Just to recap, things were going well in Vegas. Tim, Rob and I are doing damage down on Freemont Street, in the old part of Vegas. Stinky was reported lounging by the pool at the Mirage, although up until now, only Tim and Rob had seen the elusive man. He had apparently spend a hedonistic 2 days with a woman in nearby Henderson, missing the first 2 days of the gathering, and now he was recovering. The clock was ticking, only one more full day left in this sparkly city..
Tim and Rob were riding a craps table high, having come off an amazing 50 -roll run during which Tim had made lots of people lots of money. The Golden Gate was never so happy to see a seven get rolled. I had luck at Binions annoying a crusty poker guy by playing unpredictably (aka, amateurishly) and taking a chunk of his stack. It wasn't the money, but it was the way he lost it that was sticking in his craw, and he jawed at me for several hands afterwards until his friends warned him he was on tilt. I tried not to look like I was enjoying it. But I was. Immensely. Then, I pulled the ultimate shit move and left the table without giving him a chance to get his money back. Well, sorry. Tim and Rob were calling. Gotta run. Been fun boys!
Tim and Rob roamed off on their own for the later part of the afternoon while I made my way back to the strip and played some poker at Hurrahs, before heading upstairs for a one hour power nap. I was working off of 3 hours a night slumber, and the nap was the only thing holding me together at this point.
Dinner was at the RIO, and we headed over freshly pressed and shined up. Except Tim. He had stayed at the tables all afternoon chasing the dragon and looked like the day was starting to wear on him. The big buzz was on Stinky, who had left me a voice mail in the afternoon, reporting that he has been escorted off the Mirage property for smoking a funny cigarette by the pool. We laughed at the mental image of Stinky being unceremoniously put to the curb. Tim said that Brian had given Stinky his room key so he could crash at the Palms. We would head over there after dinner and meet up with them. Our last night in Vegas, and I would finally get to wrap my arms around that cozy, crazy guy. I looked forward to it. It was like hugging a sack full of energetic puppies.
The Palms was hopping. We couldn't raise Brian on his cell phone (last word was he was grabbing a late nap himself) so we hit the tables to wait for him to wake up. Ten o'clock rolled around and Brian finally appeared. "Have you heard from Stinky?" he asked right off. "No, isn't he in your room?" I asked. "Not any more!" he blurted, and proceeded to tell the story of arriving back this afternoon to a trashed room. Bed overturned, clothes everywhere, toiletries in the toilet. "And he cleaned out the mini bar!" Brian exclaimed. Cleaned out, meaning all that was left was a Twix bar, which he hates. All the alcohol, soda, water and candy (except the Twix bar) gone. Not even empty bottles!
Also missing was his cell phone. He said he searched for 2 hours, finally finding it wedged up inside the mini bar. Who does that?
Stinky.
Or not. I had trouble wrapping my head around the story. I was privvy to more than a few stories of Stinky in action, and when on a roll, he can get into some interesting situations, and usually by his own doing, or by that of alcohol. But cleaning out the minibar seemed beyond him. It seemed MEAN. That was a few hundred bucks all told, and even though Brian was a special guest at the Palms, they might have seen it as very not cool to see his cleaned out snack bar.
It was hard to swallow, and I kept shaking my head. Tim wasn't fazed. "It's totally Stinky." he said. And then rolled off a story about being in Vegas with him years before and something or other occurred. Not near in magnitude to trashing a hotel room.
One rule about Vegas is a man will be left behind. It's a running clock, and if you're not in, we'll try and catch up later, but we keep moving. So, still shaking my head about the actions of Stinky, we alighted the Palms and headed for the Hard Rock. We had not yet won there yet, and it was really sticking in our collective craw. We would win at the Hard Rock.
The place was hopping, tables full and main bar teeming. We hit our games and an hour later, we were all up. But no word from Stinky. Hope that he would be joining us in these waning hours of the weekend began to wane.
Where do you go in Vegas at 3 am after a good night at the casino? Fatburger.
Yum.
But no Stinky, and no further words from him by text or phone. He has disappeared. With the mini-bar. Was he holed up in Henderson with the mystery woman, sucking back mini bottles of alcohol and doing the nasty?
It was almost enough to put me off my Fatburger. Almost.
We walked back up the strip toward the Mirage, the early morning stragglers stumbling past. The ground littered with sex advertisements, little scenes of drunken drama every block and making the walk interesting. By 4 am we were back and ready to pack it in for a few hours.
Final breakfast at Denny's was a few hours later, and quite delicious. At this point, I refused to believe Stinky was, in fact, in town. I began to see chinks in the timeline of events, and how convenient it was that EVERYBODY had seen the little monster but me. I prodded the boys over pancakes, and almost got Rob to coming clean, but he remained strong. They stuck to the story. Stinky was somewhere around.
We parted, off to do our own final things. I had a poker game waiting to occupy my final hours before my flight out. My last chance at prying money from the fist of lady luck.
The next day, sitting at my desk at work, sleep deprived and reliving the glory of the last four days, I sent the gang an email:
"Sooo close. You guys blew it with the mini-bar story. I thought you guys would break down and reveal during Sunday breakfast. I could tell Rob was close to cracking."
To which they came clean:
"Nice going detective. When it did it hit you? I thought the raiding of the mini-bar story was very plausible. He did that last year to us!! "
So, Stinky was calling/texting from the comfort of his home in Vancouver. It can never be just a fun weekend away with the guys. Somebody always has to be fucked with. And this year, that somebody was me. And I can't wait until next year.
