“What happened at the airport?”
“As well as I have been able to put this all together,” Charley said, “Las Vegas is hosting some sort of award ceremonies dealing with the adult motion picture business.”
“The fifteenth annual Hard-On Awards,” Hotelier said. “At the Streets of San Francisco Hotel, Resort and Casino.”
“What do they call them?” the Widow Alekseeva asked.
“The Hard-On Awards, Svetlana,” Hotelier said. “You know, like the Oscars? The winners get golden—or at least gold-plated—little statues, called Hard-Ons.”
“What’s a hard-on?” the Widow Alekseeva asked.
“Moving right along,” Castillo said quickly. “Apparently one of the contenders for the… top award… is a lady professionally known as ‘Red Ravisher.’”
“Yeah, she won last year, too,” Hotelier said. “I think she’s got five, maybe six, Hard-Ons total.”
“I asked what a hard-on is,” the Widow Alekseeva pursued.
Charley went on: “. . . and the, what do you call those photographers who chase celebrities around?”
“Paparazzi,” Annapolis furnished.
“Right. Paparazzi. Well, the paparazzi apparently heard Miss Red Ravisher was flying into Vegas in her personal Gulfstream…”
“I hear t
here’s almost no limit to how much money those people with Hard-Ons can make,” Radio & TV Stations said.
“. . . so when we landed and taxied to the Casey hangars in our Gulfstream,” Castillo went on, “the paparazzi apparently decided that it was Miss Red Ravisher, and that she was trying to escape their attentions.”
“Some of the really big Hard-On stars are like that,” Hotelier said. “They forget their humble beginnings.”
“In any event, when we got to the Casey hangars on the far side of the field, all we knew when we looked out the window was that there were three lines of limousines, and maybe fifty paparazzi waiting for us.”
“Three lines of limousines?” Annapolis asked.
“I didn’t know Hotelier was going to send limos,” Aloysius Casey, Ph.D., said. “So I sent five of ours. Then there was Hotelier’s line, and then the line that the dirty movie awards people sent.”
“They were spectacular,” Castillo said. “All white, and with lines of flashing lights around the doors and windows.”
“They call that ‘the Bride’s Carriage Model,’” Hotelier explained. “The Elvis Presley Wedding Chapel and Casino Incorporated has a fleet of them. They charge fifty dollars extra for turning on the flashing lights around the windows.”
“I don’t want to hear anything about the Elvis Presley Wedding Chapel, thank you very much,” the Widow Alekseeva said. “I’ve gone through enough tonight.”
“Aloysius,” Hotelier said, “the adult film industry people don’t like the term ‘dirty movies.’ They would prefer for you to call them ‘adult films.’”
“You ever heard that ‘once a Green Beret, always a Green Beret’?” Dr. Casey asked.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well, I’m a Green Beret and I know a dirty movie when I see one. An adult movie is one like that Anna Karen—whatever, where the Russian broad jumps under a train at the end. That adult movie made me cry.”
“I cried, too, Aloysius,” the Widow Alekseeva said. “That’s very sweet of you to admit it. My Carlito said she was a damned fool.”
“Don’t mention it, Sweaty,” Dr. Casey said.
“Well, when we saw all this activity,” Charley went on, “and knew it couldn’t possibly be for us, I sent Roscoe J. Danton down the stairs to find out what was going on. One journalist to other journalists, so to speak. Then Sweaty—”
“I’ll take it from here, my darling, if you don’t mind,” the Widow Alekseeva interrupted. “I thought perhaps I would have a chance to see a movie star, maybe Antonio Bandana, or Clint Eastwood, so I followed Roscoe out the door. Actually, Roscoe and I followed Max out the door. Max always gets out first to attend to his calls of nature.