While working swing shift Saturday Vitello, Houchins and myself got caught congregating together by 77Charles. It is not considered good form for two, much less three officers to be standing around chatting and the practice is discouraged.
What happened was I was walking around the east end and saw Vitello standing at a slot bank near the buffet and I stopped to say hi. Then Houchins, who has yet to meet an A/B conversation he is not pleased to add a C element to, stops by and not more than ten seconds later 77Charles waltzes past. He sees us and smiles and throws up his hands, only partly feigning exasperation, so we break up and get back to work.
Later, I’m in the briefing room for something or another and 77Charles is in the supervisor’s office.
“Look, it’s all Houchins fault,” I said. “Vitello and I were discussing legitimate MCSD business.”
77Charles chuckles. He knows he is about to be fed a line of crap from here to Reno.
“Yeah?” he asks. “What were you discussing?”
“Vitello and I were discussing which one of us would be the one to deliver mouth to mouth to a certain foxy dealer working nearby.”
The funny thing is, this really is what Vitello and I were discussing.
77Charles whistles. Lydia is – and this is not even subject for discussion – the most beautiful woman on the planet. She has long black hair and is Russian or Ukrainian or something like that. Proof there is no God can be found in the fact she is also married. There is actually a J somewhere in her first name and her last name begins with a Z and is not pronounceable by anyone west of the Kremlin.
“Vitello,” I said, continuing. “Said he would, because he’s senior. But I said no, I’m the certified CPR instructor. Then Houchins waddled up.”
“So you’re blameless?” Charles asked seriously.
I nodded solemnly.
Saturday night Jose and I ran out a 6-2 hooker. I was in the CSO wrapping up a report on a woman in the hotel bitten by a spider when Jose shows up with her. Since he was doing a formal 86, he had to take her picture and fill out a form or two and read her the trespass warning.
Her name was Danielle and she carried her six feet, two inches very, very well. Actually, she was wearing heels and appeared ready to work the low post for UNLV. She was built like a brick shithouse though, utterly drop-dead gorgeous, and it was sad to know she was working.
“Jose, this girl, she’s pretty. Why are we throwing her out? Shouldn’t we be giving her a comp to the coffee shop or something?”
“Well, you know how dispatch gets sometimes.”
“So how long before I can sneak back in,” Danielle asks.
Jose and I look at each other and laugh.
“Today or tomorrow,” Jose said.
“Try to be less tall, though,” I said. “You sorta stand out.”
Danielle either could not or would not produce a valid form of identification, but did say she was born in 1986 which made her too young to be in a casino in the first place, much less soliciting there. I whistled; or, rather, I attempted to whistle because I really can’t whistle. I did manage to avoid slobbering on myself, though.
“Christ, Jose, I’m class of ’83.”
I paused for a second, then threw up my hands, as if trying to prevent Danielle from saying something.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking! You’re thinking I sure don’t look that old. You’re thinking I don’t look a day over 30.”
Danielle and Jose laugh.
“Shut up, Gaylon. I’m trying to throw her out.”
“I look under 30, right?” I said encouragingly while ignoring Jose.
“I’d say 32,” Danielle said.
I’ll take it. I made the sign of the cross.
“God bless you,” I told Danielle.