convention was a huge draw and a financial boon to the city. The Babylon hosted the sales pavilion and the antique portion of the show.
Miss P gave me her full attention. “No complaints that I know of. Why?”
“Tomorrow is opening day?”
“Yes. We have it under control.” She gave me a measuring look. “And how about you? The holiday party for the whales? Need any help?”
“On my list of things to put finishing touches on today. We’ll be ready. Thankfully, we have a couple of days—I’m not at the top of my game.” Every year we had a holiday celebration for our whales, our bettors that kept one hundred million on deposit with the house to fund their gaming activities. We had forty. Our operation in Macau, despite undergoing a major expansion, had four hundred. It didn’t take a crystal ball to see where our corporate energies needed to be applied, but that was a continuing discussion with the Big Boss. He wanted me to spend some time overseeing operations there. I didn’t.
“And,” Miss P said, stopping me as I turned toward my office, “you are the honorary starter for the Elf Run on Christmas Eve morning. Do you want me to cancel?”
A citywide event eagerly anticipated by locals and holiday visitors alike. Christmas in Vegas normally didn’t attract a huge crowd; we weren’t exactly family-friendly. Christmas was usually seen as just a blip in the run-up to New Year’s debauchery. Except for the Elf Run. “To be honest, I had forgotten. Don’t cancel. I would say something stupid here like life goes on, but even I’m not that banal, despite my cliché addiction.” Clearly, even though charging around at full-throttle, I was unable to keep all the plates spinning.
“Thank you for that.”
“I’m hurt.” The banter helped me find true north again. Life had been wobbling off track, and I was glad to have my feet pointed down the trail. Teddie’s problems had solutions. We just had to find them. “What time is the race again?” I cringed, awaiting the answer.
“Race starts promptly at seven. They ask that you be there by 6:30.”
“A.M.?” Mornings were not my friend. And lately I’d noticed a profound immunity to caffeine. The more I relied on it, the less effective it was—like my mother. “Why do people want to run? And at such an ungodly hour?”
“For fun and health.”
“Aren’t we supposed to drink for our health?”
“Milk.”
I hated milk. “I’ll keep my vices. They make me happy, and happiness is good for my health.” Before she could shoot a hole in my justifications, I retreated. Out of habit, I started toward my old office, now Miss P’s, then rerouted. With her at her old desk out front, she’d thrown me off. Perhaps we both were having a tough time adjusting to the new musical offices thing. Old habits.
My new office looked a lot like my old office, just larger, in a different location, and still under construction. I’d gotten so used to the two-guys-with-one-hammer crew who came each day to entertain me with their lackluster finish-out efforts and creative excuses that I wouldn’t know what to do when they actually finished. Adoption was a possibility. That or find them a stand-up gig.
My burled walnut desk anchored the room, and me—my ship on the stormy seas. Two chairs fronted it. The walls were bare but for some paint splotches, as I tried to decide which color suited me. A difficult proposition as my choice changed with my mood. And right now, I was favoring something dark and dismal.
Jeremy, his tux wrinkled, his tie undone, lay on my couch, one arm across his eyes. I took a moment to enjoy the view. Over six-feet of well-muscled Aussie with gold-flecked eyes and wavy brown hair, the Beautiful Mr. Whitlock was indeed serious eye-candy. And, once he trotted out that
Miss P gave me her full attention. “No complaints that I know of. Why?”
“Tomorrow is opening day?”
“Yes. We have it under control.” She gave me a measuring look. “And how about you? The holiday party for the whales? Need any help?”
“On my list of things to put finishing touches on today. We’ll be ready. Thankfully, we have a couple of days—I’m not at the top of my game.” Every year we had a holiday celebration for our whales, our bettors that kept one hundred million on deposit with the house to fund their gaming activities. We had forty. Our operation in Macau, despite undergoing a major expansion, had four hundred. It didn’t take a crystal ball to see where our corporate energies needed to be applied, but that was a continuing discussion with the Big Boss. He wanted me to spend some time overseeing operations there. I didn’t.
“And,” Miss P said, stopping me as I turned toward my office, “you are the honorary starter for the Elf Run on Christmas Eve morning. Do you want me to cancel?”
A citywide event eagerly anticipated by locals and holiday visitors alike. Christmas in Vegas normally didn’t attract a huge crowd; we weren’t exactly family-friendly. Christmas was usually seen as just a blip in the run-up to New Year’s debauchery. Except for the Elf Run. “To be honest, I had forgotten. Don’t cancel. I would say something stupid here like life goes on, but even I’m not that banal, despite my cliché addiction.” Clearly, even though charging around at full-throttle, I was unable to keep all the plates spinning.
“Thank you for that.”
“I’m hurt.” The banter helped me find true north again. Life had been wobbling off track, and I was glad to have my feet pointed down the trail. Teddie’s problems had solutions. We just had to find them. “What time is the race again?” I cringed, awaiting the answer.
“Race starts promptly at seven. They ask that you be there by 6:30.”
“A.M.?” Mornings were not my friend. And lately I’d noticed a profound immunity to caffeine. The more I relied on it, the less effective it was—like my mother. “Why do people want to run? And at such an ungodly hour?”
“For fun and health.”
“Aren’t we supposed to drink for our health?”
“Milk.”
I hated milk. “I’ll keep my vices. They make me happy, and happiness is good for my health.” Before she could shoot a hole in my justifications, I retreated. Out of habit, I started toward my old office, now Miss P’s, then rerouted. With her at her old desk out front, she’d thrown me off. Perhaps we both were having a tough time adjusting to the new musical offices thing. Old habits.
My new office looked a lot like my old office, just larger, in a different location, and still under construction. I’d gotten so used to the two-guys-with-one-hammer crew who came each day to entertain me with their lackluster finish-out efforts and creative excuses that I wouldn’t know what to do when they actually finished. Adoption was a possibility. That or find them a stand-up gig.
My burled walnut desk anchored the room, and me—my ship on the stormy seas. Two chairs fronted it. The walls were bare but for some paint splotches, as I tried to decide which color suited me. A difficult proposition as my choice changed with my mood. And right now, I was favoring something dark and dismal.
Jeremy, his tux wrinkled, his tie undone, lay on my couch, one arm across his eyes. I took a moment to enjoy the view. Over six-feet of well-muscled Aussie with gold-flecked eyes and wavy brown hair, the Beautiful Mr. Whitlock was indeed serious eye-candy. And, once he trotted out that
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