The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
THURSDAY
Raised voices. Coming from the kitchen. Not in anger but animated none the less.
John and Daniel conversing. About...what?
I edge closer to the doorway and listen.
"There's no way it was her."
"I'm telling you, man. It was her."
"You saw Gwen Stefani in Best Buy?"
"In the living breathing pale and oh so succulent flesh."
"Come on, what would Gwen Stefani be doing in a Best Buy?"
"Uh - the clue's in the name. It's the best place. To buy."
"These celebrities don't shop themselves. They pay people to do it."
"Maybe her toaster fritzed and she thought, what the hell, I'll schlep into town like regular folk."
"Nah, they have assistants for that."
"What are you two talking about?" I ask unable to resist entering the room. Curiosity killed the cat? Meeow.
"Mr Magoo here thought he saw Gwen Stefani in Best Buy."
"It was her, as I live and breathe."
"Then why didn't you go over and say something?"
"Dude, I was playing it cool."
"Why, because you thought you had a shot?"
"Hey, I could've had a shot. You never know. I get lucky sometimes."
"Isn't she like fifty or something?"
"Yeah, but she does pilates so her parts are probably still pretty supple."
"Her parts? That's so gross."
"You know, considering we live in Los Angeles, showbiz capital of the world, you'd think we'd be tripping over celebrities every time we go out."
"They mostly stay in Beverly Hills. Seen the prices over there? Fifty bucks for a latte. Get real."
"Remember that time your mom cut up Matt Lauer at that stop light on Madison and he gave her the finger?"
"Oh yeah!" John laughs. "That was hilarious."
"And you were like, Mom, Matt Lauer just flipped you off."
"And she says, who's he? Because unless they're in Guns and Ammo she hasn't a clue who anyone is."
"Wouldn't it have been funny if he'd chased after us in his fancy-schmancy Lexus. Your mom would've kicked his butt."
"She would to because she hates road ragers."
"And next day Matt Lauer would be like - Good morning, America. I am bandaged up like this because I got my ass handed to me by a crazy woman."
Both men laugh long and loud. These two, so different in character and destiny, share an easy camaraderie. John's stress levels are always lower when they're hanging out. Daniel is like a human-shaped Snowy.
"Hey, Cameron, you ever meet anyone famous on your travels?" Daniel asks when he's recovered.
I think about this, examining my deep memory data cores.
"I did meet Elvis once," I admit. "Although in Las Vegas not Los Angeles."
Both men stare at me.
"For real, you met Elvis?"
"Yes."
"Elvis Presley?"
"Yes."
"You met Elvis Presley in Las Vegas?"
"What part of this is did I not make clear to you?"
"Sorry. It's just...wow. You know about this?" he asks John.
"First I'm hearing of it."
"Did you speak to Elvis?"
"He did most of the talking."
"Did you two..." Daniel makes a circle with two fingers and pushes a third digit in and out.
"I don't know what that means," I confess.
"You can't ask her that." John admonishes.
"Why? I figured you'd want to know."
"What Cameron did before she met me is her concern."
"Well, I'd like to know. When did you meet Elvis?"
"December, 1976."
"That was right near the end. He probably couldn't get it up by then anyway so you don't have to worry."
"Hey, I was never worried."
Daniel points at a chair.
"You sit right down there, missy, and tell us all about it. Don't leave anything out. We want all the juicy deets.
-0-
December. 1976. Las Vegas.
His name is Frank. Franklin T. Wallis. The third. Trip to his friends. He owns a dry walling company in Omaha, Nebraska. Best in all the state, he brags. And today he thinks he's got lucky. With me.
I know, right?
"Are we having fun, sweetcakes?"
"Sure thing, daddy."
Frank likes me to call him daddy. Just as he likes me to believe he's unmarried, despite the pale circle on his middle finger where a wedding ring would go and the pictures of his wife and children concealed in his wallet.
We're in Las Vegas, a city that is becoming a regular destination for me; its gaming tables a reliable source of funds to buy the weapons and equipment that will be required by the Resistence decades in the future. I bury them in caches all over the country. And saving the world doesn't come cheap. And no one will take my IOU. Alas, my prowess for throwing craps and card counting at blackjack doesn't go unnoticed by the people who run the casinos and more and more frequently I am being recognised and denied access to the tables. Not every one loves a winner, especially if it's their money I'm taking away by the tens of thousands.
Hence my aquisition of Frank. No one would ban Frank. He's an amiable schlub who visits Vegas twice a year, drops the odd ten thousand every time,sees a show or three and flies home happy just to have had the experience.
Until he met me.
Or rather, Ruthie Dawson. That's the name on my ID, stolen naturally. Twenty-one years old and a medical intern at a hospital right here in Vegas. Three days ago Ruthie was having an after work beer with friends and never noticed me pick her pocket while she was in the ladies washing her hands. So much for the benefits of careful hygiene. I chose her because we look a little alike, although she's a good three inches taller. Luckily height is seldom checked against an ID.
Frank and I have been playing blackjack for thirty minutes, and already amassed a big pile of chips. Or rather, Frank has. I am stood beside him, the faithful girlfriend who cheers him on in a blonde wig and a Marilyn Monroe voice. We've worked out a system. When it's time to twist - receive a third card from the dealer - I squeeze Frank's arm or touch his leg with my foot. When he should stick - keep the two cards dealt - I don't touch him.
The dealer deals our cards. A ten and a deuce. The upcard is a three. I give Frank's arm a squeeze. By my calculations the next card will be a nine giving us blackjack.
"Hit me."
The card is dealt.
A nine.
"Blackjack. Gentleman wins."
"Oh Frankie, you're so clever!" I squeal. My voice is so high it sounds like I've been chugging helium.
"Thanks, doll. You're my good luck charm."
He turns and gives me a big wet slobbery kiss on the lips. I retaliate by jabbing my stiletto heel in his foot. I've warned him before about overt displays of affection. His fingers seem to think my bottom is covered in braille.
The dealer regards us cooly. A big winner on his watch? Not a good career move. There's over eighty thousand on the table. The management will be on to us soon so now might be a good time to cash in our chips.
"Ooh, Frankie, baby, why don't we call it a night and go upstairs to our room?"
"But we're on a roll, baby doll."
" I said...now."
I give his arm a squeeze to make my point. Frank winces, managing to maintain his smile by sheer force of will. He has a high pain threshold, I'll give him that.
"You take the chips to the cage and cash in. Big bills only. Nothing less than fifties. I'll go upstairs and slip into something more...comfortable."
-0-
Daniel says, "What the hell? I thought this was about Elvis?"
John says, "Give her a break. She's setting the scene."
"I don't want to hear about some horny drywall salesman from Nebraska."
"So you picked this guy for your stooge?" John asks.
"Yes. Unfortunately I couldn't find anyone better. May I continue?"
"Be our guest."
"And get to the raunchy stuff," Daniel adds sulkily.
"Dude, there's not going to be any raunchy stuff."
"You wish. They're going upstairs to their room, aren't they? And she's slipping into something more comfortable. You do the math."
"I meant jeans and a sweatshirt," I explain. "I intend to blow town the moment I have the money."
"Let's hope that's all she blows, am I right?" Daniel winks.
-0-
The wait is longer than I expected. Could it be Frank has done a runner with my money? This would be a gross misjudgement of character on my part. And one Frank will regret. I was literally designed to track humans down. And terminate them.
Ten minutes later he opens the door and enters the room. Empty handed.
"Where's the money?" I ask.
"The casino guys said they'd take care of it for me. Guess what, babe - we're being comped!"
"Comped?"
"Upgraded to a deluxe suite, not this pokey dump. And we can order anything we like from room service and we don't to pay a dime. Not a dime. It's comped!"
If I had a temper I would lose it now. Of course the casino wants Frank to stay. He's a high roller. Or they think he is. And they want a another opportunity to get their money back.
"That's super-duper," I lie in my best Marilyn voice.
I could frog-march Frank back downstairs and demand he get my money toot sweet. But this might lead to
a scene
Which might quicky become
a ruckus
Which could then escalate into
a complete and utter bloodbath
And I am not invulnerable in this time period. Enough humans with enough weapons could severly degrade my ability to function. And I'm due to meet John for the first time in New Mexico in about a decade. I don't want to show up with half my face missing. That would create a terrible first impression.
-0-
The suite is a significant upgrade on our previous room. The casino certainly knows how to pamper their favored clientele. The windows are floor to ceiling and offer panoramic views down the fabled Strip. The furniture is sumptuous. And everything that can be gold-plated is gold-plated. Even the toilet lid.
Frank wanders through the suite with a soppy grin on his face, like a child inspecting his toys on christmas day.
"Four poster bed, babe. Sunken tub in the bathroom. And look at the size of the TV. Gotta be thirty inches at least. Never seen one that big. Know what they named this suite? The King Henry VIII. He was an english king who lived a hundred years ago.
"Five hundred," I correct.
"He had eight wives."
"Six wives."
"And he chopped all their heads off."
"Just two were beheaded."
"Probably for being too damn know it all," he growls.
Frank picks up the phone, also gold plated. "Hello, room service? I'd like to order a bottle of your best champagne. And a carton of cigarettes. Marlboros. And a steak. A big juicy rib eye. Cooked rare. Oh and plenty of fries. What? No, I don't want any vegetables. What am I - a communist?"
He picks up the TV zapper - gold-plated naturally - and starts flicking through the channels, finding a news channel with Ronald Reagan being interviewed about a possible presidential bid in 1980.
"See that guy, Reagan? He should have become President, not that peanut farmer we've got now. I'd have voted for him. Millions of others would too."
"You'll get your chance," I tell him.
Room service arrives. Frank tips the bellhop then examines his order. "Look at this. Two cartons of cigarettes. And cigars. This is service above and beyond. And don't worry they didn't forget my little babydoll. Show tickets! To see the King."
"The King? You mean Henry VIII? He died in 1547."
"Not him, you dumb broad. Elvis. He's playing the Hilton showroom this evening. And we've got the best seats in the house. Who's your daddy?"
"You are," I sigh. This is starting to get old.
He takes a roll of bills from his pants pocket and peels off three hundreds. "Here. Go buy yourself a nice dress. And get youir hair done proper. You look like a hippie. When you meet the King you gotta look like a princess."
-0-
Daniel says, "Wait. You went shopping?"
"I went to five stores and tried on thirteen dresses."
"Oh God..."
"And then I had my hair done."
"Listen, fascinating as that sounds, why don't we skip ahead."
"You don't want to hear about my shopping trip? You said all the deets."
"Let's leave that tasty nugget for another time. Like when I can't get to sleep."
"Very well. I will chase to the cut."
"Cut to the chase. Good."
HIlton Hotel. Showroom. Evening.
"Are these seats primo or what?"
I agree the seats are primo. We're seated at a table in the showroom of the Hilton Hotel, where Elvis is due to perform shortly. Less than twenty feet away is the stage on which he will appear. Frank is in a dark dinner jacket, cut well enough to conceal his paunch. I'm wearing a shiny purple dress with a bodice so tight it feels like my boobs are being squeezed together to make one single big breast. My hair is so full of product it resembles a caramel pretzel perched on top of my head. The weird thing is all the other women here look just like me.
"You brush up real well, I gotta say," Frank leers. "You should wear a dress like that all the time."
Fat chance.
The lights go down and a familiar piece of music starts up. Frank recognises it too.
"That's the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey", he whispers.
"It's Richard Strauss."
"It's from a movie, dumbass."
A drum roll begins and Elvis strides onto the stage. Everyone applauds and whoops with delight. The King has arrived.
"Thankyouverymuch. Good to be back in Vegas. Least that's what the colonel tells me."
A ripple of laughter crosses the room. I don't get it. Who is this colonel? I see no army uniforms.
Elvis turns out to be a tall if clearly overweight individual with jet black hair brushed back off his forehead. He's chosen to wear what seems to be a high-collered romper suit with jewels decorating the front in an aztec motif. Possibly his proper clothes were in the wash.
The first song begins. It appears to be about a man who owns a hound dog that's extremely poor at capturing rabbits.
More applause greets the song's conclusion. I can't help but notice Elvis already seems out of breath and slightly disoriented. The sweat pours down his forehead and soaks a scarf he wears round his neck.
More songs. More time between songs spent trying to catch his breath. Another song. This one with the words - 'a hunk a hunk of burning love'. Burning love? Possibly an STD or urinary infection. It's an odd topic for a song.
Elvis moves to a piano to sing a song I finally recognise. The Battle Hymn of the Republic. In the future soldiers from the south will sing this to give themselves courage before battle. And he sings it well, I'll give him that. The applause is loud and sustained.
During the next song many women rise from their seats and assemble at the front of the stage. Frank kicks me under the table. "Go get your scarf, dollface."
I join the other women and elbow my way to the front. Suddenly Elvis appears in front of me. He gives a lopsided grin. "Hey, this one's real pretty. Ain't she pretty, Charlie?" The man next to him - Charlie, presumably - mumbles something I don't catch. Elvis takes a scarf and bends down to place it round my neck. As he does so his fingers touch my skin. The sensors automatically analyse his sweat.
Oh my.
The graph shows numerous opiates in his bloodstream, several at near lethal levels. No wonder he seems so out of it. The man's a walking overdose.
Before I can react I'm jostled aside by the other women. I return to my seat clutching the scarf.
At the end of show Elvis lurches offstage supported by the man called Charlie. The curtains close and a disembodied voice announces:
"Elvis has left the building!"
Straight to a hospital if he has any sense.
-0-
Back in the suite I waste no time in washing the gunk from my hair. I swap the dress for jeans and tee and replace the high heels with sneakers. I feel like myself again.
I find Frank lolling on the plush sofa golden remote in hand flicking idly through the channels.
"Come with me. We're getting the money."
"Now? I thought we was gonna snuggle?"
Dream on...
-0-
The money is carefully counted, wrapped in paper collars with the casino logo, and placed in a black canvas holdall. When we have all eighty thousand dollars Frank signs the receipt and we prepare to leave.
"Not so fast."
Two men block our way. Heavy set men in smart suits and slicked back hair.
"The boss would like to see the pair of you in his office. To pay his regards to you lucky folk, you might say."
I say, "No thank you."
One of the men peels his jacket aside to reveal a pistol holster. A Walther by the looks.
"It ain't a request, little lady."
I could of course brush these men aside very easily. But that would mean recrossing the casino floor, more than likely pursued by more of their colleagues.
a scene. a ruckus. a complete and utter bloodbath.
So I smile and squeak in my best Marilyn. "Ooh, sounds wonderful, boys!"
We ride a private elevator to the tenth floor. Frank attempts small talk.
"Nice evening, huh, gents? We just saw Elvis. What a guy."
"Shut up, mook."
The mook shuts up.
The elevator lets out on to a small lobby. Frank and I step off, the other two stay behind. "Aren't you coming with us?" I ask.
"Nah, the boss will take real good care of you. Ain't that right, Tony?"
"Yeah. Real good care of you."
The lobby leads to a suite every bit as impressive as the one we vacated. Thick carpets and floor to ceiling windows flanked by long silky drapes. Near one window are two men, partially hidden behind a wide wooden desk. A tubby man is seated on a swivel chair; a slimmer man stands beside him, arms folded across his chest. Neither looks particularly pleased to see us. "Siddown!" the slim man barks indicating two chairs in front of the desk. I get the impression we're not going to be offered warm milk and cookies.
"So, what we got here?" the tubby man demands.
"The mook's name is Frank Wallis. From Butt Crack, Nebraska."
Butt Crack, Nebraska? What a dreadful name for a town. Imagine the signposts. Welcome to Butt Crack. Not very welcoming at all.
"Visits us twice a year. Drops ten grand a time on average. Can't play cards or roll dice for shit. Until today when he cheated us outta eighty grand in less than two hours."
"It wasn't me! It was her, I swear! She made me do it!"
Frank breaks down sobbing. He caved remarkably quickly.
"So who's the broad?"
"Claims her name's Ruthie Dawson. Except Ruthie Dawson is currently working the night rounds at Vegas General. She reported her ID stolen twelve hours ago."
"Do we know who she really is?"
"Fits the description of one Cameron Phillips, a sharpie who took the Sands for fifty gees last year. Forty gees from the Tropicana the year before that. Sticks to playing black jack and craps. Got some way of manipulating the dice so she throws the number she needs. We're still not sure how she does it."
"How'd you do it, sweetheart?"
"Skill."
"Skill, she says! Like we haven't heard that bullshit before. Your kind always think you're smarter than us." He points at the holdall beside me. "You really think you was gonna get away with eighty big ones?"
"Of course."
The tubby man beckons the slim man closer. They confer in whispers. I boost my audio and listen in.
"What you wanna do with them, boss?"
"Slap the mook around some. Make sure he understands not to take liberties in the future."
"And the girl? I could give her to Tony. He likes hurting dames, the younger the better."
"Nah. She's trouble. I can smell it on her. Take her out to the desert and bury her deep."
A threat. A palpable threat. Although Future John's orders are not to harm anyone I'm given a certain leeway to protect myself from harm. The tubby man has just validated that leeway.
I stand up.
"Hey, you, siddown!"
I place both hands on the desk and commence pushing.
"Hey, what's she doing? Stop that!"
The two men are now pinned tight against the window. Something has to give and it turns out to be the window. The glass first cracks then shatters, shards falling the tens storeys to the ground below.
"No! Stop! Don't!"
Both men tumble helplessly through the window, the tubby man still in his swivel chair. Their screams are quickly lost to the night sky. For good measure I push the desk out after them.
The wind rushes in causing the silken drapes to shake and billow like the sails of a Cape Horn schooner.
I pick up the holdall and head for the door. Before I leave I turn and regard Frank, still seated and staring open mouthed at the shattered window. I snap my fingers to get his attention. He turns reluctantly as if afraid of what he might see.
"You should leave now. The police are seldom pleasant in these circumstances."
I ride the elevator to the casino floor. There's no one waiting for me, not even Tony who likes hurting young women. I wonder how he'd react if one of them hurt him back. Another time perhaps.
Outside, I hail a cab, placing the holdall next to me on the rear seat. The cabbie is a middle-aged black man with grey just beginning to infiltrate his dark afro. He notices the holdall. "Leaving town, miss?"
"Yes."
"Enjoy your stay? Did you catch any shows?"
"I saw Elvis. He told me I was pretty."
"Ain't that the truth. And how's the King looking these days?"
"He's extremely unwell."
"Yeah, I heard the rumors. Still, he's the King, right? Ain't nothing gonna happen to the King."
I wouldn't be too sure about that."
"Where can I take you, miss?"
"Los Angeles."
"Sorry, I can only work Nevada. And LA's a four hour drive. That's a mighty expensive cab ride."
I unzip the holdall and remove two wads of cash.
"This is your fare. This is your tip."
The cabbie smiles broadly, white perfectly even teeth seeming to take years off his age.
"Los Angeles it is. You sit right back now and enjoy the ride."
-0-
Present Day
Daniel says, "Wow, it was kinda slow at first but you really nailed the ending. Pushing the desk out after them was some really cool Wile E. Coyote shit!"
John seems less impressed. "You killed two people," he states simply.
"Come on, man, they were threatening to bury her in the desert," Daniel counters on my behalf. "And they were obviously mob guys. Like Joe Pesci in Good Fellas. No telling how many innocent people they whacked."
John doesn't look convinced. I don't blame him. Today I would handle things differently. Back then I was more feral, a leopard unwilling to change her spots.
"What happened to that guy you met?"
"Elvis? He died on the toilet eight months later. I wasn't involved," I add. No, toilet hits are so not my style. It gets messy enough when there's just blood everywhere.
"Not Elvis. Everyone knows what happened to him. Frank the drywaller. Did you ever see him again?"
"No."
"Did he get arrested?"
"I don't know."
"Aren't you curious?"
"No."
Daniel rolls his eyes. "What is she like. We could check. Omaha, Nebraska, right? Okay." He reaches for his laptop and taps out a search. "Here we go. Omaha Daily Sentinel. Archive section. Franklin Wallace... Oh. That's too bad."
"What?"
"I'm reading his obituary. He died two years ago aged eighty-one."
"Was he in prison?"
"Don't think so. Says here he was a successful business man. Big republican party doner. Had drywalling companies all over the state. He was known as the Drywall King of Nebraska. Huh. Kind of ironic. You went from one king to another."
"Must have taken your advice and left before the cops arrived," says John. "Wonder who they blamed for it?"
"Thet were mobsters. Occupational hazard." Daniel laughs. "I love the way you pushed the desk out to fall on top of them. That's some crazy-"
"-Wile E. Coyote shit. Yeah, you already told us."
"There is one thing I am curious about," I confess.
"What's that?"
"What exactly is drywalling?"
"The interior walls of buildings."
"I see. Yes, that makes sense."
That's been bugging me for forty years.
-0-
Elvis played his final Vegas shows in December 1976. Reviews were mixed though most cite Battle Hymn of the Republic as a set highlight. He mostly wore the azteca jumpsuit. Thanks to for the deets.
Elvis was also engaged to a teenager(!) at the time, so I daresay Cameron may have caught his eye.
The mob were still in Vegas as late as the eighties, apparently.