Aces: Checking In and meeting the Crew

It hits me.

The air hits me immediately. Thick, stagnant, and humid, a suffocating heat that instantly dulls the keen edge of my focus. It’s a sensory assault. The noise of the floor is worse than any Strip casino, not a polished hum but a grating, echoing cacophony of loose slot reels and shouting that bounces off the cheap, hard surfaces. My senses, which I rely on to be my first line of defense, are struggling for purchase.

With how uncomfortable and hot everything feels, everyone here will be fucking like porn stars.

After a while, I manage to adjust to the chaos well enough to observe what is going on at the table games.

Especially the Blackjack tables.

In addition, I notice the craps tables are bustling with rich kids and their respective entourages. I take note of the signs everywhere and where they point to. A cafe, a steakhouse, a gift shop, a place for sports betting, and a bar.

But all of that is standard at most Casinos on the strip these days, so that is not what leaves quite an impression.

But what catches my trained eye immediately is the camera coverage, or lack of it.

The PTZ domes are spaced too far apart, creating blind zones at least eight feet wide at the high limit rail.

On the Strip, we overlap coverage so every angle has a backup.

Here, a competent team could work an entire shoe in the dead space between cameras.

Worse, the cameras themselves are fixed-lens models, maybe 1080p at best. No optical zoom, no facial recognition integration. I can see the refresh rate flickering, cheap LED lighting creating shutter roll that would wash out card faces on playback.

This isn't just budget. This is operational negligence.

On the Strip, this floor would fail the pre opening inspection. The Nevada Gaming Control Board would red flag the coverage gaps before a single chip hit the felt.

I notice prominent seams throughout the casino floor carpeting. In addition, it is also clear that the Casino floor has uneven bumps and ripples. It caught my attention when one of the guests nearly tripped over it. The only reason she didn’t fall flat on her face is because who I think is her boyfriend caught her. Where the rug is not a tripping hazard, it is already wrinkled and at some locations fraying. I can even feel bubbles and lumps underneath my feet. Even worse, the carpet moves in some places as I am waiting in line. When I stretch a bit, the floor feels damp. That is of grave concern to me.

To cut costs this deeply on a 21-story structure, Alec must have blown the budget by at least 150% just to get the shell up. This isn't shoddy; it's a major lawsuit waiting to happen.

Looking around, I am noticing even more problems. As I get closer to the reception desk, I am noticing that the edges and corners are at best uneven and poorly aligned.

At certain points in the walls and ceiling, I notice that there are small gaps in the connections in the walls and ceiling.

The color of the wood appears to be mismatched at certain points.

One of the more serious problems I notice is that tiny cracks are already starting to form in the walls, ceiling and floors where there is no carpeting and where paint can’t cover things up. These cracks are not noticeable to most guests but that they are forming at all tells me that construction was done poorly.

These cracks aren't from settling. They are from structural integrity failure. Someone skipped on the load-bearing materials, a fatal construction flaw. That single decision would have been a massive lawsuit and a project shutdown on the Strip. This wasn't a corner cut; it was a quarter of the budget stripped out.

Now that I think about it, I recall Aces roofing being uneven at certain points from what little I observed outside. Along with uneven alignment of walls and doors. The Aces management appears to have tried to cover up these problems with more paint where there are cracks.

As I approach the reception desk, I notice flickering and loud humming light near the reception desk and same for the lobby. Something that is extremely uncomfortable for me to deal with, especially after being in the car for so long. It bothers both my ears and eyes.

No, bothers is too soft a word. It attacks.

The rhythmic, off-cycle flicker is a painful spike in the visual noise, and the hum of the ballast feels like a drill pressed directly against the hypersensitive nodes in my neck.

If I hit the tables now, I would not be able to manage heat and keep the running and true count. The environment of Aces is just that hostile to my senses. I have not been inside Aces for long and already my mind is already being dragged into defensive overdrive, leaving less mental capacity for subtle threats.

I eventually get to the reception desk after three hours of waiting. The young lady in front of me appears to be flustered and overwhelmed. I know from personal experience that new receptionists sometimes get overwhelmed, especially if they are inexperienced.

The young lady in front of me is a young blonde woman, likely no older than her early twenties. Her work uniform appears to be designed for sex appeal and not workplace appropriateness or even functionality. Her blouse is low cut, she is walking around in high heels and she is wearing a mini skirt. The heels look unstable on the carpet, and she has to constantly tug down on the miniskirt as she moves, which is clearly hindering her ability to work efficiently.

“Welcome to Aces sir.” she says in a sultry tone.

OK, this is getting weird. I need my receptionist to check me in and get me my room key, not seduce me.

“Thank you. I am just here to get checked in.” I respond to her.

“Of course sir. What is your name?” she says to me in a weirdly sultry voice.

“Victor Lopez.” I answered her promptly.

That is not my actual name of course. My name is Manuel Herandez. I am using a false name for this job.

Right then and there, her computer glitches up. The sleek monitor on the desk suddenly flashes a bright, pixelated blue, displaying an ancient 'Fatal Error' message, a blue screen of death. The system didn’t just crash; it screams its antiquity.

“I am so sorry sir. We will get this resolved as soon as possible” she says in a normal and flustered tone, her sultry act instantly abandoned for raw panic.

Well, I am happy she is using her normal voice for once, though I am not happy about why.

But on a more serious note, this probably explains in part why I have been waiting for so long. Their check in system is not ready, especially if they are having glitches like this. I take the time to feel the reception desk.

It is rough and uneven at the touch. Not to mention it feels loose at certain points, especially at the edges. I can see why certain items and paperwork on the reception desk seem to lean one way, the construction of the reception desk would permit nothing else.

A cheap plastic card reader is taped to the desk with gray duct tape, not mounted, and the phone line running from the computer looks like old copper wire. All the while I am seeing the young woman in front of me call for help in a disorganized manner on a phone, waving the phone at other staff who studiously avoid eye contact, making it clear she's on her own.

Now that I have been inside Aces for a little bit, I have been sweating as if I was outside in the Nevada heat.

In fact, it feels quite humid inside for a casino.

Normally, the temperature control is perfect or close to it.

On the strip on a day when it is over 100 degrees, even a casino floor that has no doors feels breezy when compared to the outside. Most Casinos on the strip have an AC budget alone that is higher than most people's net worth. Alec clearly chose the cheapest, lowest-BTU system possible, failing to account for the actual load of a 21-story building.

Aces feels the one way a casino never should.

Muggy and humid.

No casino, not even the middle of nowhere locations or places run by gangsters, has ever felt uncomfortable to be inside. Not like Aces.

Finally, someone who looks like a manager shows up.

At least he is supposed to be.

“What the fuck now?!” he hisses

The receptionist's manager, after some swearing and viciously rattling the keyboard and monitor, manages to get some things back online, though the system remains visibly sluggish. I found the manager’s conduct to be rather unprofessional. I saw him nearly scream at her in public, his voice booming over the lobby's generic dance track, in front of VIP’s.

The manager is decked out with more jewelry like golden rings and neck chains, plus he reeks of cheap cologne and the stench of entitlement. He is wearing what looks to be a tacky blazer and pants. Plus his dress shoes are dressed in gold and diamonds.

“This better not happen again you fucking bitch. Your job is to be pretty and push the damn buttons. Can you at least do that? ” the manager hisses to the receptionist as the system sputters back online

“Thank you. The problem is solved” I say to the manager in an annoyed tone as he walks away in a huff.

Up to a certain point I am sympathetic to the manager's position.

Up to a point being the key phrase.

The manager screams at the receptionist. I don't need to think about it. That's a tell. You don't scream at staff in front of guests unless you're desperate. Desperate people make errors. Note for later.

“I am so sorry Mr. Lopez. I have your key right here.” the receptionist says to me as she hands me my key. Unfortunately, her sultry voice has returned, a defense mechanism she likely has to use to survive the job. Despite the fact that she is dressed for sex appeal over function, she is at least trying to follow the training script and complete the transaction.

“Thank you for my key.” I reply to her in as sympathetic a tone as possible while maintaining cover.

“Oh Mr. Lopez, since you are a VIP, you have unlimited access to the cafe and steakhouse on the house. As an Aces apology for the delays, you will have access to our elite companions.” the receptionist says to me as I make the remaining payments and damage deposit.

“Understood. Good day.” I say sincerely.

If this is Thursday, I dread what Friday will bring. The full house will turn this sloppiness into a full scale riot.

This is reminding me less of the strip and more of Woodstock 99, a master class of everything that can go wrong from a security perspective.

I take my key and my bags and head to my hotel room. I am hoping that my room is in better shape than what I have seen so far.

I go to where the elevators are.

I stop near the bank of frozen elevators, letting out a frustrated sigh.

That's when I see him.

Looking down from the "Executive Skybox", which was really just a hasty drywall mezzanine jutting out over the casino floor, is Marcus Atkins.

The CFO of the Gold Standard Group. Cousin of Alec and Billy Atkins. The financial architect who somehow got this disaster past the Nevada Gaming Control Board.

But he doesn't look like a genius today.

He looks like a man watching his work unravel in real time.

His slender, immaculate hands are flying across a dedicated laptop, likely fighting a two-front war. Faking the vendor payments, and keeping the shell companies aligned just enough to survive the weekend.

The glass wall separating him from the floor was meant to be soundproof.

In a real casino, it would be.

But like everything else at Aces, the contractors had cut corners. The seal along the bottom of the pane had buckled in the heat, leaving a two-inch gap that funneled sound directly down to the mezzanine overhang where I stood.

I don’t just see him, I heard the frantic, rhythmic tapping of his keys.

A waitress, Amber, I think, steps into his office.

She is balancing a tray, struggling to walk in those torture-device heels on the uneven subflooring.

She set a glass of water down next to him, her hand trembling slightly.

Marcus didn't look up. He was staring at a document on his screen, his brow slick with sweat.

"Do you have any idea what the retention requirements for a Class C restricted license are, sweetheart?" he mutters, his voice tight, not speaking to her so much as vibrating with stress.

She froze.

"I… I'm sorry, sir?" she stammers.

He finally glances at her, offering a thin, pitying smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

It is the look a tenured professor gives a student failing grade for a simple exam.

"Of course you don't. Why would you? It took me six months of forensic restructuring and three shell corps in the Caymans just to get the Board to look at our application without laughing," he said, picking up the water.

He took a sip, then gestured vaguely at her outfit with the glass.

“It's sweet, really. You get to walk around, serve drinks, and look pretty. Simple. Meanwhile, I'm up here literally inventing new forms of accounting just to keep the NGCB auditors from realizing this entire building is technically insolvent."

He sighed, a sound of supreme, martyred arrogance.

"The temporary license was the easy part. Keeping the charade from collapsing before we recoup? That's the real genius. And it's killing me." he says in a condescending manner.

I file that comment about the gaming license away immediately.

A "Class C restricted license" in Nevada is temporary, good for six months while the NGCB conducts a full background investigation.

It's what new casinos get when they're deemed technically compliant by the NGCB but haven't proven operational stability.

The retention requirements are brutal.

Minimum $5 million liquid reserves, quarterly audits by Board certified accountants, continuous surveillance footage retention for minimum 7 days, anti-money laundering compliance with every transaction over $10K reported to FinCEN.

If Aces can't meet those requirements during the review period, the Board revokes the license immediately. No appeal. No grace period

Marcus just confirmed what I suspected.

Aces is operating on borrowed time. That temporary license is a ticking clock. If the Board shows up for a surprise inspection, which they can do at any time, and finds structural failures, rigged games, or insufficient reserves, Alec loses everything.

That's why Marcus is cooking the books. He is trying to fake solvency just long enough to get the permanent license.

His hands return to the keyboard with renewed urgency, the tapping now almost violent.

"You'd be bored in my world, darling. It requires…intelligence. Go on now. Run along back to the floor. Leave the thinking to the adults."

He waves a hand dismissively, already turning back to his screen to bury another million dollars in debt before Monday morning.

Marcus didn't abuse her with volume; he crushed her with the terrifying certainty that he was the only sentient being in the room.

The casual, paternalistic dismissal hits just as hard as Alec's screaming or Billy's systemic cruelty. Alec hates women because he fears them, Billy only see’s assets to be discarded when no longer profitable, Marcus pities them because he genuinely believes they are not his equals.

But what struck me most wasn't his condescension, I'd seen that brand of intellectual arrogance before.

It was the desperation underneath it.

The man who'd somehow got Aces licensed was now watching all that work catch up to him in real time. The shell companies, the fake vendor payments, the Cayman accounts, all of it is a house of cards, and Marcus knows it.

He is trying to hold back a landslide with a spreadsheet, and the mountain is already moving.




But Marcus's brand of cruelty, the cold, clean arithmetic of the house accountant, is the least of my immediate problems.

A bank of four elevators should service the high-rise tower to keep guests moving from floor to floor efficiently and comfortably, yet three are dark, their screens either frozen or displaying a static 'Out of Service' sign. A massive crowd is waiting for the single working car.

I spot Jace, David, and Rachel approaching from the main entrance, weaving through the throng of influencers, podcasters, rich kids and hangers-on.

Jace is a white man, well-built but not overly muscular, with a sharp, friendly face and black hair that is meticulously groomed.

He is dressed in high-end business casual clothing, a crisp, fitted white polo shirt and pressed black khakis, which subtly conveyed a sense of confident professionalism. His clothes didn't shout wealth but spoke of quality and tailoring. Unlike the guests here.

In contrast to my skin color, he only gets somewhat tan in the sun, though because we both spend so much time inside, he is, if anything, even paler than me, giving him the clean, controlled look of a financial advisor rather than an operative.

Rachel Lin a short, medium-height Asian American woman with a lean, compact, and athletic build that spoke of practical fitness.

Her face is fine-boned and sharp, typically unsmiling, with eyes that were a deep, intelligent black and held a meticulous, unwavering focus that had make her a terror in the surveillance rooms.

She is wearing a pair of jeans, tennis shoes, and a dark green polo, a shade chosen to be professionally unremarkable. The polo's fabric was a soft, familiar cotton, a non-negotiable requirement for her, I know.

David Cohen has an olive skin tone that is darker than all of ours, deeply tanned and weathered from years of sun exposure in desert climates.

His hair is the thinnest of all of us, nearly bald in fact, kept cropped short and functional.

He wears a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, the fabric of the shirt slightly faded, and is wearing tennis shoes. His demeanor is a guarded one, his eyes constantly scanning, looking out for trouble.

If you look closely, you can see scarring on his hands and face, notably a thin, precise scar near his jawline.

To the casual observer, we look like a disjointed group of travelers, but the formation is deliberate. Jace is on point, smiling that disarming smile of his while scanning the floor. David brings up the rear, his eyes scanning every face in the crowd. Rachel is in the middle, looking appropriately overworked..

Between the four of us, we are carrying enough baggage for an expedition, not a weekend trip to Aces.

I have my two bags, one rolling suitcase with my clothes and laptop, and a heavy duffel bag slung over my shoulder containing one million dollars in hundreds.

Jace and David are mirroring me.

One personal bag, one "bankroll" bag each. That’s three million dollars in cash sitting on the sticky carpet of a lobby that smells like ozone and desperation. But in his personal bag, David is carrying weapons and body armour.

Rachel, playing the part of my accountant Chanel Lee, is the only one not carrying a fortune in currency. She has her own roller bag, but in her other hand, she clutches a garment bag containing the bespoke suit I need for the poker game.

I look around for a bellhop or a porter, anyone to assist with the bags, as would be standard in even a Motel 6, let alone a "luxury resort."

In a clear sign of how understaffed Aces is, all the bellhops and porters are helping the influencers and podcasters.

“Looks like we are the help, Victor,” Jace says, slipping into his persona of John Miller, my business partner. He hoists his money bag with a grunt. It’s heavy, dense with the weight of the cash.

“Let’s just get to the room,” I reply, gripping my own bags tighter.

We join the crush at the single working elevator. The doors slide open, revealing a packed car that already smells of sweat and stale cologne. The occupants, a group of loud twenty somethings holding bottles of overpriced vodka, don't move to make room.

“Room for four more,” David proclaims. It isn’t a question. He steps forward, his broad shoulders acting as a plow, forcing the partiers to compress against the back wall.

We squeeze in, dragging the millions of dollars and the garment bag with us. The doors shudder as they try to close, bouncing back twice before finally sealing us in.

This elevator feels like a death trap, and I hate the idea of dying with these influencers.

“Bro, watch the merch!” one of the influencers snaps as Jace’s money bag bumps his leg.

“This is limited edition streetwear.” he hisses.

“My apologies,” Jace says smoothly, though I see his grip tighten on the handle of the bag.

“This bag is quite valuable too.” Jace points out

The elevator lurches upward with a groan that sounds like metal shearing against metal. The air conditioning in the car is non-existent. The heat is stifling, amplifying the smell of low quality vodka and cheap cologne. The ride is agonizingly slow, the floor indicator flickering randomly between numbers.

The guests stagger off onto their floors. To the frustration of the guests waiting for the elevator, it is always full.

Finally, the bell dings for the 21st floor. We spill out into the hallway, gasping for relatively fresher air.

Jace immediately scans the corridor, not like a guest checking for their room, but like someone doing a security sweep. He notes the emergency exit signage that is unlit, the fire extinguisher placement with the wrong code, and most importantly, which suite doors showed light underneath.

"Three rooms occupied on this floor," he murmured to me.

"Two have voices. Parties. One's silent but the lights are on. Could be security, could be management." Jace observes.

This was the Jace most people never saw. The floor supervisor who could read an entire level in fifteen seconds and secure it in thirty.

We trudge to the suite at the end of the hall. I swipe the key card. Red light. I swipe again. Red light.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Rachel whispers in an irritated manner, shifting the heavy garment bag to her other shoulder.

“Let me” David says.

He takes the card, wipes the magnetic strip on his shirt, and slides it through with surgical precision.

Green light.

We stumble inside, dropping the heavy bags in the middle of the doorway with a loud thud.

“Make sure that David is the one to use our key cards.” Rachel says

The suite is large, I’ll give it that. But the air is thick, stagnant, and humid.

“AC is down,” David notes immediately, checking the thermostat.

“It’s set to sixty, but it’s at least eighty in this suite.” David asses

“At least the money is inside.” Rachel comments.

“I don’t think I could have stood another minute in that lobby without punching someone.” Jace comments.

“Leave the bags here for now,” I instruct.

Me, David and Jace all eagerly put down the bags of money.

“We need to maintain cover. Jace, you need to get to the floor and start establishing your presence. David, Rachel, you two should probably make yourselves scarce until we know the room is secure. I’ll do the sweep.” I say

“Don’t take too long,” Rachel says, smoothing out the garment bag and hanging it carefully on the back of a chair, avoiding the dusty closet.

Rachel stretches like her cat. A tortie named Penny.

“I need to go find a place in Elko that sells decent coffee before I start reviewing these financials.” Rachel comments.

“And I need to go see if the dice are as crooked as the architecture,” Jace adds with a grin.

“I am going to check the perimeter.” David says.

They head out, leaving me alone in the silence of the suite.