The Visitor

Testy Lesbiana shot through the night.

Imagine lightning bolts. Picture jet engines. Envision rockets and blastoffs and those atomic explosions rearranging the desert. She ripped at high speed through the desert darkness, going from nowhere to nowhere, exulting in the trip without destination, thrilling in power and gasoline waste. She drove a pop-top road yacht, one of those cruisers whose hood could have held a putting green, a refugees from the glory days of shamelessness in Motor City, set free now in this promised land of emptiness and open asphalt.

She wore a wig and more makeup than a whole line of showgirls. She sported sequins to make Liberace drool, and that’s a whole lotta sparkle, kiddies. Her teased and sprayed-stiff updo, born of half a dozen sweet innocent heads in South Korea but now fulfilling a potential they could not have imagined, fluttered wildly. Her eyelashes flapped and waved, hanging on desperately and only because they were partially protected behind big, black sunglasses. At 2:00 am. After work one Wednesday at Extravaganza!, biggest tits and feathers show in the world.

Sometimes, a queen just has to get out, Testy told people. Sometimes, she had to forego the lights and the glamour of the stage – or of backstage, or the bars – for the bare expanse of the wild world. She had to trade cocktail lighting for a wash of stars flung across the curtain of sky, Klieg lights for God’s own shining spotlight, the moon.

Testy cackled, grabbed an eight-track from the pile beside her, and cranked up the music.
Yes, children, an eight-track. What else would a self-respecting throwback auto to a stupider era contain? The retro stereo did limit her choices of entertainment, but that seemed only right. Tonight, she’d started off with the Carpenters, crooning on about Rainy Days, which had seemed appropriate given the wet spring, but bored La Lesbiana quickly. That Karen girl knew nothing about glamour. Testy had moved on to Tina Turner, who was as of this moment burning up scorpion ears for miles around with Proud Mary. The scorpions were jiggling their little see-through asses and high stepping as if all the desert were their stage and all the sagebrush their audience. Testy laughed, and sang louder.

Off in the distance, coming toward her, was a pair of lights. She blinked and paused in the song while Tina went on. She was surprised to see another car out so late, and so remotely. She was not on any major highway, but burning up a two-land road that headed vaguely toward the mountains south and west of town. She didn't know where it went, precisely. Nobody ever came here, that she’d ever known. Nobody had a reason to.

The lights grew quickly, revealing themselves as the glaring eyes of a well-known Vegas beast. Gold paint surrounded their glow, and a long, boxy body followed. Along its sides blared words in pink and orange and green. Totally! Nude! Showgirls!!! they said, exclamations included for free.

“Ha! You go, girls!” Testy yelled out, and toasted the limo with her empty hand. Inside, giggles and champagne glasses, and probably no notice at all of her. “Have a good night!”

And the red butt of the limo cruised off into her rear-view mirror, heading toward the city and its sparkling brethren and whatever parties waited. What mogul hermit had called it out to fetch him, or what flush winner had hired it for a desert cruise in the wee small hours? Testy waved a hand while her wig flailed and her lashes cowered, and Tina screamed of dignity and incendiary ladies, and lizards and scorpions wondered what the hell was up tonight.

Now a change of scene.

Picture, if you will, a man. A gentleman, shall we say, of a certain age. Odd, how that phrase is almost always applied to women. “A certain age” generally means “more than they’ll admit to”, although in Venus’ case it could have referred to several ages. Historical ones. This gentleman was not young, but not decrepit. He sat quietly in his limo, considering.

What did he consider? So glad you asked, and so sorry to disappoint, but who knows? He kept his private thoughts private, and watched his ride-mates sip their drinks and giggle, and said barely a word on the long ride into Vegas.

He’d called, or someone had, for a pickup at a vague spot not near anything. A limo, please, one of the extra long ones. And some girls to share the ride. The operator who’d taken the call had wondered what the hell anyone would be doing out so far, particularly on a night like this when rain had fallen off and on and there was nothing, nothing out there. But the credit card number paid off, and maybe the guy had been stranded by a pissed-off lover. The operator knew how that worked. So, round three girls up, send ‘em out. Give the driver a map and tell him don’t search too long if the guy’s not where he promised. But he had been, and the Champagne was waiting, and although he didn’t drink any, he poured for his companions and held a glass to tap against theirs, and the ride went smoothly, and the limo company made a fat profit.

“Where you going, sir?” asked the driver. “We’ll be getting into town in another ten minutes. Where would you like me to take you?”

Limo drivers in Las Vegas know to pin these things down. They cater to a rare species, the one-night wonder, gambling's answer to Motown's singular single one-hitters. These are not men of means, not men accustomed to drivers or vehicles longer than suburban driveways. They are frat boys with too much cash, guys out to impress their girls or girls in packs meaning to live like the big boys for a few hours. The light of dawn threatens and destroys them all, so their drivers know how to soothe and steer them through the dark hours. They build them up, play their games and support their silly fantasies. That’s what a limo’s for, isn’t it?

“Give us the grand tour,” the man in the back said. The driver saw him smile slightly, saw the craggy eyes crinkle. He was a tall man, commanding even sunk into the cushy leather. The driver’s view of his great, shaggy, gray head shifted as he leaned forward to pour more Champagne. The reflection of his shoulders fell off the mirror’s sides, too broad to be held there. “Let’s get my money’s worth. Show the young ladies the town.” Some giggling, happy sounds came in answer.

Smooth as oil. Charming as a movie actor determined to get into your movie or, if he has to settle, your pants.

“Yes, sir,” said the driver.

“Then take the girls home,” the voice came. “And drop me at the Olympus.”

NEXT UP: STRIP DOINGS (Monday 8/3)