A Biography, Part 1:
When I wrote
Random Rules of Bill Stodalka, I, Marshall McMahon, did not take time to explain who he is. He's a close personal friend of mine, and I think I should talk about him. Let's begin.
Let's start with how we met. I was in Las Vegas, and I was having a cigarette after having the floor hit my jaw. This was not any floor - this was the floor surrounding the Dunes Hotel and Casino, something with a light concrete texture. It didn't quite agree with my jaw, but then, not much concrete did. I didn't get up, but I lit up my second-last cigarette right there on the corner, while Joe The Killer told me not to get up, to stay out, yadda.
The front man, Joe The Killer, was what his name meant, but he was a friend, too, so I didn't give him grief. Plus, he was known for manslaughter - that's where he got the killer name. Personally, I feel it had to be premeditated for him to be called Joe The Killer, but I suppose beating someone to death with a phone earned you some credence.
This was my death, away from Vegas, away from hustling, away from everything. I could've pulled up six feet's worth of dirt and laid down right there. Everyone knew what was on the table - I'd been kicked out of every casino in the city. I was on the black book, the book where every guy worth his salt was - the black book of Las Vegas, the book of death.
But this wasn't a time of death - the Dunes was closing down. The men which ran it were gone. The old times were over. It was replaced by the new men, the men who were self-aware, which was just another way of saying they thought about themselves. And I was going away with it, because I never gave a damn about anyone or anything, myself included.
There was a new man, however, though I didn't see it in the smoke I smoked. He wore a black suit with a red shirt, black shoes, and a look. He didn't look past you, he looked through you, confident that he knew everything about you, that you knew what he knew, and that every decision you made was because he made you make it. That was Bill.
Joe The Killer came forward, asking who he was, but Bill just raised a single finger. He looked down at me.
"You got a quarter?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean what I say."
"You said what?"
"You got a quarter."
"Yeah, I got a quarter."
A pause, while he smoked.
"Gimme your quarter."
"Why you want my quarter?"
"I just feel lucky, is all."
Not haing much, I said sure, kid. The youngblood was a punk, but I figured better he stood a better chance of winning something at the slots than I did.
He walked in, and I'll never know what I did. Though he told me nearly everything, this was the one thing he never told me. In the final hours of the Dunes, when the world was ending, he could make a buck off it.
He came out and he had money. He looked angry, sweating.
"I got lucky," he said.
Clink. The wine tasted good, and the destruction looked better. Bill had thrown the second last throw in the Dunes Hotel - some other guy had thrown the last one. We drank to the Dunes, the idea that work was a game, and vice versa.
I'd been a professional gamber, and a part of me wanted to be on top of the Dunes when the charges blew. I'd imagine I'd hear the sound first, then rumbling. I'd stand still, then my footing would go down under me. Dust would come at my face, and I'd fall, flailing, while dark dust came all around me, and I'd know that pure feeling of fall, before it'd just be dark and sharp jagged pains all over my body.
Bill asked me what was the matter. I told him it was that I was moving to Carson City. I asked him what he was doing here in Vegas. He told me that he was here looking for someone. I asked him a name. He told me her name was Nina. I asked him what her last name was. He told me he didn't know. I asked him where did he think she was. He told me he didn't know. I asked him no, where in Vegas do you think she is. He told me he didn't know. I asked him if she knew what she looked like or where she worked. He said he didn't know. I asked him what he was doing in Vegas. He told me it was a dream. I asked him what do you mean a dream. He told me he saw Frank Sinatra in a dream.
So then I told him, So what do you mean you saw Frankie in a dream? And then he told me what it meant. And we had a nice, long conversation before they realized the I.D. was a fake and I was on the black book. We kept in touch, though, and while he didn't tell me everything at first, there were details he forgot constantly, he kept on remembering them. I got his life story, and I'm going to tell you.
But he didn't get the girl. He didn't win the race. He didn't kill himself at the end. He lived.
And I'll keep telling you what's happening with my good friend, Bill Stodalka.
