Chicken A La King Page One

Taxis sprinkled with gawking tourists crowded the Vegas strip. Ali walked along the littered sidewalk past the lounges, shops, sports bars and cafes that all offered air-conditioned interiors and escape from the unrelenting afternoon sun. Somewhere “Viva Las Vegas” played on a jukebox and sweat poured down her arms and the back of her neck in droplets. The Sahara was just another block away, a mirage waiting ahead of her.
Ali Walker was a tall blonde with sparkling blue eyes and a long lean figure, which she hid, in baggy clothes. She had come to Vegas from rural Iowa, where she had left behind her dead end job in a cannery. Her parents were still back in Des Moines at the family farm and called her often to warn her of the perils of Sin City.
“Be careful dear!” her mother warned, “There are drug addicts and prostitutes there”. “I am careful Mother”, she retorted. “Don’t worry”.
She left Iowa to escape the unbearable boredom she felt of living in a small town. She did miss the landscape there, the wide-open fields of corn rustling in the sun and the quiet night skies. She missed the prairie dogs burrowing into the earth at the end of the day. Las Vegas was a new harsh reality for her, a landscape of neon signs and bright lights, and she felt fuelled with lust and excitement each time she stepped out her door.
She had left behind her old boyfriend Chet, dependable sweet Chet. They had grown up together and had known each other their whole lives. He wanted to get married and settle down but her wanderlust was too strong, her drive too hard to ignore. She vowed she would write but she knew in her heart it was over. She had left Chet heartbroken.
The Sahara was a faded starlet on the strip. It’s exterior was fading and dated. It wasn’t as opulent as the Bellagio or as grand as New York New York but she had a job there as a cocktail waitress. The manager of the casino Tony Fratelli had taken one look at her healthy blonde hair and her long lean legs and ushered her into the uniform department where a short Spanish woman looked up from the sewing machine. Tony handed her some clothing off a rack that looked quite minimal.
“Try this on, it’s about your size”, he urged, “Come out when you are dressed and I’ll take a look at ya.”
She squeezed into the short black mini skirt and aqua body stocking top. It was so tight and short! The seamstress came over to make adjustments.
“Perfecto,” the Spanish lady beamed.
She emerged from the dressing room where Tony Fratelli inspected her uniform. He had a smash in his face and crooked, thin lips. He was wearing a worn-out blue suit and had a pinkie ring with a fake blue stone in it. He looked at his book and penciled in some dates. He dragged on a cigarette. His voice was scratchy from smoking cigarettes.
“I’ll put you on from five to midnight, Monday to Saturday. Then once things start rocking I’ll give you an extra day off now and then. Is that okay with you Cookie?”
He stroked the seam of her skirt with his pudgy finger. He liked this one, so young and so innocent. That would change soon, he thought. Nobody who stayed in Vegas remained naive for very long. It was the only way to survive here.
“Nice...You’ll make lots of tips here, you are a very good-looking chick”.
“Thank you”. She blushed
“If there’s one thing I can’t stand its late waitresses, so be on time”.
“I will”.
So that was that. She had landed a job; she was on her way. Ali walked into the hotel, the air-conditioning hitting her like a ton of ice water, cooling her moist face. She strode past the lounge where an Elvis impersonator was crooning “Suspicious Minds” to a crowd of white haired ladies in bright leisure clothes. He had a head of thick black hair, was wearing a white jumpsuit with multi-colored rhinestones in the front, with a white cape flowing in back, and white shoes.
Scott Raymond was in his late twenties and had been impersonating Elvis all his life. It started back in the seventies when he would watch Elvis movies on TV and listen to The King’s records. His dream was to become as rich and famous as the King. That dream was being fulfilled every day as he worked Vegas to crowds of seniors and die-hard Elvis fans. Scott sang his heart out.
“We’re caught in a trap, I can’t walk out...Because I love you too much baby.... Why can’t you see, what you’re doing to me...When you don’t believe a word I say.... We can’t go on together, with suspicious minds.... And we can’t build our dreams...On suspicious minds...”
A flash of blonde hair caught his eye and he saw a tall, pretty woman wearing a cocktail waitress uniform walking briskly towards the casino. He spied on her, ah.... She must be new...He shook his hips for the crowd.
He caught her eye and winked at her. She waved back quickly and disappeared into the casino. The bling bling of a thousand slot machines buzzed in her ears. She picked up a tray and put on her badge. It read Ali Iowa.
“Ready for another night Miss Iowa?” asked Brittany Texas, a waitress on her shift.
“I’m ready”.
“Remember, chips are as good as cash.”
“Oh yes...”
“It’ll be busy tonight, there’s a convention in town. Tools.”
 “Great. Have fun out there. And don’t forget to smile because it’s show time baby.”