Free 3 a.m. (Henry Bins 1) by Nick Pirog Page A

actually spent in a
jail cell before they rushed him into a courtroom and posted
bail.
    Doesn’t matter.
    What matters is in the background. His wife
is there. His son isn't.
    I put the phone down and force myself to the
road. I've seen mountains before, but nothing as majestic as the
snow-capped Rockies that loom under the full moon.
    At 3:58, I pull the car over into a small
dirt enclave and I nudge my father. We switch seats.
    When I wake up, it will be the bright lights of
Vegas.

 
     
     
~Fourteen~
     
    There are 122 casinos, 874 clubs, over 2,000
restaurants, and more than fifty strip clubs in Las Vegas. Nearly
everything is open until four in the morning, if they close at all.
And Ricky Sullivan could be in any one of them. That is, if the
paparazzi and his father's arrest hadn't sent him underground. It
takes my dad six hours and five greased palms, but he finally
tracks the President's son and his buddies to the XS Nightclub.
    At 3:06, my dad pulls up to the massive Wynn
hotel and I jump out. After a twenty-minute wait in line, and
a fifty dollar cover fee, I enter.
    House music blares. Purple, orange, and
green strobe lights threaten to give me a seizure.  The air is
sticky, a million tiny post-it notes. I feel like I've walked into
a beehive. It's madness. 
    I push my way through the swarming bodies. A
young woman wearing six square inches of fabric grabs my crotch and
whispers something unintelligible in my ear.
    She grabs my hand and yanks me towards the
dance floor.
    I shake her hand off. I measure women in
minutes and she is worth about thirty seconds. Detective Ray
flashes across my mind. I give her all sixty.
    When I finally get to the bar it is 3:34
a.m. 
    “ Where's Ricky Sullivan?”
I scream at the closest bartender. 
    He feigns ignorance. I am not the first
person to ask him this question tonight. I wave a hundred dollar
bill at him. He walks over and snags it, cocks his head to the
right, then moves on to the next customer.
    It takes me four minutes to push my way
through the crowd and to the VIP tables. Two bouncers guard a thick
rope that cordons ten plush circular tables that currently hold
three NBA stars, two rappers, a restaurateur, a comedian, an
actress, a supermodel, a late-night host, and the President's
son.
    Ricky Sullivan is with two other guys and
eight scantily clad women. They are sitting around a plush purple
sofa. At least a thousand dollars’ worth of bottle service litters
the table next to them. Three men in black suits stand close
by; Ricky's Secret Service detail.
    They look especially alert and I'm guessing
the past forty-eight hours have been a deluge of reporters and
paparazzi trying to get a snapshot or a comment.
    The bouncers appraise me as I approach.
    They are checking my wrist for the bright
green band that all the 'visitors' to the VIP section are
wearing.
    I have one.
    I'd bought it from a girl on the dance floor
for two hundred dollars. She wiggled it off and I was able to
wiggle it on.
    What can I say, I have dainty
hands.
    They let me through and I pick my way past
four of the tables. When I am within six feet of Ricky Sullivan and
his posse, two of the Secret Service goons jump forward and block
my path.
    “ Hey guys.”
    They don't respond.
    “ I just need a quick
second with Ricky.”
    They look at one another.
    “ Get lost,” says
one.
    “ Ricky,” I yell. He
doesn't turn around.
    The Secret Service guys start pushing me
back.
    I pull the watch from my pocket and toss it
underhand. It lands on the lap of a girl next to Ricky.
    Before my arms are wrenched behind my back,
I catch Ricky's eyes as he sees the watch.
    “ He's good.”
    The force that is about to break my wrist
lessens slightly. 
    “ I said he’s good! LET HIM
THROUGH!”
    I dust myself off, give the two SS a little
nod, and walk past. Ricky has already ushered all the girls and his
two buddies from the table. It’s just him and the watch.
    I sit down a couple feet from him.
    I