From Chapter One
All in a Night's Work
Steve Cyr (pronounced seer) is standing at the back of the Joint, the Hard Rock casino's chic concert hall. He's rocking out to
the wailing guitars and pounding drums of a makeshift band consisting of a blackjack high roller and three of his musician friends.
It's been a dream of this player, Jeff Armstrong, to perform at the Joint, and Cyr sold the idea to the Hard Rock bosses. In return, Armstrong will spend a couple of hours at the tables betting $10,000 a hand. But for now, he's up on stage, opening for the
Fabulous Thunderbirds.
Cyr's cell phone rings. He answers, listens, then speaks. "Okay, I'm on my way. I'll be there in five minutes. Hold tight." He pauses, then says, "Relax, Kirsti! Who's the man, baby? I'll handle it."
He hurries down toward the stage and gives a thumbs-up to Mr. A. (A casino guy addresses his player by the first initial of
his last name. Calling him by his first name is too familiar, while using his full last name could, inadvertently, compromise his
privacy.) Cyr signals that he's got to run, but he'll be back in a while. Then he blows through the casino and out the front door,
where his silver Trans Am sits at the curb, as if he's the only car owner who happened to drive to the 600-room Hard Rock that Saturday night. He dukes off a ten-spot to the parking attendant in the valet cubicle, who hands him his keys. He hops in the car
and peels out for points north.
This little errand is a favor for Mr. B, the multimillionaire owner of a Midwest foundry and a frequent megaroller at the Las
Vegas Hilton. Mr. B likes to stay in the Conrad Villa, one of three penthouse suites on the 30th floor of the 3,174-room resort.
Cyr screeches up to the Hilton's porte cochere, tosses his keys to the valet, rushes into the casino lobby, and storms the
VIP Services office. "Mister B! Great to see you again! Hi, hi," he greets Mr. B's stunning girlfriend, and the girlfriend's stunning girlfriend, standing on either side of the gambler.
"Cyr -- what the hell kind of bullshit are you pulling this time?" Mr. B launches into a tirade. "Not only do I not get my Villa,
but there isn't a single suite in this whole fucking hotel? You're gonna put the three of us in a room? With one bed? I'm going
to the Mirage!"
"Wait a minute, Mister B. C'mon now," Cyr cajoles, taking the short balding 60-year-old steel man by the elbow and
maneuvering him out of earshot. The superhost's shrug, directed toward the statuesque early-thirtysomething women, says
it all: Hey, what can you do? Shit happens.
Suddenly, Mr. B sputters, "You mean to tell me that there's not another room in the whole hotel? Not even one with
two queen beds?"
Cyr mumbles something.
"The hell you say! Not another room in the whole friggin' city?"
Cyr hangs his head and shuffles his feet.
Mr. B is apoplectic. "No way! Not one night, not one minute! Fuck the hotel room, fuck the Hilton, fuck Las Vegas, and
fuck you!"
After a suitable amount of fawning and wheedling and laying it on with a trowel, Cyr manages to calm Mr. B and talk
him into just one night in the room, with the promise that he can have the Conrad Villa tomorrow and for the rest of his stay
and for the rest of his life. Mr. B grabs the key from Kirsti, the gorgeous young VIP hostess, then marches out in a huff,
barely pausing to collect the two women.
Cyr watches them go, then turns to Kirsti, whose wide eyes and quivering lips betray her panic over the thought of
getting fired for screwing up Mr. B's reservation. He smiles and asks, "Think he'll get lucky?"
Kirsti's countenance goes blank, then slowly rearranges into a smirk as she realizes that the whole scene was a
set-up straight out of a cheap script for the standard opening of a bad porn video, the one where the one man maneuvers
the two women into the one bed.
Steve Cyr has done his job.
From Chapter Six
Telemarketing the Marks
Not even death stops a single-minded host like Cyr. He goes after the widow.
"Hello, is this Mrs. C?"
"Yes."
"Hi, this is Steve Cyr from the Las Vegas Hilton. Is Mr. C at home?"
"Uh, no, he isn't."
"I used to work at the Desert Inn and I knew Mr. C over there. It's been a couple of years since we've seen you
or your husband."
"Well, John died eighteen months ago."
"Oh! I'm so sorry to hear that, Mrs. C. John was such a great guy. I enjoyed being his host every time he came
to town."
Cyr doesn't know John from Adam. It's an old lead he got from somewhere, a phone number he's finally getting
around to following up on. He's bluffing, coming right off the top of his head. "He was one of my favorite players. You
used to come out to Vegas with him, as I recall, didn't you?"
"I certainly did. John never went anywhere without me."
"And you used to like to play the hundred-dollar slots, didn't you, Mrs. C?" Cyr takes a shot in the dark to see if
she's a player.
"Well, honey, the hundred-dollar slots were a little rich for my blood, but I did get a thrill out of the twenty-five
dollar machines."
Bingo.
"Do you still come out to Las Vegas?"
"I haven't since the funeral, but you know what? My girlfriends and I were just talking about taking a trip out there ..."
"Well, here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna fax one of my business cards to you."
If she doesn't have a fax number, Cyr might FedEx a single business card. He wants to get something in their
hands right away, within the hour; later today's too late; tomorrow it's lost. He wants to fax Mrs. C the paperwork to sign,
then have her fax it back, all while the two of them are still on the phone.
"And I'm gonna book a reservation for you for three weeks from this Friday. That should be enough time to make
your plans, shouldn't it? When you get my card, call me back and we'll get all your girlfriends set up too. How's that
sound?"
"That's very thoughtful of you, young man."
"Least I can do for John. I sure am sorry to hear about him, Mrs. C. But we'll take good care of you in his memory."
