Taking on Vegas
One
Note: The brothers have undergone an age change. Nick is 22, Joe is 25, and Kevin is 27. For all who got parts: You’ll have an age change as well, as soon as you’re in the story.
Dictionary: “grease” or “grease girl” = acrobat. “Chip Opowsky” = random job name
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Piles upon piles of paper litter the apartment floor when I walk in. Being the organizational, pro-cleanliness type, this kind of freaks me out. I step over a particularly large and sloppily put together pile and toss my keys into the basket. “Kevin!” I yell, skipping over the paper into safe ground, the kitchen. “Joe!”
Joe appears, wearing pajamas and eating from a tub of ice cream. “Hey there,” he says, and I assume his tongue is cold, since it came out more like, “’ey dere.” He grins and shoves more ice cream into his mouth. “’evin!”
Kevin comes in, dressed like a gentleman going out on the town. He looks tired, though, and his clothes are slightly crumpled and disheveled. He rubs his eyes and glances at us, and I notice his eyes are bloodshot from sleep. “Hi.”
Joe offers me the ice cream, holding out the tub and his spoon. When I shake my head, slightly disgusted, he shrugs and returns to shoving it into his mouth.
“I spent all last night coming up with lists of people,” Kevin continues, heading into the living room. We follow, carefully stepping over the piles of paper strewn across the floor. “I came up with so many names and I eventually fell asleep - espresso can only keep you up so long.”
I roll my eyes and perch cautiously on the arm of the couch, careful not to knock over one of Kevin’s piles. I watch Kevin flop on the couch and groan, papers flying all over the place. “So who’s on the final list?” I ask.
“A bunch of people from the Atlantic City job,” Kevin says. “Katie, Jay, Ronni and Becky, to name a couple.”
“Jay and Ronni?” Joe says from where he’s sitting. He’s curled up in a corner, the tub of ice cream held between his legs. “The racing girls?”
Kevin nods, then moves on. “I have a couple of ideas for who might be our technical support. You remember Casey Damon?”
“He’s dead,” Joe announces thickly from a mouthful of ice cream.
Kevin sits up and stares at him. “No s.hit,” he replies, shock evident. I’m a bit surprised myself. “Did you go to the funeral? How’s -”
“She’s doing just fine,” Joe interrupts. He peers into the ice cream as if held something very interesting to him. “I sent flowers and took her on a date once.”
Always the Casanova. I shake my head and pick up a paper. I scan the names, and then stare at Kevin incredulously. “Mickey Mouse?” I say, and he shrugs. “How late were you up last night?”
“Oh,” he says, shrugging again, “I went to bed a little after four in the morning.”
My brothers are truly insane. I guess I’m a little insane, too - we have to be, in the business we’re in. We also give our lives to the business. Kevin may be a night owl, but staying up past three in the morning was bordering the line of crazy.
“Anyway - tech nerd,” Kevin continues. “Since Casey’s out of the question, what about -”
“No,” I say immediately. “Not him. He’s so annoying, Kev.”
It’s his turn to roll his eyes. “There’s a new girl in town,” he says after a pause. “Her name is Ella Raymond - young, but experienced. I was considering her, but I wanted to know your opinions first.” He glares at me and says, “You should be honored.”
I rub my forehead and neck, another way of expressing my annoyance. “Any past jobs?” I ask, referring to this Ella girl. “Anything good?”
“Remember the Chip Opowsky job?”
My mouth drops open. The Chip Opowsky job was one of the biggest Hollywood jobs in the history of jobs. Everyone in our business knew about it and respected those who were involved, and apparently Ella Raymond was a part of it. “Chip Opowsky?” I repeat. “Wow.”
“She was the technical support’s assistant,” he continues. “She was seventeen at the time and now she’s one of the top tech nerds we could possibly get.”
“Where is she now?” Joe stands up and heads into the kitchen. I hear the water go off in the sink and silverware clattering around. He must’ve finished his ice cream. He comes back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, and takes his seat.
“At Harvard,” Kevin answers simply. “She’s studying to become a technology teacher.”
I scoff and we say in unison, “Cover.”
“So what about a grease? And an insider?” Joe stretches and flops back down, his butt making a thump sound on the hardwood floor.
“Buddie Ann Shoals for the grease. Champion gymnast when she was in middle school.” Kevin yawns. “She runs a Pilates studio in stone-cold Chicago now. Very limber, if you ask me.”
Joe raises an eyebrow. “And you know this girl is limber?”
Kevin smirks, his eyes half-closed. “I’m an excellent recon agent. Now, for getting on the inside. I wanted to hire a professional, but instead I found her.” He sits up and hands me a copy of a résumé and a photograph. “Spencer Adams, newbie to Hollywood, but not to acting. I saw one of her audition tapes; she’s pretty good. I think she’ll do excellent as a singer.”
“Okay, so that leaves…”
“Bankroll,” we say in unison.
“Any ideas, Master of Ideas?” Joe says. He stands again and stretches, his fingertips grazing the wall. He straightens and looks at Kevin.
“Master of Ideas is brain dead,” Kevin replies, his eyes now fully closed. He curls himself into a ball and continues, his voice muffled by the cushion, “Please leave a message.”
I stand and start racking my brain for any people I know who have extra cash lying around to throw into anything. “There’s -”
“No!” Joe shouts. “Not him! Nuh-uh, no. He’s such an old fart and if we use his house to crash, we’ll smell like cats and cigars for weeks.”
“Joe’s got a point,” the brain dead Master of Ideas says. “I don’t like him, anyway.”
“Okay, so that leaves Eliot -”
“Argh, no, he’s just as old and farty as -”
“Yeah.”
“What about Jen?” I ask. My brothers come to attention, sitting up, their eyes sparking with interest. “Jen D’Alicio; twenty-one, rich, basically living on the Strip with her father’s paycheck under her arm. We know her, too.”
“Guess who’s going to Vegas five days early,” Joe sings, skipping into the kitchen.
Kevin smirks and curls back up into a ball.
“What?” I say quickly, following Joe. “She likes Kevin better anyway -”
“Uh, little bro, Kevin’s six years older than her. She might be repulsed by his older-manliness,” Joe says. His head is stuck in the fridge, and he’s scrounging for more food. He produces a half-eaten slice of chocolate cake and two oranges.
“Chocolate and citrus,” I say, mock-admiringly. “Nice. But seriously, women like older men.”
Kevin’s raspy, half-asleep voice comes from the living room, “I nominate Nick to go to Vegas.”
Joe smirks at me and takes out a fork. He closes the drawer with his hip and shrugs at me. “Sorry, bro,” he says, “you’re outnumbered. Besides, you’re handsome - she’ll be all over you.”
I scowl and yell, “Perv!” at his retreating back, but it does me no good.
Guess I’m heading to Vegas.
