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NOT UNTIL
I HEARD my name called and turned to see a uniformed heavy of
prehistoric proportions, a pair of handcuffs on his belt and
a gun on his hip, did I know that I could at last relax. Struggling
through the crowd to the sanctuary he offered, and mustering
a throaty gasp of "I'm Holden," I gratefully surrendered
myself to his protection. With a beam belying his menacing mien,
this mammoth grabbed my hand luggage and declared, "Welcome
to Las Vegas, Mr. Holden. You look tired."
Hank, as a label on his lapel identified him, was one of the
security team from Binion's Horseshoe Casino, whose golden horseshoe
logo adorned his epaulets, and whose regulation khaki safari
gear, scarcely able to contain the bulk of muscle within, made
him look like an urban mercenary out for blood. When not guarding
the $1 million in cash displayed in a giant glass horseshoe
in Binion's lobby, or patrolling the many more millions wagered
each day on the casino floor, the Horseshoe heavies double in
an unlikely way as mere limousine chauffeurs, catering to the
few mobile whims of otherwise sedentary high rollers.
Over there, indeed, beyond the silver palm fronds and neon hoardings
that distinguish McCarran Airport from all others, through the
giant glass walls that keep the one-hundred-five-degree heat
at bay, waited my transport of delight, a sleek black limo a
block long. After plucking my leaden suitcases off the carousel
as if they were paper bags, Hank gestured me toward it. This
was the moment I had been savoring for fifteen long, dreary
hours-and, come to think of it, twelve long, dreary months.
You know you've arrived in Las Vegas while your insides are
still on the plane. Even as you stumble up the chute from aircraft
to terra firma, dazed by the throbbing, stateless tedium of
a long haul flight halfway around the world, the shrill electronic
wails of the slot machines are already assailing the ears, the
clangs and shrieks of jackpots heralding your arrival in Dreamland.
To reach the baggage carousels you thread your way through a
maze of what used to be one-armed bandits, now replaced by sophisticated
video slots, surrounded by bars, cocktail waitresses, and all
the seductive trappings of a downtown casino. The first-time
visitor could be forgiven for thinking that this was it, that
he had already checked into a second honeymoon with his Muse.
All around are suitably garish stores where personalized everything
is available, from playing cards and gambling chips to lighters
and license plates, so long as your name is Randy or Tex, Cindy
or Donna. The disembodied voice of Frank Sinatra or Wayne Newton
then escorts you down the mobile walkway, urging you to come
pay homage at Bally's or Caesars Palace, reminding you that
demigods are freely available for worship in Las Vegas amid
the exotic desert shrines otherwise dedicated exclusively to
Mammon, and the making and losing of fortunes. |
