Aces Sample
I eventually manage to get inside Aces itself as the line moves forward.
It leaves quite an impression on me.
It is covered in gold and white. But mostly gold. I hear the sound of slot machines everywhere. I observe where the table games are and how busy they are with the hangers on of the VIP’s.
But then, I see the man himself who is the source of much of the chaos standing in the lobby.
Alec Atkins, the owner and builder of Aces, stood near the entrance in a gold-plated blazer that looked impossibly tacky against his muscular frame. He has a square jaw, thin, fading browning hair and is over six foot three.
Alec is a MMA fighter turned supplement mogul. I recognize him from surveillance briefings, the man whose trafficking allegations made him radioactive to every legitimate casino in Nevada.
He shouts into a cordless microphone, his voice, already booming, electronically amplified to a deafening, distorting pitch that hammered painfully against the undamped acoustics of the casino floor.
“Welcome to Aces, you motherfuckers!” Alec bellowed, the sound bouncing off the gold and white surfaces and slamming into the back of my skull.
That was not a greeting. It was a physical assault. My head instantly began to throb, the sound amplifying the grating noise of the slot reels until it became a single, piercing siren of sensory overload.
From how other guests are reacting, I am far from the only one to experience this as an attack.
Alec is a name I regret being familiar with, as my security intelligence team had spent time earlier tracking his volatile clientele that caused major problems, and worst of all, alleged trafficking links. I recall having to explain to a superior that sponsoring Alec’s supplements would invite the one entity everyone on the strip fears more than any other if there was any bad press or indictments of Alec or anyone close to him.
More than the Culinary Union. More than the FBI, more than the IRS, more than the SEC, more than even the State Attorney General.
The Nevada Gaming Control Board.
The only governing body in the state of Nevada with any integrity or competence left. An institution I actually respect.
This entity can shut down a casino faster on the strip faster than anyone else. The entity that even the suite’s work to placate.
Getting on their bad side is a de facto death sentence.
He thrust a fist into the air, soaking in the roar of the already agitated crowd.
“Welcome fellow disruptors of the status quo! Here at Aces, we redefine hospitality and gaming to the gold standard, not the beta standard! We are here to disrupt hospitality and gaming!” Alec roars.
Except it is an open secret on the strip that Alec would be lucky to last a week. Hence, a big part of why he chose Elko.
“Many of you are asking ‘Alec, why Elko?’ Why not the strip? I will tell you why, because the strip is for sheep! The corporate suits there need a manual telling them how to piss! They negotiate when they should dominate! Out here, in the heart of the desert, Elko is the last frontier!” Alec roars into the microphone.
He is not entirely wrong about the space but he is lying about the motive. Elko county is 10,000 miles of empty desert bordering Utah and Idaho, a massive blind spot. But the real reason Alec is here? He is hiding from the Nevada Gaming Control Board in Carson City. But most of all, he is looking for a place where the law is too thin to catch a predator.
“They said it couldn't be done! They said Elko wasn't ready! But I proved the bitiches wrong! We built a palace! This palace is going to turn Elko into a kingdom for masters of the universe! And I’m here to tell you one thing, you earned it! You earned this life! At Aces, we live like movie stars, party like rock stars and fuck like porn stars!” Alec screams
He dropped the microphone with a feedback squeal that shot a spike of pure white-noise pain directly into the hypersensitive nodes in my neck as the crowd seems to roar back at him. He flashed a practiced, predatory grin before walking off toward a private elevator, surrounded by a tight crew of men in black.
He didn't make it five steps before a younger man stepped out of the crew, placing a restraining hand firmly on Alec's golden sleeve.
This man is nearly as tall as Alec, with the same flat haircut, but his posture is coiled, not overtly arrogant, a subtle difference in muscle memory.
He wears a crisp, expensive black turtleneck that looks a million times better than Alec's gold-plated blazer, and a pair of dark, tailored trousers.
His eyes, fixed on his brother, were colder, quieter, and carried a focused, weaponized intensity.
This is Billy Atkins, Alec’s younger brother.
In the ring, he’d been called the Angel of Death, a title earned not through shouting, but through precision and a clinical lack of mercy. Whereas Alec won his fights via spectacular knockouts and shouting insults to his opponents while they were at his mercy, Billy won his via submissions and forcing tapouts. Billy would inflict as much pain as required, no more, no less. Once his opponents tapped out, Billy released them. He accomplished his goal.
“Oh King of Kings.” Billy’s voice cut through the lingering noise, low and calm, a controlled blade against Alec’s blunt hammer.
“You've been gone for three minutes and I already had to stop a high roller from trying to take a knife to one of your rent a cops over the check in line.” Billy informs Alec.
Alec has a look of brief concern
“Don’t worry, it's handled, the footage is scrubbed and the kid is being fitted with an NDA on his way out.” Billy whispers
Alec relaxes a bit.
“Do your job, which is to excite the suckers, and then get off the floor. I'll handle the actual operations. We have enough heat as it is, and you’re acting like a carnival barker. Show some respect for the gravity of the situation. Please.” Billy pleads and orders at the same time somehow.
Alec snatched his arm away, his eyes flaring with annoyance. “You worry too much, Angel of Death. They’re here because they respect the brand! They see the vision! The bitches are here, Billy! The money is here! I just gave them a taste of the alpha life. They’re eating it up! Your job is to keep my vision safe, not lecture me on my stage presence!” Alec roars
Billy’s jaw tightened. He didn't raise his voice, which made his next words all the more impactful.
“My job is to ensure you live long enough to see tomorrow and that this place is still standing by the end of opening weekend. Your vision is falling apart, turnover is through the roof, and your alpha club is full of rich kids who don’t even know how to hold their liquor. And, I’ve had to tighten the penalty clauses of the webcam network by 20 points since last quarter just to keep up with costs here.” Billy says to Alec emphatically
“Well good! Just squeeze more money out of the bitiches!” Alec says with approval.
“But there is only so much more I can squeeze out of them.” Billy says with clear exasperation.
“More importantly, the structural issues are a massive problem, and the only thing covering your ass is the Angels covering it up. Did you know I had to divert the remaining plumbing budget to pay off the Russian’s flight crew? Get in the damn elevator, Alec. Now.” Billy hisses quietly
The tension between them was a brief, sharp silence in the chaos, Billy's quiet authority momentarily overpowering Alec's bluster. Alec sneered, but the predatory grin was gone, replaced by a momentary flash of something like grudging obedience. He slapped his brother hard on the shoulder, a gesture that looked more like a challenge.
“Fine, fine. Don't bore them to death while I'm gone.” Alec says drearily.
He then spun and disappeared into the private elevator. Billy watched the doors close for a beat longer than necessary, his dark eyes scanning the crowd with an alarming professional calm before he melted back into the background, a silent, deadly shadow.