John Locke - Vegas Moon

The parking lot is only half full. I find a good spot, pull in, turn off the engine. Before we get out, Lucky puts his hand on my arm and says, “Prepare yourself.”

“For what?”

“The strangest dinner meeting you’ll ever attend.”

17.

If you were to ask, “Creed, what’s the strangest dinner party you’ve ever attended?” I could tell you at least a half-dozen stories you’d be hard-pressed to believe. In my years overseas with the CIA I had numerous occasions to dine under extreme circumstances, during which I was often exposed to some of the zaniest, most bizarre situations imaginable.

In short, I don’t know what you might consider the strangest. But to me, it’s the time I saw tribesmen eating human feces at a dinner table in the jungle, sniffing it like a fine wine, touching it to note the texture, and savoring each mouthful as if it were the most delicate pate de foie gras. It was all I could do not to gag, which probably would have caused an international incident, as fucked up as everyone gets in that part of the world over the most ridiculous things. After sampling from each pile and enthusiastically nodding, as though they could discern some subtle nuance of flavor between each morsel of turd, two warriors brought me a steaming pile of excrement no one else had been allowed to sample.

“No thanks,” I said to the translator. “Sadly, I ruined my appetite eating bird shit all afternoon.”

When he translated my message, the warriors grew agitated.

“You have just insulted the entire tribe,” the translator said. “And their wives.”

“How did I manage to insult the wives?”

“Their wives worked all afternoon to create the meal. And the Chief’s wife personally made your dinner.”

I was about to ask what the hell he was talking about, then had that Oh, God! moment where I realized exactly what he was talking about. I tried not to picture the Chief’s fat wife nude, squatting over the plank of wood they’d just brought me. But once an image like that is stuck in your head, it’s there for the duration. I’m sure the look on my face had something to do with the sudden appearance of the Chief’s knife at the dinner table.

The translator said, “The Chief’s wife prepared your meal. It is the highest honor the tribe can bestow on an outsider.”

I said, “See? This is why I hate my fucking job. It isn’t enough we come in here and kill all their enemies, expand their safe zone, bring them medical supplies and save their God-forsaken village. Now they’re insulted, ready to kill me over a shit dinner.”

With deep concern etched in his face, the translator said, “What should I say to the Chief?”

I sighed. “Tell him I apologize.”

He did, then looked at me.

“Tell them I was unfamiliar with their customs.”

He did, and they settled down a bit. One of them actually flashed me a shit-eating grin, an expression I haven’t used from that day to this, and probably won’t, ever again.

The tribesmen then passed me the turds anew, with great gusto, and stared at me with expectant eyes.

I picked up my walkie-talkie, pressed the button and waited for my unit commander to say, “Gray Fox Leader.”

The tribesmen at the dinner table became agitated again, and spoke to each other in frightened tones.

“Frank,” I said.

“Sir?”

“I’m bringing you a doggy bag.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We’re moving the dinner to your location. And you’re going to eat it. With a big smile on your face. Or we’re all going to die tonight. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You and your second-in-command.”

“Lieutenant Merriman?”

“That’s right. Or someone wearing your uniforms, if you get my drift.”

“Yes, sir. What about the rest of us?”

“Have your men set a line of explosives to include the lodge and as many huts as they can.”

“To what effect, sir?”

“It’s apparently very easy to offend these motherfuckers. If they so much as raise an eyebrow at us during dinner, we’re taking them off the face of the planet tonight. These assholes don’t need freedom. They need a fucking grocery store.”

The Chief made a threatening gesture to the translator.

“What should I say to the Chief? He and his warriors are getting very upset.”

“Tell him I can’t accept an honor of this magnitude. Our customs dictate the recipient of such a gift be a representative of the American government. A man wearing a uniform with the symbol of our country on it.”

I pointed to my shoulder. “I don’t have a flag on my sleeve. But the representative does. We need to bring the dinner to our top leaders. The Chief has not yet met them.”

The translator passed on the message, the meal was moved, and Frank and Merriman’s stand-ins got themselves a free dinner.

—So if you’re asking, that was probably the most unusual dinner of my life.

Until tonight, in Las Vegas, when I meet Eddie Pickles and his wife, Surrey.

18.

We’re seated in the center of the room at a table for five when “Fast” Eddie Pickles comes in and takes a seat next to me. After we’re all introduced, he says, “A Jackson we see a cricket before a roach.”

“You talking to me?” I say.

“He’s offering you a bet,” Lucky says. “Twenty dollars that we’ll see a cricket before we see a roach. But you won’t take that bet.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s got a cricket in his pocket.”

Eddie grins. “Didn’t say it had to be a live cricket.”

Lucky says, “A Franklin the bartender’s got a Grant in his pocket.”

Eddie says, “I’ll take the under.”

“Done.”

The two of them head for the bar, leaving Gwen and me alone at the table.

“Is this a typical dinner for you?” I ask.

“Degenerate gamblers’ll bet on anything,” she says. “It’s not about winning or losing. They crave the action.”

“Who’ll win this bet?”

“Can’t say. The odds favor the under, but a bartender this time of night could easily be carrying more than fifty.”

“Guess it pays to know the odds, huh?”

She laughs. “You wouldn’t believe the odds these idiots can recite.”

“Like what?”

“You want me to quiz you?”

“Go ahead.”

“What are the odds of a woman dating a millionaire?”

“Ten thousand to one?”

“Two hundred fifteen to one.”

“Really?”

“Yup. What are the odds a celebrity marriage will last a lifetime?”

“A hundred to one?”

“Three to one.” She laughs. “You really suck at this.”

I shrug. “Hit me again.”

“Addicting, isn’t it?”

“Give me another.”

“What are the odds of being on a plane with a drunken pilot?”

“Five hundred to one.”

She laughs.

“What?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“That bad?”

She nods.

“Tell me.”

“One hundred seventeen to one.”

“I may never fly again!”

“I tried to warn you.”

“Try me again.”

“Odds of an American speaking Cherokee?”

“A hundred thousand to one.”

“Fifteen thousand to one.”

“Are you making this up?”

“Nope. Odds of becoming President?”

“Three hundred million to one.”

“Ten million to one. Odds of winning the California lottery?”

“Five million to one.”

“Thirteen million to one.”

“Wait,” I say. “Are you telling me I’m more likely to become President of the United States than I am to win the California Lottery?”

By way of answering she sings a sexy version of Happy Birthday that ends in “Happy birthday, Mr. President…”