The Parthenon Casino, Las Vegas, Nevada. 8:00 P.M.
Standing with teeny through the open sunroof of our white limo, I took in the gaudy splendor of Electric Avenue on the way to our hotel. The air was cold and dry on my skin, but the show was worth it. I felt like we’d been shrunk to the size of grasshoppers and dropped into the most grandiose, surreal, overdone Around the World in Eighty Days goofy golf course imaginable.
“This is the only way to see Vegas,” Teeny advised me soberly, as if she’d done this a dozen times instead of just once. But her once was one more than mine. I’d never been to Vegas. Or Atlantic City. Or even to the Harrah’s in Cherokee.
I scanned the road ahead. On the left was a roller-coastered replica of Manhattan, including a Statue of Liberty; on the right, a massive Lego-looking rendition of a medieval castle; then pseudo-Roman Caesars Palace, resplendent with columns; then an erupting volcano at the home of Sigfried and Roy; then two ships in a genuine-water harbor where a pirate battle with cannon-fire was going on. Beyond that, Barnum & Bailey on acid. But the sight that dwarfed the others for scale and impact was a towering, floodlit replica of the Parthenon-capped Acropolis, with hundreds of windows in the sheer “cliff” walls. “Oh…my…gosh.” I grabbed Teeny’s arm. “Is that where we’re staying?”
Teeny had been so worried about Pru, she’d scarcely smiled since we’d started out, but this brought on a grin. “Yep. Newest on the Strip. Isn’t it amazing? And awful?”
That pretty much summed it up.
Beyond it lay Paris with its Eiffel Tower, then the Venetian and the towering Stratosphere with its change-your-underwear thrill ride on the top, interspersed with less spectacular holdovers from days gone by, all interspersed with marquees touting Celine Dion, Wayne Newton, and countless headliners. At the far end of the Strip stood a massive curve of turreted plaster with dancing fountains out front. But it was the Parthenon that dominated even its most extreme of its neighbors.
I felt a tug on my black knit slacks.
“Quite hoggin’ the sunroof,” Diane shouted up, to be heard over the air rushing past us. “Give the rest of us a look.”
“Sorry.” I surrendered my position, and Teeny followed.
Linda had seen it all at least a dozen times before with Brooks on medical conventions, but Diane insisted she stand up with her. “Come on. The cold air’ll feel good.”
Still a bit green in the gills from our flight—“crossing the Rockies on a gnat’s back,” as she’d described it—Linda relented.
Teeny and I were reassured to hear them talking and laughing. Teeny picked up the receiver for the intercom. “Driver, please take us to the end of the strip, then circle back to the Parthenon.”
Diane and Linda didn’t come inside till we’d made the circuit and neared the Parthenon’s colonnade. Breathless, rosy, and renewed, they tumbled into the seats beside us.
“Here we are. Operation Red Hat Rescue commences,” Teeny said as we slowed to turn in. “My investigators picked this hotel because it’s so new that its security force hasn’t been fully staffed, so there’s less chance of interference if we hit a snag.” She gathered her purse into her lap. “When we check in, please let me do the talking. I’ve registered as Rose Pendergrass.”
“Who’s Rose Pendergrass?” Diane asked.
“The twelfth richest woman in America,” Teeny said. “I picked her for a cover because we’re the same age, and nobody knows what she looks like.”
As always, she’d nailed down the details, even on such short notice. And God was in the details. Little wonder Teeny had succeeded in amassing millions without anybody suspecting—even us.
The limo rolled to a halt beside the tall, palm-framed double doors with MAIN LOBBY carved into the marble above them.
An entourage of tanned, gorgeous bellmen stood waiting in short white polyester doubleknit tunics and sandals sporting leather strips that criss-crossed their tanned, muscular calves.
Pure kitsch.
But the one who helped me out of the limo sure knew how to pour on the charm. “Goodness, what a lovely group of ladies,” he said as he drew me to my feet with a strong, warm grip. “Welcome to the Parthenon. If you need anything, anything at all, please ask for Jules.”
“Oh, I will.”
Word of Rose’s coming must have preceded us. We were certainly getting the royal treatment.
Still, I couldn’t resist a catty whisper to Linda when she joined me. “This is the tackiest, most vulgar place I have ever seen in my life.”
“Tacky, maybe,” she whispered back, scoping out a particularly buff bellman whose muscles rippled as he hoisted my suitcase out of the trunk. “But you gotta like the view.”
“Amen.”
As soon as we were all out, the buff bellmen divvied up our luggage and preceded us while the doorman—doing his best to look dignified in a white polyester toga and wreath of gold plastic olive leaves—welcomed us inside.
The Parthenon Hotel and Casino was even more awful and amazing inside.
Linda and Teeny trailed the parade of bellmen toward the white marble front desk, but Diane and I stopped in our tracks just inside the soaring atrium. Talk about marble and “gold” overkill, with pseudo-ancient-Greek finery that went way beyond wretched excess.
Palm trees, gaudy mosaics, and mirrored walls with scads of columns defined the ground floor, but the center of attention was a two-story marble replica of Diana, complete with golden helmet and spear. Well, near-replica. I was pretty sure the Greek master Phidias had done a much better job with the original.
“Gawd,” Diane breathed when she saw Athena. “Phidias must be rollin’ in his grave.” (We Red Hats know our art history.)
“Amen.” Glancing around, my brain drew a comparison with the overblown, overgilded sets of that awful “big-hair” religious channel with that weeping woman in the huge lavender wig. Everything at the hotel and casino seemed geared to impress in a garish way and bolster the blue-collar ego. The place just tried too hard, but I guess that was Vegas.
I couldn’t resist a brief detour to tap on one of Athena’s massive toes to see if she was really marble.
“Fiberglass,” I mouthed to Diane as we caught up with the others behind the parade of tight-assed bellmen.
Tacky though the hotel was, they sure knew how to make a fuss over their guests, though. I felt like an Oriental potentate as we arrived at the front desk to find the fawning general manager waiting, flanked by two regular clerks.
“Good evening,” Teeny said politely. “We’re booked into the Alexander the Great suite.”
“Welcome to the Parthenon, Ms. Pendergrass,” the manager effused. “We are honored, indeed, that you chose to break your seclusion with us.”
Diane and I looked to each other. Was he onto us?
“Thank you. These are my close personal friends. Please extend the same courtesy to them that you would to me.”
He made a brief bow to us. “Ladies. We are at your disposal.” Hands clasped like an undertaker, he turned back to Teeny. “I hope madam’s charter flight was uneventful.”
“How did he know we flew charter?” I whispered into Diane’s ear.
“Everybody knows everything in Vegas,” she whispered back as if she knew what she was talking about, which she didn’t, because she’d never been there, either. “They even have cameras in all the rooms,” she told me. “Including the bathrooms.”
“They do not!” I said in alarm, loud enough for Linda to hear.
She leaned over. “Yes, they do.” She should know. “Now keep it down. You look like a couple of yokels.”
Cameras in the bedrooms? And the bathrooms? That, I did not like.
Linda saw my expression and smiled, superior. “Just think of your time here as a brief experiment in exhibitionism.”
Not!
The clerk handed the manager a stack of gold keycards, which he passed on to Teeny. “These are your premium service access cards, both to your suite and to a fifty-thousand-dollar line of credit. Apiece. No cash or credit cards are necessary within the entire hotel complex. If you desire more, it’s yours for the asking.”
Did people really spend that much? Two rolls of quarters were more my speed, never mind what John had told me I could spend.
The manager motioned toward an elaborate temple façade in the mirrored wall across the atrium, guarded by a burly security man in white slacks and a bright blue blazer. “Please allow me to personally escort you to your suite. It occupies the entire upper level of our Parthenon penthouse.”
Good grief! I dared not think what Teeny was paying for it.
“As you requested,” he went on as we started across the lobby, “there are five bedrooms, including the master suite, a fully stocked kitchen with personal chef, and a butler.”
Teeny paused. “I thought I made it clear, we require absolute privacy.”
She looked like she was about to turn down the butler, so I tugged on her sleeve and whispered, “Oh, please, let’s keep the butler. I’ve never had a butler. We won’t say anything in front of him, I promise.”
Since she always got a kick out of it when I enjoyed the luxuries she could provide, she hesitated only momentarily before turning back to the manager. “The butler may stay. But I trust he is discreet.”
The manager beamed. “Ms. Pendergrass, what happens at the Parthenon stays at the Parthenon.”
She nodded and resumed our progress. “Several of my personal bodyguards will be joining us in the casino later. Will that pose a problem?”
“Not at all,” he hastened to assure her, “as long as they are unarmed and check in with our security when they arrive.”
Crossing to the “temple,” we saw guests of a dozen nationalities, everything from scruffy twenty-somethings in jeans and halter tops, to mom-and-pop tourists in shorts with Las Vegas T-shirts, to elegant cosmopolitan couples in expensive evening wear, to fat old men with major bimbos clad in outfits more fitting for a show biz revue than a date.
Across the shining marble floors and garish mosaics, we arrived at the deadpan security guard. The manager slipped a gold keycard into an unmarked slot beside the ornately embossed bronze doors, and they slid open with almost-silent precision. “This elevator is security controlled exclusively for our penthouse guests. Your keycards are required to open and activate it. If you are expecting guests, simply call down to the desk and we’ll have the security guard send them up.”
He motioned us into the mirrored twelve-by-twelve elevator that was anchored at the four corners by elongated versions of the famous portico statues, their breasts clearly outlined (and noticeably larger than the originals’) through their carved gowns.
After we stepped onto the elevator’s elaborate mosaic of nymphs and satyrs, the manager used his keycard to set us in motion. Surrounded by infinite images of ourselves and the statues, I leaned over and asked Diane, “Is it just me, or have these statues had boob jobs?”
She looked, and folded her lips inward to keep from laughing.
“It’s not you,” Linda murmured.
I tapped one. More fiberglass.
My mind conjured the image of some snockered high roller going for one last thrill on his way to the penthouse, getting frisky with one of the Greek ladies, and a chuckle escaped me. Worried that the manager would think I was laughing at his hotel (which I was), I sobered and stole a glance at him.
He just smiled politely and nodded. For what Teeny was paying, I guess he didn’t care whether I laughed at his hotel or not.
As we ascended at a leisurely pace, I searched for signs of a hidden camera, but couldn’t find any. Probably behind a two-way section of the mirrored ceiling, I reasoned.
Unless Linda had been pulling our legs about the surveillance. Having been the gullible brunt of one too many whoppers from my friends, I remained skeptical.
I decided to get the answer from the horse’s mouth. “I’ve been told we’re being observed at all times,” I said to the manager, eliciting glares from Linda and Diane. “Is this true?”
He didn’t flinch. “Our hotel has the finest security to guarantee the safety of our patrons and their winnings,” he rattled off, clearly not for the first time or even the fiftieth. “We spare no expense to assure both the privacy and the security of our guests.”
I probably would have pressed him, just for the fun of it, but the doors opened, and what was waiting beyond made me forget completely about hidden cameras.
Gleaming white marble covered expansive interior walls and floor, and a private balcony filled the space between the penthouse’s glass walls and the Doric columns that marched down all four sides of the penthouse.
The view of Vegas was breathtaking.
Inside the fifty-by-fifty common area, low furniture in white leather surrounded a marble fire pit in the living room, and a long glass dining table was held up by Corinthian capitals and surrounded by white-leather upholstered chairs on casters. Palms and exotic arrangements provided the only color besides a few strategically placed mosaics that defined the various areas of the room.
But the pièce de résistance was the white poker table that sported a micromosaic of Venus Rising on its octagonal top.
The butler, a distinguished older man in white tie and tails, appeared from the kitchen carrying four crystal flutes of frosty champagne.
“I don’t think we’ll be indulging just yet,” Teeny said. “I’ll have a regular Coke, and please bring some cold Diet Cokes and diet ginger ale for the others.”
He smiled and retreated to the kitchen, returning with a bar cart stocked with ice and sodas. He circulated, softly introducing himself as Charles in a cultured British accent and taking our drink orders.
The manager hovered by Teeny. “I trust everything is to madam’s satisfaction?”
Teeny looked around, visibly amused by the wretched excess. “It’ll do.” She graciously shook the manager’s outstretched hand. “Please see that you and the staff are adequately compensated. Just add it to my bill. I’ll have my assistant review the charges thoroughly when we get back.”
Smooth as polished travertine, she’d shifted the chore of tipping to the manager, but put him on notice that the added charges would be scrutinized.
That was our little mogul.
The manager bowed slightly. “Of course.”
“Oh, and please make sure our car is kept ready. We may be going back out at any time, on short notice.”
He bowed again. “Absolutely, Ms. Pendergrass.”
Teeny waited till he left, then turned to us. “So. Here we are.” She motioned to the hallway that had to lead to the bedrooms. “Y’all pick out your rooms. I’ll take what’s left. I’ve got to make a few calls.” She took her cell phone out onto the balcony.
The butler reappeared. “If the ladies will please make their room selections, I shall be happy to unpack and iron their belongings.”
Linda and Diane exchanged impressed looks, but I hesitated. No male besides John and my gynecologist had ever laid eyes on my granny pants. And though the five pairs each of black and beige briefs were neatly sealed in zip-close freezer bags (as were the rest of my unmentionables, a packing tip that appealed to my obsessive-compulsive nature), there was no guarantee the butler might not take them out and discover that the elastic lace was frayed on most of them.
No, I definitely didn’t feel comfortable with a complete stranger in white tie and tails—especially a British one—passing judgment on my underwear.
I was a secure, very happily married woman, I reminded myself, and I’d never see this guy again after we left. What did I care what he thought of my underwear? But I did, brainwashed by all those motherly admonitions about ER technicians judging me by the condition of my lingerie.
“I think I’d prefer to unpack myself,” I told him, feeling my face flush with unexpected insecurity. “I would like my hanging things to have a press, though.” No sense passing that up. “Maybe you could do those last.”
Charles the butler smiled, devoid of condescension or sarcasm. “Certainly, madam. As you wish.” He motioned to the elaborate master bedroom, then the hallway to its left. “Your rooms are ready. If the ladies find anything amiss, please let me know immediately, and it will be rectified. We have a selection of pillows in down, foam, and synthetic down. Simply mark your preferences as to type and number on the card beside the bed, and I shall make certain your tastes are accommodated.”
Mercy. I hadn’t needed to bring my own, after all. I decided to ask for six synthetic downs.
Since Teeny was paying, none of us even considered taking the master bedroom. And frankly, I wasn’t too keen on the idea of a round bed and satin sheets, anyway. It just seemed wrong, somehow. Wouldn’t things hang off—or slide off—when you slept?
The other three bedrooms were fancy enough, each with a white-draped, columned canopy bed open to the mirrored ceilings, plus semi-artistic murals of ancient Greek vistas on the walls, and its own private marble spa and balcony overlooking the city.
Being the sort of person who likes corner booths at restaurants (nobody can talk about you behind your back) and end-unit condos at the beach (only one common wall), I picked the last room and went inside to stow my stuff before the butler showed up. After all that angst deciding what to bring, unpacking came as a three-minute anticlimax.
Even so, I was the last to join Teeny and the others on the balcony that overlooked Electric Avenue in all its neon splendor. “So. Where do we stand?”
Teeny patted the cushioned chaise beside her. “We have some time to kill.” It was only 8:45.
Charles circulated with a selection of hors d’oeuvres that included a pile of midget-sized low-carb chocolate peanut butter cups. “Only two net carbs in three of them,” he murmured when he saw me eyeing them.
I helped myself to three of them, with several strawberries to balance the nutritional scale, then sampled a mini-bite proportionate to its size.
“Oh, yum,” I rhapsodized. Chocolate is my favorite substitute for drink. The candy almost tasted real. I nibbled away, trying to make them last, but before I knew it, I was on my ninth little peanut butter cup.
Linda looked at me and frowned. “I’d go easy on those. The reason they have so few net carbs is that there’s tons and tons of stuff that acts like a laxative in them.”
I held my ninth and final peanut butter cup in my fingertips, pinky crooked. “That’s okay. An occasional purge never hurt a girl, especially one our age.”
“How many of those things have you had?” she challenged.
“Tradition Twelve,” I countered. (No discussion of weight or diets.)
Linda, still grumpy and hormonal, arched a gray eyebrow. “This has nothing to do with diets and everything to do with digestion. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Tradition Eleven,” I chided. “That sounds suspiciously close to an ‘I told you so’ in advance.”
“Maybe it is.” She tried to be huffy, but wasn’t successful. Instead, she simply came across as miserable, which I could hardly blame her for under the circumstances.
Obstetricians hardly let expectant mothers eat or drink much of anything fun these days.
I savored every teensy remaining bite of my synthetic candy, then licked my fingers clean. Meanwhile, Teeny and Diane munched and talked shop about the clothing business to pass the worried, waiting minutes.
“So, what’s the exact plan?” Linda asked her at the first lull in conversation.
“Everything’s set for midnight or thereabouts down in the casino.” Teeny stretched. “We couldn’t try to take Pru anywhere near her suppliers. They’d kill her for sure if they thought anybody was sniffing around her. But she’d been gambling on the Strip before, so we’re banking on the fact that they won’t be suspicious if she goes again. My chief investigator called in two women operatives to pose as users and lure Pru here to the casino. They’ve promised Pru they’ll feed her quarters at the slots till midnight. The moment they cut off her cash and leave her alone, we move in and offer to take her to rehab.”
“How do you know Pru will go with them?” I asked.
“They’re already on their way,” Teeny said. “The decoys are wired so my chief investigator and his men can hear everything.”
My Chicken Little poked holes in that scenario right away. “How did they explain staking her to the slots? Wasn’t she suspicious?”
Teeny shook her head. “They staged a fake incident where Pru helped them escape with a lot of cash from a make-believe pimp. Then they gave her a methadone pill, just enough to ease her up out of withdrawal, and offered to take her to the casino to thank her, but just until midnight.” She sighed. “That’s when we move in and offer to take her to that great rehab facility in the Smokies.”
“Why do we need to wait?” I asked. “Couldn’t we just go down and get her right away?”
Teeny shook her head. “We’re giving the methadone time to take hold in her system. You can’t reason with an addict who’s frantic for a fix. And her counselor said she’d be more receptive to us if she’d worn herself out losing.”
“What happens if she wins?” my Chicken Little asked. “I mean, she might. What then? How do we stop her from taking the money and leaving to buy more drugs?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” Diane fussed. “How many people really win at those things? I think we’re safe, there. She won’t win.”
Chicken Little is nothing if not persistent. “If nobody won at the slots, nobody would ever play them,” I argued, compelled to articulate the what-ifs. “John said they offer the best odds in the casino. And he ought to know.”
“John’s a physicist, sweetie, not a statistician,” Linda put in.
“Children,” Teeny scolded benignly. “If Pru wins, we’ll punt and come up with something. Those agents with her are really sharp.” She lifted her cell phone and started scanning down her recently called numbers. “As a matter of fact, their partners probably have a contingency already. I’ll check.” She pressed the button and waited, then moved away to talk to “her people.”
“Pru is not gonna win,” Diane said with confidence, then popped a ripe strawberry.
Linda didn’t look so sure. She lifted her hands and eyes skyward. “Your mouth to God’s ear.”
“I think you’re aimin’ that in the wrong direction,” I told her. “As my country granny used to say, cards and gamblin’ are the devil’s domain.”
“Well, poor Pru ought to feel right at home, then.” Sadness permeated Diane’s words.
We were dancing with the demons on this one, for sure. Which reminded me….
“Since nothing’s going down till midnight, I want to give those slots in the casino a try, myself.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Diane cautioned. “What if Pru spots you? It could ruin everything. Remember, we’re supposed to keep a very low profile.”
She had a point.
Charles chose just that moment to appear with coffee. “Would the ladies care for some fresh Colombian coffee, decaffeinated or regular? Or perhaps some decaffeinated iced tea? Sweet or unsweet.”
Boy, he sure had our Southern number.
“No, thanks,” I answered for myself. “But I would like a couple of progressive slot machines, please. I don’t suppose you could have some brought up?”
He laughed as if I’d just made the drollest little joke. “I’m afraid not. But I know the casino would be delighted to indulge madam.”
Rats.
Maybe I could slip in a few quarters while we were staking Pru out. Not just for myself. After all, I had promised SuSu I’d play a roll of quarters for her.
I looked at the clock. Less than two hours, and we’d be back up here, trying to reason with Pru. If only she’d listen. But cocaine was supposed to be the hardest addiction to break.
I sent an arrow prayer heavenward. Please, Lord, hold her in Your hand and make a way where there is no way.
Then I settled back to wait for midnight.