Not-So-Secret

Chapter Three

Normally he wouldn't have to do anything so plebian, but Jones's driver had gotten some bad sushi at one of those 3.99 buffets downtown and was riding it out at the Sunrise Hospitality.

As always, James had said "Yes, sir," keeping his voice even and his attitude go-to. Playing the part as if his life depended on it. Which it did. He'd started working for Alan J Jones three years ago.

It had taken him all that time to gain a position of trust in the organization. Everybody who worked for Jones had to prove themselves worthy. The tests weren't for the weak. Despite the fact that Jones's business practices were impressive enough to pass the rigours of the Nevada Gaming Commission regulations, the man himself was a throwback to the old Vegas. No one double crossed Jones. Not twice, at least.

James himself had done his time as Jones's hatchet man. No one had ever ended up dead, but they'd been hurt something wicked. It turned his stomach to think about it, so he didn't. Simple.

Enough. He had to get showered, put something in his stomach and get down to the airport on time. He threw the covers aside and hit the floor for his push-ups.

One hundred. Every morning. No exceptions.

When he finished counting, he headed for the bathroom. Part of his incentive for completing his push-ups in good time was this little trick: no john until he was through. Some days were easier than others.

As he went through the rest of his morning routine, he wondered who was coming in. Jones hadn't told him and he hadn't asked. But it must be a hell of a whale to call out the boss's private limo.

He remembered the first time he'd heard talk about whales. It was his second week in Vegas and he was so green he disappeared in front of the MGM Grand. Lee, Jones's majordomo, had been talking about this whale and that whale and it had been everything James could do not to ask what the hell was going on.

That night he'd done some research and discovered that 'whale' was the designated slang for high roller. A really high roller.

The minimum they had to bank was five million, at least at Jones's hotel. Granted, Xanadu was as ritzy as it got in Vegas, but most of the major hotels had similar limits.

Whales cost big money. But there was one basic fact about Las Vegas: casinos were not in the business of making gamblers rich.

Anyone who thought different ought to check out the trailer parks on Main.

Most of the decrepit mobile homes had doors. Some had windows. Not many.

Whales, on the other had, had money to burn. At least, that's how they acted when they came to his turf.

It was like something out of an old Russian novel how these people got treated.

It started with the private jet, the limo, the personal butler, the multi-million dollar private suite complete with grand piano, twenty-four-hour massage service, personal swimming pool, personal chef. The list went on and on. If one of Jones's whales wanted a purple elephant, he'd get one.

But there were whales and there were whales. This one, the one coming in at noon, had to be a mark in the billions, because Jones was stingy with his toys.

Xanadu had a fleet of ten stretch limos for the customers.

Jones's personal limo put them all to shame.

Personally, James hated driving the monstrosity.

It was huge, longer than a normal stretch and white. Inside and out.

He especially hated the button in the back that let the passenger speak to the driver.

The reverb crap on the mike altered the sound so it sounded like the voice of God telling the peon behind the wheel to stop at the Indian smoke shop to pick up cigarettes.

He was, of course, expected to act like Jeeves, which unfortunately wasn't that much of a stretch from how he was expected to act around the boss.

Although Jones wasn't particularly hung up on the words. "Sir" was good, but not essential. "Very good, sir," was over-the-top.

The important thing to Jones was that when he said jump, his employees already knew how high. Jones didn't give second chances.

James put on his lightweight black suit, the one that's made him look more like a mortician than a chauffeur.

His shirt was silk, the tie Hermes. When you worked for Alan J Jones, you dressed the part.

He took a final look in the mirror, satisfied that he would pass muster, then he headed out.

He lived on the fortieth floor of the hotel, the floor below the really expensive suites.

It had taken getting used to, living in a place like this, but it had its advantages.

Housekeeping was one.

He just had to make sure he put everything in portant in his room safe.

There was no doubt in his mind that Jones had the staff search the rooms on a regular basis.

Paranoia was the word of the year around Xanadu and James was just as guilty as anyone else.

Jones's basic belief was that everyone was out to get him, including his own family.

Probably why he was as successful as he was.

The man was worth billions and not only from his gaming and hotel interests.

He was also incredibly powerful in the military surveillance business.

That little sideline had begun fifteen years ago, when Jones's first hotel had hosted an arms show.

The El Rio had been his maiden venture into the world of Vegas, but the relatively small hotel had outlived its usefulness and was scheduled for destruction.

As with everything else in Sin City, the event was being made into a spectacle.

Like the Dunes, the Sands and the original Aladdin, the El Rio was going to be imploded. On the fourth of July, no less.