An excerpt from a short story included in the anthology,
"Murder in Vegas" - Michael Connelly.
The End of the World (As We Know It)
By Lise McClendon
I knew he’d lost a couple thou. He couldn’t stop whining about it. I didn’t know how my sister put up with his incessant carping: the pool was too cold, the room was too small, I left hair in the sink, the drinks were watered down and weren’t delivered fast enough. I knew he’d lose at the tables, and I knew he’d complain about it. But the telegram was the last straw.
“Send Lawyers Guns Money Stop Shit hitting fan Stop Herb”
Couldn’t somebody stop Herb? I handed him back his rough draft.
“Cynthia will know what to do,” he muttered, folding it into his pocket.
“She’ll know you’re on your Warren Zevon bender again. She’ll just call. She won’t send money.”
She better the hell not. That would mean I had to stay longer in Vegas. And I was fried. “Look, Herb. Just get on the plane tomorrow and go home. She loves you.” Why, I had no idea. She obviously didn’t love me, her only brother, because she sent me with her wacky husband for four whole days to Las Vegas. I took a breath. The heat was brutal. I was losing it. “Nobody sends telegrams anymore. If you want to talk to her, just call.”
Herb stalked through the big brassy doors of the casino, out into the drive where taxis and limos waited for their sorry clients to quit losing money. Vegas was a beautiful dream when I first arrived, the gorgeous weather, the dry heat flattened out my hair, the blue pools to cool off in, great restaurants, a show or two, some with topless showgirls. Even the beeping and blinking of the halls had been charged with excitement at first. The endless gambling tables, skimpy-clad cocktail waitresses and bars around every corner ready to pour you whatever your heart’s desire, had seemed like a wet dream. Not exactly satisfying but good for a few rushes of adrenaline.
That high lasted three days and two-and-a-half nights. Now the cards who refused my mind-meld, the parched, smoky air, the incessant ringing electronic gadgetry, and Herb Monroe, accountant, duffer, and whining machine, had made me change my mind. Not to mention that I, too, had lost a thou.
Where the hell was he going? I followed him outside, worried that in his weird state of demoralized angst he might walk in front of a car. “Hey, come back here!” He was halfway down the block, walking through those mist machines that cool passersby in cafes along the sidewalk. I caught up with him in front of New York New York.
“Western Union. That’s where I’m going,” he said firmly, taking long strides
south. “She’ll help. She knows.”