Chapter 3
The dead of night, again. The darkness drew him out like it always did, snaking through the sky-rise blocks of apartments and immodest streets. This was the more fancy, more sleazy part of Las Vegas, known for its expensive casinos and somehow classy strip clubs. His destination was the Wynn casino, the best of the best. As he stepped out of his car, a black 1966 Ford Mustang GT polished to perfection, the bouncer pulled aside the red velvet rope for him to enter. A crowd of people waiting to get in surged forward, only to be held back by the bouncer.
“Mr Costello,” a superbly suited man greeted him, “he’s waiting for you at the roulette table.” He nodded in response and headed inside. The interior of the Wynn casino was decked out in Chinese symbols of luck and intricately carved mahogany. The air was humid due to the numerous fountains dotted around, and the occasional croak of a frog was heard. A tall brunette woman wearing just about as much as one of the frogs handed him a stack of poker chips, each with a Chinese dragon carved into the small gold setting. The metal clanged against the gold of his signet ring as he rolled the chips through his fingers. He sat at the roulette table, next to an aging man with white hair. To his left was a woman not too dissimilar to the woman who handed him the chips; tall, brunette and skimpily dressed. In short, not his type at all. The man slid him a wooden box about the size of a brick with an intricate tree carved in the top. He flipped open the latch and opened the lid, finding a set of fifty gold bullets that fit perfectly into the box.
“They’re onto you,” the man warned.
“I can keep ‘em off my trail,” he smirked back, sliding over his stack of chips. The woman immediately left his side and went to stand by the older man, stroking his shoulders lightly. He rolled his eyes, sick of people interested in people for their money.
“Careful, Costello, that Utah voice will get you killed round here.”
“Nothing I can’t handle, I'm sure,” he stood up, stuffing the box awkwardly in his jacket. He walked away from the roulette table as the man cheered at his success. He was headed for the exit – he never stayed for long after a transaction was completed – and on the way, grabbed a pornstar martini straight off a tray that a waitress was carrying, drank it in one, and smashed the glass on the floor.
Somehow the air was colder than when he entered. A storm was coming, his senses told him that much. But he was still cold, and his electric blue silk suit jacket didn’t provide as much warmth as his gold one. He found himself digging the toe of his black converse into the paving slabs, listening to the click of heels coming from behind him.
“So,” a voice said, “you’re Alexander Costello. Quite the man, I hear.” The brunette from the roulette table appeared beside him, quirking an eyebrow.
“And you are?” he replied, laughing to himself. In his head were two thoughts; ‘why is the goddamn valet taking so long?’ and ‘it would be so much easier to shoot you than make small talk’.
“Sarah,” she smirked, lighting a cigarette. ‘Definitely easier to shoot you,’ he thought. Instead, he waved his fingers ever so slightly, and a gust of wind put out her cigarette and knocked the biker jacket from her shoulders.
“This is me,” he said, running to his car as soon as it pulled up. Sarah was left there, shivering and ultimately rejected.
He drove with the roof down, somehow not caught in traffic. He tore down the freeway, stopping momentarily for gas, then immediately turning back to head home. Something in his mind told him to drive into the desert, so he did. The howling of a pack of coyotes slowed him down slightly. And there it was. The storm. She was sat on a mound, back to the car and staring at the stars. Her hair danced in the wind as he shut off the car and climbed out without opening the door. A cloud of dust erupted as his feet landed on the ground. He sat next to her, fixing his shirtsleeves as he sat.
“Do you actively seek out trouble?” she asked, not taking her gaze off the sky.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he countered, noticing the mound was person-sized.
“You’re this ‘vigilante’ the press is talking about, aren’t you?”
“I might be,”
“You do realise I could’ve handled those guys, right?”
“Now I do,” he smirked. She stood up, shaking the dirt from her dress.
“I'm Rose Finch. Take me home?”