“Now we’re talking, Dino. I told you we’d get rooms!”
“We? We, kimosabe? We didn’t get us a room. I got us a damn room.”
“No…you got us a roof view suite, baby!”
Miami popped open a chilled bottle of French champagne and poured two glasses. “Why is it that free liquor always tastes better?”
They made reservations for dinner at nine p.m. at the Bacchanal gourmet restaurant, and then took naps.
Upon waking, Miami hit the electric shades on the living room window and the bright Las Vegas Strip lights came into full view. The iconic round towers of the Sands Hotel were dwarfed by the huge Bally’s sign touting Dean Martin as headliner, with Sammy Davis Jr. noted as coming soon. The Frontier featured Siegfried and Roy, and the Desert Inn highlighted Crystal Gayle. Miami loved the Desert Inn, as he had hung out with Howard Cosell at the bar one night there, and it had a smaller, classy feel to it.
“What do you think…should we bring Ava and Amalia here?” asked Miami.
“We have never even thought about bringing girlfriends to Vegas.”
“I don’t know…I think Ava would love the lights of the Strip.”
The conversation ended without any resolution as they dressed for dinner.
Dino and Miami were escorted to a VIP table and opened huge menus the size of small desks. They ordered another bottle of French champagne, appetizers, and then a 1975 George Latour, B.V. Estate, Cabernet Sauvignon, along with bone-in, prime aged steaks, mushrooms, and Florentine stuffed potatoes.
“Just like the Hotel Impala…huh, buddy?” Miami said, between bites.
“Not quite…I miss the carbon monoxide and you snoring. Man, this is what it was probably like to be Frank Sinatra every night of his life.
Seeing an opening for more serious conversation, Miami told Dino that things were getting serious with he and Ava.
“I’m glad for you, but does this mean you won’t be going to the track much? Name one guy we know that goes to the track three times per week who is married or has a steady girlfriend.”
“Nothing will change, my brother. Maybe I won’t go on her birthday and stuff.”
Despite the great meal, and being with his best friend, Miami felt lonely. He wanted to share the meal with Ava and take her to a show. Or, maybe just sit in the lounge with her and listen to the singers. Then again, why mess it up by getting married? I love my life, he thought. Still, a couple of my own baby fillies and colts could be cool too…one day.
When the check came, all that was required was for Dino to sign the comp slip, and Miami put down a $100 bill as a tip. They went to the tables looking for a hot craps pit. Craps was their game; it had the best odds for the players, and they always played the same way. They limited losses to $100 each at each table and played aggressively. If they won, they increased their bets, and kept pressing if they were hitting some numbers. Their number one rule was to never chase. If either lost $100, they’d move on to another table. Playing by this method, they knew being “hot” could mean a lot of cash; going “cold” wouldn’t hurt much.
After several hours of rolling dice, drinking free cocktails, and losing about $500 each, Miami and Dino went over to the vast, now empty Sports Book about two a.m. They sat down under the giant odds boards in comfortable, oversized, light brown leather chairs. The Caesars Palace Sports Book was nirvana to them, and they smiled at each other, now at total peace with their world. This location was the center of each man’s personal universe.
Miami thought it was like the way Ansel Adams felt when hiking in the wilderness, or how Mark Spitz felt about swimming. “You know Dino, most people are unhappy because they never find out what they really like. They are always searching and traveling to find out what will make them happy. You and I knew the first time we set foot into a racetrack. Me, it was Hollywood Park at age 14.”
“For me, it was Santa Anita at age four.”
“We are lucky men.”
“Damn right we are,” said Miami as they sat staring at the odds for the Super Bowl, the coming NBA summer playoffs, and tomorrow’s odds for the horse races from California to Florida.
“Can we live here?” Dino asked.
After two nights in Vegas, Dino had to be back in Los Angeles by Tuesday evening. Miami as usual woke up early, despite going to bed after three a.m. He missed Ava and hoped to see her that night when he got home. He knew she was at a trade show in San Francisco, knew the hotel where she was staying, and knew she planned to take the one-hour flight home that same afternoon. He called the hotel and asked for Ms. Bouchon’s room. It was eight a.m. The phone rang eight times, and he hung up.
After three minutes, he called again. After the fourth ring, he heard noises…it sounded like the phone had been dropped. Then more noises. A man’s sleepy, gravelly voice mumbled, “Yeah…what?”
He heard Ava say, “Who is it?”
Miami was uncertain what to do…or say. He felt like an idiot for missing her…while being in Vegas, for Christ’s sake. “Tell her it’s Mark.”
He hung up.
Dino and Miami grabbed two large coffees at the breakfast bar, fortified with three Tylenols each, headed straight to the Impala, and hit the long open road back to Los Angeles.
The first three hours of driving were quiet. Miami knew Dino wasn’t used to being hung over. He didn’t feel like talking anyway. He thought of telling Dino about Ava but didn’t feel up
