adorable face. It wasn't too hard to figure out that
something was wrong. But did his problems have anything
to do with ours? That was my greatest fear at that moment.
We'd have to wait and find that out, though, as he was quickly pulling us away from the hotel and up the street,
obviously not in the mood for chitchat. In any case, when
Justin nudged me and indicated with his head that I should
look over to our right, talk was the last thing on my mind.
And Ahmed's too, because he noticed the now-familiar
black car inching along beside us and promptly veered us
onto the people mover that leads on into Bally's.

The car kept going as we turned, but my heart stopped
for a few seconds and I let out an audible gulp. First off,
Bally's is not on my top-ten list. Sure, the plaza out front
is neat, what with the pulsating colored columns and nifty
people mover and all, but the casino is average and has very
little flair. But what really had me worried was the way
our little friend Ahmed was hyperventilating and turning
white, which wasn't easy considering his usually dark
complexion.

"Are you okay, Ahmed?" I asked as we ever so slowly
made our way along the people mover.

Fortunately, our movement was now motorized, because
Ahmed didn't look as if he had the energy to be moving
on his own. Rather than answer, he nodded a weak yes.
We took that as a sign to continue, but neither of us said
anything else. We were too worried for his health-or, more
likely, for our own-to ask him any questions. And when
we finally made it into the casino, he politely collapsed in a
corner as we stood protectively over him.

"Now what?" I asked.

"Beats me."

"He's your boyfriend," I mentioned.

"Nice try. I'd say extended trick at this point, and I'm
certainly not responsible for his well-being."

"Fine. What should we do, then? Leave him here like
this?" I was tempted to do just that.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," he replied,
pulling out his wallet and his cell phone.

"Who are you calling at a time like this?"

He lifted his finger to indicate wait, and then dialed.
He was looking at a business card I didn't recognize; from
where I was standing, in front of our slouching friend, it
was hard to see anything but the casino. Short of an angel,
I couldn't begin to imagine who could help us.

Justin spoke into the phone. "Hello, Earl? This is Justin,
do you remember me? ... (pause) ... Good, listen, we need
your help. Could you pull up to Flamingo Road and meet us
outside Bally's?... (pause again) ... Good. Thanks. See you
soon, and please hurry."

He hung up and looked at me with a self-congratulatory
grin.

"Who's Earl?" I asked.

He answered in a raspy, coughing, Harvey Fierstein-like
voice, "How quickly you forget our friendly neighborhood
cab driver."

"Ah, good idea," I said, helping him lift the near lifeless
Ahmed up and over to the side exit of the casino.

"Well, it ain't no limo, but it's sure as hell better than a
hearse," he said as we carried our downed acquaintance out
to the street and over to the already waiting taxi.

Earl came running out to help us get Ahmed in. As the
three of us worked on that, I started to think that I was
getting too old for all of this. Is there an age limit for getting
involved in life-threatening high jinks? Shouldn't I be settling
down in the country somewhere with my partner and our
Irish setter, maybe growing a nice little herb garden and
taking pottery classes? Before I could dwell too much on the
thought, however, my reverie was broken by the stink of the
cab and the squeal of the tires as we sped away.

"I see you guys have been keeping yourself busy," Earl
hacked, and looked at us though the rearview mirror. "Is
that Ahmed you have back there?"

"How do you know Ahmed?" I asked curiously.

"Small town, few queers," he explained. "Nice kid,
though. Is he all right?"

"Don't know. I think he's just exhausted, but it looks like
he's in some kind of mess. Unfortunately, he sort of passed
out before he could tell us anything," I explained.

"Well, then, where am I taking you this time? Jacques told
me you were no longer staying at the Atlantis. I should've
warned you that my brother is a bit, um, dramatic at times.
Did you guys find an alternative?"

The answer to that, I realized sadly, was neither yes nor
no. Our fate was still up in the air. And our latest unexpected pickle wasn't helping matters any. What do you do
with a passed-out Palestinian? Taking him back with us to
Caesar's seemed risky and difficult, seeing as we didn't even
know if we had a room there yet. So, when we didn't answer
his question, I think Earl sensed we were in trouble. Once
again he came to our rescue.

"I'm getting off duty in a bit anyway, so Ahmed can
come with me," Earl offered. "If he gets any worse, I'll take
him to the hospital, but he looks like he's breathing back
there, so maybe he's just sleeping it off. You guys can check
in on him tomorrow, okay?" We wholeheartedly accepted
and thanked him.

Granted, we didn't really know Earl all that well, but,
for that matter, we really didn't know Ahmed either. And
seeing as someone was either following or trying to kill one,
two, or all three of us, it was probably the best thing to
do. Besides, except for a little second-hand smoke inhalation, Earl seemed the safest bet right about then. Actually,
as soon as Earl made the offer I breathed a sigh of relief.
Justin and I were having enough trouble taking care of just
the two of us.

We told Earl to take us to Caesar's, which was just up the
block. He gave us his home number before he dropped us
off, and we promised we'd call tomorrow to check up on the both of them. Then we jumped out of the taxi and screamed
our thanks as he pulled away.

"What a day," I said as we headed into the Palace.

"Urn, Em?" Justin said, looking over at me.

"Urn, yes?" I said, looking back at him.

"Why are you carrying Ahmed's backpack?"

"Well, fuck me. Damn. I had it over my shoulder ever
since he passed out. I forgot to leave it with him when Earl
pulled away," I replied, smacking my head in disbelief.

"Oh, well," he said as we walked up to the bar where
we were meeting Bradley. "No use crying over lost luggage.
We'll just get it back to him tomorrow."

"What a day," I reiterated.

"And it ain't over yet," he quickly added, pointing toward
the entrance, where Bradley had appeared, no longer in his
royal attire.

Our newfound long-lost friend grabbed a seat as he
ordered us a round of martinis. "Good news," he said.

"We could use some," I said. "Do we have a room?"

"Sure do!" he squealed. I guess the butch in him was
only breastplate deep.

"That's great!" I shouted, happy for the first time that
day.

Justin nodded his thanks, but it was plainly obvious that
he was reluctant to be beholden to our regal rescuer. Still,
we all knew the alternatives: none. And once we finished
our martinis, and then another round for good measure, we
were off to reclaim our belongings and see our latest digs.
(Hey, I was willing to go for thirds, but Bradley had plans
and needed to get going. I could only imagine that they were
with Marvin, but was gracious enough not to ask.)

"Now, it's not much, but it's better than nothing,"
Bradley warned as we made our way down a long corridor.
"The hotel almost never rents this room out."

I gulped as he unlocked the door and led us in. Once more we were greeted with the now-familiar scent of chlorine. Again I could only imagine what we had done to fuck
up our karma so badly, but as we threw our stuff on our
beds, all I could say was thank you. The phrase "beggars
can't be choosers" never before had so much meaning.

"Sorry, the treatment room for the pool is right next
door, and the smell sort of wafts through the walls," Bradley
explained.

"That's okay. Thanks for getting this for us. We were
kinda desperate," I told him.

"Sure, not a problem, but I have to be running now, so
if there isn't anything else I can do for you..." He lingered,
looking over to Justin for a suggestion. Justin, however,
simply nodded his thank-you and looked away. Poor Bradley,
he really was making an effort, but Justin was having none
of it. In any case, he was gone in a flash.

Now alone with Justin in our brand-new quarters, the
best I could say was that no one knew where we were. So,
for the time being, we were apparently safe and sound.
(Well, safe, anyway.)

"Now what?" I asked.

"I don't know about you, but I'm still craving that hot
dog. What say we walk down to New York-New York?" he
suggested.

"Sounds like a plan," I said. "Let's go give our regards
to Broadway."

"Show queen."

"Slut."

Isn't it amazing? Even under all that pressure, we still
managed to show our love for each other.

We made our way up the Strip to New York-New York,
incognito. Though one would have to wonder if giant white
sun hats and rhinestone-studded sunglasses did much to
make us any less conspicuous. Okay, granted, our lives may have been at risk, but dressing down simply wasn't our
thing. Besides, it was nearing dinnertime and the streets
were packed with people. We were awash in tacky tourists,
many of whom were dressed similarly. (Scary, but true.) So,
for the time being, we blended safely in.

Ten minutes later, we were nearing the end of the Strip
and entering the casino. Now here's another one of those
Las Vegas theme casinos that's simply not my cup of tea. I
will admit that the enormity and scale of the whole complex
is impressive, what with the tugboats blowing water beneath
the Statue of Liberty, and the Brooklyn Bridge set out in front
of the New York skyline, and the roller coaster winding its
way around and through the buildings; but this hotel caters
to families, as do many of the newer hotels, and I don't find
it relaxing trying to sidestep children as I make my way to
gamble and/or drink (more and than or). So here's a general
rule for you: If a hotel has a game room for children somewhere on the premises, avoid that hotel. New York-New
York just so happens to have a giant one.

Soon enough, we arrived at the food court, which is pure
kitsch and the reason we like it. Well, we like it because
it's so overdone and so fake-looking that we can't help but
laugh at their attempt to recreate a Greenwich Village neighborhood with shop fronts and sidewalk dining. Of course,
the leather shops, sex stores, and head shops are all sadly
missing. In any case, none of this makes you feel like you're
actually in New York-more like a Disneyfied version of it.
And still, it's better than Excalibur in terms of the children
quota and it's far cheaper than the food courts anywhere
else, so we eagerly ordered our hot dogs, sat down at a tiny
metal table, and made fun of the tourists who oohed and
aahed their way before our eyes.

"Look at him," Justin whispered, his mouth full of beef
by-products and sauerkraut, as he pointed to a slightly overweight, undertanned, prematurely graying man, surrounded by three screaming children and a whining, rotund wife. He
was clearly checking out the shapely calves of the gentleman
in front of him. Poor guy, he looked as though he must've
been a cutie sometime in the mid-eighties.

"Closet case," we said, simultaneously.

"There but for the grace of God go I," Justin added.

"Oh, honey, please. Some people are born completely
without closets. You, my dear friend, are one of them," I
said.

"Thank the Lord," he said.

"Amen," we both said.

For the next half hour, we gorged ourselves on hot dogs.
A giant cup of Coke later, I excused myself to go to the restroom. What with all the day's excitement, I had completely
neglected my bladderly duties. Thankfully, the restrooms
were ten feet away and were considerably cleaner than
your average New York facility. Though it was a large food
court, the bathroom was tiny, with two urinals and a toilet.
(Makes you wonder what goes through an architect's head
when they plan so poorly.)