December 1
Another slow night. Not as slow as I had predicted – I had put the over/under on Henry unit calls at 7.5 and we came in a little above that – but still slow nonetheless.
Your intrepid Monte Carlo Security Department did rack up a collar. A little before 0300 some guy was seen running from the sports bar to the area in front of the cage. Lee, sentenced to a night in the casino, happened to run into him.
It was the usual – a guy picks up two women, both of whom express a high degree of interest in going back to his room for, as Houchins liked to call it, some team rod polishing. He seemed surprised when his wallet came up missing.
You should not be surprised. Unless you are Antonio Banderas, if you are in a casino and two women express an interest in going to your room you should be suspicious, especially if you have a gut that – to steal yet another Garrison Keillor line – needs a separate introduction.
He came this close to losing a lot; he had given them $800, and, of course, he lost whatever was in his wallet.
But you don’t fuck with MCSD goddammit. Lee got a description of the girls and Junior spotted them getting on the tram to Bellagio. Bellagio security puts her back on the tram and escorts them back here, were 77Rick meets them, smacks them around a little and has them confessing to everything in short order. The john does not want to press charges, as usual, because he doesn’t want his wife wondering why he;s getting phone calls from the DA out here, and he gets almost all of his money back.
December 4
I had what has to be one of the greatest guest assists in history Friday night. Offhand, I’m thinking the only that could top it would be me letting Bo Derek into her room and her inviting me in for some French kissing. But that’s about it.
I had just reported to the hotel when I was sent to 18-118 on a routine guest assist for one Jessica M. She wasn’t there when I got there, so I waited. After a few minutes, I’m thinking Ms. M. is going to be a no-show when Junior gets on the horn.
– Control, Henry 1.
– Henry 1, standing by 18-118.
– Yeah, Jessica M.’s not there yet…
– Yeah, no fucking shit.
Well, I didn’t actually say “no fucking shit” on the air – there’s no 10 code for it – but I thought it.
– She’s on her way up from the front desk.
A few minutes later a really foxy young lady in a short brown dress and heels comes running down the hall. After a few steps, she realizes it is silly to run in heels, stops and takes her heels off, then resumes running. I thought she was running because she dare not keep a valiant Monte Carlo security officer waiting, but that wasn’t it.
“Jessica M. reporting!” she said, favoring me with a smile that could keep the neon on The Strip burning for a generation. “I really need to whiz.”
Jessica M. was a tad drunk. I ask her if she has ID on her and she said it was inside, which is all right. I open the door and we go in and she goes rummaging through her stuff and manages to come up with a cell phone, a boarding pass and some business cards, all of which show a Jessica M. has certainly been in the room, but she is unable to produce the government-issued ID which would prove that she herself is Jessica M.
She’s jumping up and down in front of me, so I tell her it’s OK to go to the bathroom, so she scoots to the bathroom and when she reaches the door she flips the back of her skirt up and flashes me her tush, complete with thong. It was one hell of a tush, too, and with the year almost over I’m calling it Tush of the Year, and there’s been some nice tush in the hotel this year.
When she comes out of the bathroom her left breast is hanging out.
This is a dilemma. Do you point out her left breast is hanging out, thereby letting her know you saw it, or do you ignore it, hoping she discovers it soon enough and you can pretend you didn’t see it?
Rather than embarrass a guest of the Monte Carlo Hotel and Casino, I graciously kept this tidbit to myself, however in a couple of seconds she realizes it herself and puts it back in. Discreetly, I keep an eye on it, just to make sure it ends up where it’s supposed to.
Her drivers’ license is with some friends at Bellagio, she reports. She pulls a t-shirt out of her suitcase, which is on the bed, and when she tells me what is on the t-shirt I am ready to declare this whole episode code four when she throws the t-shirt aside and pulls up the front of her dress.
The front of her thong is brown with white polka dots. Then, in a move so brilliant it would’ve had Reid and Malloy literally and figuratively sporting wood from here to Reno, she pulls the matching bra out of the suitcase!
I am not making that up. Looking back, I probably should’ve made her put the bra on to make sure it, too, fit but simply having the matching bra was enough for me. I told her she was brilliant, declared the first graduate of the Gaylon School of Identification, and left.
Antonio, who works the grill in the EDR, is starting to get on my nerves. When he makes pancakes he only uses two squirts out of the batter dispenser. This results in a small pancake. Not dollar size, but small enough so that two are not really sufficient for a growing boy like me.
So I ask him to make me two pancakes, specifying three squirts instead of two. This is better because 1) two hotcakes are easier to butter than three hotcakes; and 2) because butter in the EDR comes in those little pats which are hard as a rock because they’re chilled at absolute zero, which, now that I think about it, also annoys me.
Antonio is also going to hell because I do not like the way he makes sandwiches. The sandwich itself is tasty, and he always puts enough mayonnaise on, which mitigates my annoyance somewhat, but when he puts it on your plate he always leaves his goddamn thumbprints on the top. And they’re in there pretty deep, too.
I almost crossed the finish line of the Las Vegas Marathon today. I was driving down Frank Sinatra Drive towards Mandalay Bay, where the race ended and I was driving with some wheelchair riders who were wrapping up their race. All I would’ve had to do to finish the race and leave the wheelchair riders in the dust would’ve been to cross a police barricade into Mandalay Bay and floor it.