The Birthday Party
It wasn't every day that a man turned thirty years old. But that's exactly what was happening to Bart Maverick, and his brother Bret was going to make sure it was celebrated in style. That meant gathering all Bart's friends in one place and throwing the biggest surprise party he could manage. Thank God for corporate jets! Otherwise, it would have been a nightmare to gather everyone from all over the country.
Jim Buckley was in New York, swindling someone . . . oops, trying to negotiate a real-estate deal. Jack Darby had just returned from a Nairobi 'Photoshoot' safari and landed at Logan Airport. John Holliday, skilled neurosurgeon, affectionately known as "Doc' by all his patients, was due to be in surgery that day but had to postpone due to overbooking of the operating room at Johns Hopkins Hospital. Samantha Crawford was filming in Toronto, but the movie was delayed for script rewrites. Mike McComb and Cindy Lou Brown were just back from their honeymoon and doing absolutely nothing. Pearly Gates, of course, lived in the same city as the Maverick brothers, but more about that later. He was currently out of town, in San Francisco begging his maybe-she-was-and-maybe-she-wasn't fiancé Marla to give him one more chance.
This party had to be the biggest and best ever thrown, befitting Bart's status as one of the most eligible bachelors Las Vegas had ever seen. When the co-owner of a major casino reached the ripe old age of thirty without a wife or even a serious romantic entanglement, it was big news. Oh, there were plenty of beauties around and Bart certainly wasn't hurting for dinner dates or grand-opening arm candy. But there was no special woman in his life and hadn't been for a long time. And that was something he deeply regretted.
His older brother Bret was known as a 'serial dater.' One woman at a time, mind you, but one-after-the-other seemed to be the rule of thumb. Women came and went in his life and he didn't appear to have any trouble replacing the current one with the next one. Except for the one girl that looked to have gotten away a few months ago. Bret worked hard and he played hard, unlike his younger brother, who only seemed to work.
They'd started with a small casino in downtown when they were barely out of their teens. Gambling was in their blood and had been for generations before them. Their father, Beauregard Jefferson Maverick, was one of the founders of the second casino in the city, and still, even at his advanced age, the premier gambler of the town. The 'Beau Maverick Charity Poker Tournament' was held every year to raise funds for ALS, the disease that had taken his wife Belle's life some years before. It had become the biggest charity event west of the Mississippi, and Bret and Bart had assisted their father in its operation and promotion until they finally decided to venture out on their own.
Their cousin Beau almost joined them in the first casino, but decided he would accept the offer he'd received from Gourmet magazine to be their West Coast Director, sampling and reviewing food and wine in the western portion of the country. Beau was the only one that might not be able to make it to the party, but he was going to try.
After the first small 'Maverick's' casino was a success in downtown Las Vegas, they bought the piece of land that the old Riviera Hotel stood on and built the original 'Maverick's Only'. It had grown into such a hit that talks were ongoing to expand outside of Nevada. Bret was all for it, but his younger brother still had some reservations, and relations between the two entrepreneurs was slightly strained at the moment. That was another reason Bret figured it would be the perfect time to gather all of Bart's friends together and throw a giant surprise party. Whether their business relationship was a little testy at times or not, Bart was still his 'little brother' and always would be. What better way to show it?
The only person besides Bret that knew what was being planned was Marybeth Evans, his trusted assistant. He'd given her the list of everyone invited and their current locations, and it was up to Marybeth to make sure they could all be gotten to Las Vegas on the required date. Of course Bret had to guarantee that an entire floor of rooms was reserved for various false names, but he explained that to his brother by dubbing the booking a 'fan gathering for the latest television craze.'
Bart suspected nothing out of the ordinary, and intended to pass the day peacefully working on the expansion proposal. So he was a little nonplussed when Bret informed him they had a crucial meeting at the downtown western wear store they'd loved and frequented as boys. They'd both had a fixation with the Old West and cowboys growing up, and Bret had deemed this not only a surprise party but a surprise Western-themed celebration. The most enthusiastic participant besides Bret himself in the idea was John Holliday, who claimed that, in fact, the original 'Doc' Holliday was a great-great-great something or other. Everyone else was eventually persuaded that this would be a fantastic idea, and Samantha Crawford made sure to get all the attendees hooked up with the correct 'costumes.'
"Why today, of all days? You know I had a full day of work planned in the office," Bart stated, as they climbed into Bret's Bugatti Veyron 16.4, his big extravagance.
"Because they want to be part of any 'Maverick's Only' hotels we do outside of Nevada," Bret answered. "You can do your other work tomorrow."
"Alright," Bart sighed, but he wasn't at all happy about it. Just like Bret to forget this was his birthday and he wanted to spend it peacefully working.
When they got to the Western Wear store Bret had his work cut out for him. It was his job to convince his brother the necessity of wearing the actual clothes to see how comfortable they could be. "Are you kidding me?" Bart demanded. "You know what today is, don't you?"
"Wednesday," Bret answered.
"Never mind," grumbled his brother.
"Come on, Bart. It'll be a hoot. We can walk through the casino and everybody will stare."
"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of. Do we really have to do this?"
"Okay," Bret finally answered. "Just through the hotel lobby and upstairs for a drink. Then you can go back to your boring jeans and cashmere."
"Fine," Maverick the younger answered, but he was far from happy about it.
"What do you want, Mr. Maverick?" the store General Manager asked. "Marshal, gunslinger, cowpoke or card sharp?"
"I don't care," Bart answered, and Bret pulled the G.M. aside.
"Cardsharp," he told the man. "And nothing but the best. He needs to look spectacular."
"Yes, sir," and the conversion into Old West gambler was begun.
An hour later Bart Maverick looked in the mirror and couldn't believe his eyes. Black slim fit slacks, black and silver vest, front pleated white French-cuffed shirt with black opal and platinum cufflinks, almost knee-length grey frock-coat with matching hat, black boots and a black gun belt completed the outfit. "How did they wear this thing?" he asked for the third time, readjusting the gun-belt.
"Tie it down," Bret pointed out, his gun already strapped down. Of course the guns and the bullets lining the belts weren't real, but they sure looked that way. "It won't be so hard to walk."
"Wait, Mr. Maverick, you forgot the tie," the G.M. reminded Bart.
"Do I have to?"
"The look isn't complete without the tie."
"Come on, son, it's all or nothing, and you already agreed to all. So let the man tie your tie and quit complaining."
"What are you supposed to be?" Bart asked, staring at his brother in disbelief.
"Why, I'm a gunslinger," the answer came back. "Don't I look it?"
Bart had to admit, Bret's clothes would have been great when they were six or seven and playing cowboys. He was dressed in black slacks, a light blue shirt, a black leather vest and a black hat, sporting black boots and matching gun belt.
"Hey, no tie," Bart complained.
"Gunslingers don't wear ties," Bret explained.
"No fair."
"How does it feel?" the G.M. asked.
"Pretty good," Bret answered while Bart just made a face.
"Let's get this over with," Bart almost demanded. "I want my jeans back."
"Come on, Brother Bart."
"Don't call me that," Bart replied. "This isn't the Old West. This is Las Vegas. The year is 2015."
"Don't be such a grouch," Bret laughed. "Relax and enjoy the illusion."
"I'm surprised you didn't arrange for horses, too," Bart responded.
"Oh, I thought of it," the answer came back. "But I couldn't fit 'em in the elevator."
"Ha, ha."
They got in the Bugatti and drove back to 'Maverick's Only.' "Very sharp, Mr. Maverick," the valet told Bart, as he opened the car door for him. Bart mumbled something unintelligible as he got out.
Everybody stopped and stared as they walked through the lobby towards the executive elevator, and finally a round of applause broke out among the guests and tourists. "Next stop, top floor," Bret called, as he punched the button for the private restaurant and bar that sat on the thirty-sixth floor. He hoped that Marybeth had gotten Beau there at the last minute so the gathering would be complete.
They rode up in silence until Bart started chuckling about the sixteenth floor. The inside of the elevators were all lined in mirrors, and Bart had just caught sight of himself. And he was finally tickled. "Hey, I don't look so bad," he stated.
"I've been telling you that," Bret answered. "We would've killed to have these clothes when we were kids. Let's just have a nice peaceful drink and look at the city. For your birthday?"
"Aw, you didn't forget," Bart said.
"Of course not," Bret replied, and he hugged his now thirty-year-old brother. And the doors opened on the bar . . . . . . .
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" Everyone yelled, and Bart was indeed shocked.
"What? How? Where did you all come from?"
Cries of "New York," "Nairobi," "Fiji," "Baltimore," "Toronto," and "San Francisco" filled the air. Everyone was laughing and crying and toasting, followed by a round of hugs and kisses as Bart greeted all his old friends, some of whom he hadn't seen in years. The capper was Samantha Crawford reversing the roles and planting a gigantic kiss on the birthday boy while she wrapped her arms around him and dipped him backward. "Hey, I like that," Bart laughed, as he played with the tulle and lace bustle that Samantha wore like a bunny's tail on the back of her saloon girl outfit.
"Here, old man, have some champagne!" Buckley laughed as he handed Bart a glass filled with Cristal. "Only the best for the gambling mogul!"
Bart took the glass only because it was a celebration, and barely sipped the expensive bubbly. No matter how much it cost, it still tasted bad. He set the glass down on the nearest table and put his arm around Samantha, as an excuse to keep his other hand empty. "Hey, baby, how's the film going?" he whispered in her ear.
"It was great until we got to the big chase scene. Then the nutzoid director decided he wanted 'bigger, faster, higher, more!' and we went on hiatus so he could destroy the budget. How's the expansion going?"
"Ah, Bret's got pie-in-the-sky ideas. Too much too fast as far as I'm concerned." Bart finished with a little laugh that tickled her ear.
"That's big brother for you. How's your love life these days?"
"What's a love life?"
"We've got to get you a girl, chum."
"Yeah, maybe by the time I'm forty. Speaking of love lives, what's up with your husband?"
"You mean my soon-to-be-ex?"
"Another one? Why do you keep marrying those bozos?"
"Because you've shown absolutely no interest in me, that's why." Samantha laughed, but she was semi-serious.
"I love you, Samantha. You know that. I just can't keep up with you!"
"Yeah, I need a brother like I need a hole in the head. Let me know if you ever want to be more than just pals!" She gave him a kiss on the cheek and pulled away, throwing her arms around Jack Darby. "Jackie, are you between wives right now?"
"Still not drinking?" Buckley asked, reappearing at his elbow with another champagne glass in his hand. "Really, Bart, how do you socialize without drinking?"
"Very carefully," he answered. "Jim, what's up in your world? I heard about that last deal you brokered. What went wrong?"
"Just everything. Good thing you didn't invest. Now about this one I'm working on – "
"Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. The answer's still no."
"Bart, old man, you're just no fun," Buckley said as he walked away, still trying to find another investor.
Bart made his way around the room and grabbed his brother. "How did you do all this without telling me?"
"Ha ha. Just once I wanted to surprise you. I'm glad it worked."
"And that 'fan gathering for the latest television craze.' I assume that's where you stashed everyone?"
"Yep, everybody but Beau. We couldn't get our hands on him until about an hour ago."
"Where is our cousin, anyway?"
"Over in the corner with Padma Lakshmi discussing the latest recipe he's gotten wind of. Where else would he be?"
"Having a gastrointestinal bypass done?" 'Doc' Holliday laughed, as he came up behind Bart and gave him a bear-hug. "Happy birthday, old friend!"
"Hey, John, how'd Bret pry you out of the O.R.? I thought you were booked for the next six months?"
"I was until somebody mysteriously over-booked it. But I have to be on a plane back to Baltimore sometime tonight. Here, let me look at you." He held Bart at arm's length, giving him an up-and-down appraisal. "Who are you supposed to be?"
"He's a card sharp, Doc. A gambling man. I'm trying to inspire him to loosen the reins a little and take a bigger risk," Bret explained.
"Do you think it will work?" the surgeon asked, curious.
"Don't know yet. It's too early to tell. If it doesn't, I can always just shoot him," Bret laughed, and pulled his six-gun out and twirled it around.
"Hey, you still remember how to do that," Bart commented. "Have you been secretly practicing?"
"I'll never tell," and Bret walked over to the bar to get something to drink besides champagne.
"How's he doing?" John asked, seriously.
"Better than before," Bart answered. "I think he's finally gotten over Althea. He's back to dating after his usual fashion."
"It's about time, don't you think? She's been gone over a year."
"Yeah, but he really fell for that one, John. He took it hard when she skipped out on him."
"And what about you? You up to anything new? Or did the same old Bart just turn thirty?"
"You know, some things never change. Someday, maybe." Bart laughed, even though being alone bothered him more than he let on.
"No need for that, love," he heard from the sexiest voice in the land, as Marla snuck up behind and slipped her arms around him. He turned his head to kiss her on the cheek and she planted one on the lips, instead. "Hi ya, handsome."
"Oh dear, Marla. Fighting with Pearly again?" Every time Pearly got caught doing something he shouldn't, Marla retaliated by going into full flirt mode. It was a real shame – Marla was a beautiful girl and a real fine kissing partner. As he'd learned on more than one occasion. "Why don't you give up on that horse and switch stables permanently?"
Bart seemed to be Marla's refuge-of-choice since he was the one she ran to more often than not when Pearly was misbehaving.
"Oh, honey, if only I didn't love the stinker so, I would," she replied seriously. "Why do you put up with me?"
"That's an easy one," Bart laughed and pulled his hat down over his eyes. "Because, little lady, my lot in life is to save damsels-in-distress." He cast a glance in Pearly's direction, who had joined the conversation between Beau and Padma. "And that there card-cheat seems to put you in distress regularly." Marla, John, and Bart all laughed at the standing joke. "I think you better go rescue the scoundrel before he gets in too deep with Padma and Beau throws him off the balcony."
"Yes, you're right, as always. Happy birthday, handsome. This one's for real," and she departed after leaving him almost breathless with the birthday kiss.
Bart shook his head, trying to recover gracefully. "Wow," was all he could say. Then she shook his head. "That's a real shame," was his follow-up line.
"What's that, laddy?" Mike and his brand new misses had finally made the rounds and came over to spread more birthday cheer. Cindy Lou gave him a peck on the cheek, and Mike almost shook his arm off.
"It's a real shame that Marla is so set on being Mrs. Gates," Cindy Lou informed her spouse. "Still kisses like that, Bart?"
"Oh yeah," Bart answered. "That should be illegal. What are you two going to do, now that you're back?"
"We're opening up a restaurant in New Orleans, boyo," Mike told him. "We decided when we were there for Mardi Gras. I want to get a word in about your New Orleans 'Maverick's Only' location. I think we'd be a natural for down there."
Cindy nodded enthusiastically. "With my mother's recipes, and Mike's mother's cooking, we'd be a big hit!"
That didn't sound like a bad idea to Bart, assuming . . . . . . . "You know I haven't approved a New Orleans location yet, don't you?"
"Aye, laddy, but you will. You will. Just wanted to get a word in before you contracted with someone else. "
"Tell you what, Mike. Soon as I make a decision I'll let you and Cindy know. It sounds like a good idea to me, but then I've eaten at Cindy's mother's many a time. Yours too, come to think of it. I'm sure it would be a great fit."
Mike clapped him on the shoulder and almost knocked him over. "Happy Birthday, boyo. Hope it's a great year for you!"
"Me too, Mike. Me too. Thanks."
"What are you doing without a drink in your hands, Cousin Bart?" And to answer the question, Beau gave him a champagne glass full of something that didn't look like champagne.
"What is it, before I drink it?" Bart asked, knowing it could be anything if Beau were offering it.
"A very exotic nectar made from that rare fruit, the apple. It's apple juice, Bart. I just thought people would quit bothering you about not drinking if you had a glass of something in your hands. Especially that nitwit Buckley."
"Thanks, Beau. I knew I could count on you. How goes the world of Gourmet?"
Beau gave what could only be called a Maverick laugh. "It's good, cousin. I was just appointed Vice-President in charge of West Coast operations. I want to know when you and that slacker brother of yours are going to come to L.A. to check out that new place of Wolfgang's? He's dying to see you two."
"That's only because Bret owes him money. But it does sound like a good idea. Maybe after this expansion business is all settled."
"Be sure and find a lady to bring. I'll give you the grand tour of the new facilities. There're lots of great spots in L.A. now, much better than it used to be." Beau laughed again and slapped Bart on the back, albeit not as hard as Mike McComb had. "Happy Birthday, old man. I hope this means you and Bret are back on the best of terms. He really outdid himself to get everybody here, you know."
"Yeah, I'm sure Marybeth did most of it. Speaking of which, where is that assistant I keep trying to steal from him?"
"I saw her come in a few minutes ago. I'd bet your brother has her off somewhere taking . . . . dictation."
"You're a strange man, Beauregard. I still think you stayed under that sun tanning lamp too long. Thanks for coming. I'm sure it wasn't easy to pry you away from whatever you were doing."
"Anything for you, cuz. Have a great time!"
Bart drank some of the apple juice and saw that Samantha had finally found someone to prey on besides Darby. Jack was headed his way, a big smile on his face. "Hey, birthday boy! I wish you'd gone to Nairobi with me. It was stunning. Except for that jackass that shot the lion. I got some of the greatest pictures ever. Lots of photos that will be spectacular for your new casinos. I'll come by in a week or two when I get everything lined up to show you. Oops, there's my phone. I've been waiting for a call from the White House. They need a mural in that new African guest bedroom they're opening. Talk to you later."
That was Darby. Bart had trouble getting a word in edgewise when he was around. It was easier to hold a conversation with Bret.
Just as Bart was beginning to wonder where his brother was, Bret reappeared with the restaurant chef, Pierre St. Henri. Oh God, what had they cooked up between the two of them?
A real down-home feast, it turned out. Steak, potatoes, Southern-style baked beans, real honest-to-God homemade biscuits, and Texas Pecan Pie. With a candle in it!
After dinner there was dancing and drinking, with everybody having a wonderful time. Bart surveyed the room and all his friends and knew that he was truly blessed, and even if it took him until he was forty or more to find the woman of his dreams, he would have a good life. Finally the men adjourned to the poker room and played draw and stud and Texas Hold 'Em until almost six in the morning; some well, some badly, but a great time was had whether they won or lost.
Exhausted but happy, everyone returned to the thirty-sixth-floor bar for one last birthday toast and to watch the sun rise over the desert. When the last party guest had gone back to their hotel suite and it was only the two brothers left, Bart found two clean glasses and opened the last bottle of Cristal champagne. He poured the drinks and handed one to Bret, keeping the other for himself.
He raised his glass in a toast, and Bret did likewise. "To the best big brother anyone could ever have," Bart pronounced. "Thanks for a spectacular birthday."
They clinked glasses, but before he drank, Bret paused for a minute. "I thought you didn't drink, little brother," he said, perplexed.
Bart took a long swallow before he answered. "Only with you, Brother Bret. Only with you."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Bart was mumbling in his sleep, which was nothing unusual as far as his brother was concerned. It was time to get ready for the saloon, and Bret had to rouse Bart whether he wanted to or not.
"Bart, come on, son. It's time to get up." He shook his brother by the shoulder, remembering all those years he'd had to wake his brother to go to school, and how hard it always was to get the younger Maverick out of bed. He could feel the strap from the shoulder holster and knew that Bart had been so tired he'd gone to sleep with his derringer still on. "Bart, come on, you gotta get up. We're supposed to meet Doc in the saloon in half an hour."
"Huh? What?" Bart asked groggily. He opened his eyes and looked at his brother. Yep, it was still Bret. Then he looked around the room. It was still the Palace Hotel in Denver, and they were still sharing a room, the way they always did. He could feel the butt of the derringer digging into his ribs, and he remembered collapsing on the bed last night before he took off the shoulder holster.
He rubbed his eyes and looked at his brother. "Man, did I have the strangest dream."
"Not another one of those?" Bret asked incredulously.
"Yeah, it was really odd. We were in Las Vegas, in some fancy-schmancy hotel that we owned, and it was taller than anything I've ever seen. And we drove around in this thing like a wagon, except it didn't have horses and it went real fast, and you shoulda seen all the stuff! And everybody was there, Buckley and Darby and Sam and Beau and, and it was my birthday, and you threw me this big party and, and . . . . . .
"Bart, I thought you didn't like whiskey?"
"I don't, Bret. What's that got to do with it?"
"Because when you start talkin' about things like that I think you've been, ya know, drinkin' in secret."
Half an hour later when they walked into the saloon, Bart was still babbling about his dream. "And you shoulda seen the clothes the women wore. And half-naked, most of 'em were, and that was perfectly normal . . . "
"Now that I could go for. There's Doc. Don't tell him all that stuff about the dream, huh? Can we just have a nice quiet birthday celebration without spoutin' all that fiction in his ear? You know how Doc gets all peculiar when he drinks, anyway. If you start talkin' about that stuff, we'll never get to have dinner. Alright?"
Bart laughed but nodded his head. "Alright, Brother Bret. But I get somethin' in return."
"What would that be, Brother Bart?" What crazy thing did Bart want now? Just because it was his birthday?
"I get to order my steak the way I want it cooked without you givin' me a bad time."
It didn't take Bret long to agree. "You got it, little brother. Oh, by the way, happy birthday, Bart."
"Thanks, Bret. I got a feelin' the future's gonna be real interestin'."
The End