Writing Samples

The Ultimate Garage Sale

by Brian Rouff

Here's something not many visitors know: Before they blow up a hotel, they sell off everything inside to the public. About a month before the Dunes bit the dust, my wife saw an ad in the Review-Journal, one of our local newspapers.

"Check this out," she said. "They've brought in some liquidation firm to get rid of all the Dunes stuff."

So off we went on a warm Saturday morning. The line was daunting, even at that early hour, wrapping itself around the building more than once. Still, we decided to stick it out. Every ten minutes or so, a security guard would let fifty people enter. Finally, it was our turn. The scene inside the main casino was bizarre. People scrambling all over, carrying gaming tables, slot and video poker machines, bar stools, mirrors, light fixtures, everything that wasn't nailed down (and a few things that were). As we wandered, things got even weirder. One entire room stacked floor to ceiling with computer equipment. Another overflowing with every imaginable type of commercial kitchen implement and utensil, from forks and knives to large-capacity coffee makers.

The highlight of our trip was the elevator ride to the high-roller suites, an area previously off-limits to us regular folk. The suites, some measuring more than 10,000 square feet, were no doubt spectacular in their day, but now looked as tired and shabby as the hotel itself. Still, they were a sight to behold. A two-story Asian suite, for example, included a wood bridge hovering over a koi pond. Another featured the biggest piano I've ever seen, already sporting a "Sold" sticker. Up and down the halls, people stripped the hotel down to the bare walls. Even the doors were fair game. As one couple lugged a giant wooden door toward the elevator, they explained it was the one to the honeymoon suite they'd stayed in more than twenty years before.

Our purchases were more modest. Some dice, a deck of cards, an ashtray, a promotional poster featuring smiling people from a happier time, touting the Dunes as "America's Playground."

As we paid for our items and headed toward the car, we saw a bathtub lashed precariously to the top of a Volkswagen Beetle. The tub was easily as big as the car itself. It's one of those "only in Vegas" visuals that will stay with me for a long time.

Riding Shotgun with Metro

by Brian Rouff

“Let me get this straight,” my wife says. “If somebody shoots you, I don’t see a dime?”

“Yeah, that’s basically it. It’s not like they give you a choice.”

I can’t tell if she’s amused or annoyed. Probably both. We’re talking about the “Waiver and Release of Claims and Indemnity” I had signed to go on a Metro ride-along with my son-in-law, Officer Sean Miller.

Signing that form was, in fact, the second scariest part of the entire experience. The first scariest part was waiting in the office of the Metro public information officer while she ran my background check. Officer Barbara Morgan is a pleasant woman with a winning smile, but she also carries a gun. And during the 15 minutes she left me cooling my heels, I imagined her uncovering all manner of unknown skeletons. By the time she came back, I was ready to assume the position.

I must have checked out clean, because we scheduled my ride-along for the night of Saturday, Jan. 24. Sean works the Downtown Las Vegas graveyard shift. I had doubts about my ability to stay awake, but figured coffee and adrenalin would keep me focused.

I also had doubts about my judgment. I’ve never been the type to slap a “Support Your Local Police” bumper sticker on my vehicle. To me, cops have always been a necessary annoyance: never there when you need them, always there when you don’t.

Without knowing it, Sean has changed my attitude. He’s a stand-up guy. Although still technically a rookie, he spent a decade moving up through the ranks in Las Vegas hotel security. At 34, he’s older than most first-year officers, which helps him keep a level head. And because he’s finally working his dream job, he’s grateful for the opportunity.

On the designated night, I meet Sean at the Downtown Area Command on Bonanza. He escorts me into a large cinder block briefing room. With its long gray tables, bulletin boards plastered with mug shots, and harsh fluorescent lighting, it looks like the set of every cop movie you’ve ever seen. Within minutes, the room begins filling with officers, many of whom look no older than Eagle Scouts. The briefing, conducted by three sergeants, begins promptly at 10.

One of the sergeants recounts info about a botched robbery at Planet Hollywood, as well as a carjacker who became a tasty snack for a K9 corps German shepherd. “He got his just desserts,” he says. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the suspect or the pooch.

After learning that the shift will be short-handed due to sickness and vacation time, we head for Sean’s vehicle, a Crown Vic. He conducts an equipment check, logs in to the onboard computer, and we hit the streets at 10:30 p.m. It’s only my second time in a police car – and the first time in the front seat.

As Sean turns out of the parking lot, he says, “Three rules. If you see me running or pulling my gun, stay in the car. Don’t get between me and a suspect. And if we do a car stop, go to the passenger side.” I nod. These are rules I’ll have no trouble following.

It doesn’t take long to see our first bit of action. At Boulder Highway and St. Louis, we drive past a Saturn sedan with no plates. Sean flips a quick U-turn and pulls the vehicle over. As I approach from the passenger side, it hits me that any encounter can end in sudden violence. The driver, a beefy man with wild, gray-flecked hair and tattoo-covered arms, knows the drill. Keeping his hands in plain sight, he answers each question with unfailing politeness. His equally shopworn female passenger is mouthier. In a whiskey-soaked voice, she says, “No plates? Really? Someone must have stolen them.”

“The thing about this job is that everyone lies,” Sean tells me later.

When Sean returns to his car and runs the driver’s info, the man comes up as a seven-time felon, but he has no outstanding warrants. “In a situation like this, I have a lot of discretion,” Sean says. “He’s got a good attitude. That’s always a deciding factor.”

Sean writes multiple citations, tells the man to be careful, and sends him on his way. “Chances are he won’t take care of the citations and he’ll go to warrant,” he says. “Then we can arrest him next time. The purpose of these stops isn’t just about writing tickets. It’s about planting a seed for the future.”

Next, Dispatch sends us to the Stratosphere on a 417, police code for a domestic disturbance. “A nightly occurrence,” Sean says. Entering through a side door, we find a young California couple detained in the drab security area, sitting in separate offices. Sean questions the woman first. She’s drunk and incoherent. Her boyfriend makes more sense. In a subdued tone, he explains that the girl had plunked herself down in the middle of the hallway and started screaming, prompting him to yank her to her feet and carry her back to their room.

The security tape confirms his story. And yet, by picking her up, he has crossed a legal line. That’s when I learn the harsh truth about Nevada law: In domestic disputes, when there’s evidence of battery, there’s a good chance somebody’s getting arrested. In this instance, it’s the man. He’ll spend 12 hours in City Jail, and we’re taking him there.

City Jail is a big gray box of a building surrounded by barbed wire. I’ve been in animal shelters that were more pleasant. We drive through the electronic security gate and enter the intake room where a dozen or more suspects of all colors, shapes and sizes wait to be processed — including our Hispanic drunk driver from earlier in the evening. He looks up and gives me a sheepish grin.

By the time we’re out of there, it’s after 2 a.m. Within minutes, we’re called to set a perimeter to help catch a suspected car thief. For the first time that night we run “code,” police parlance for lights and siren. We set up shop in the parking lot of a quickie loan place at Charleston and 15th. A slender young Hispanic male has been spotted in the area attempting to steal a Hyundai. Cops are sealing off the neighborhood and bringing in the K9 unit. Our job is to wait and see if anyone gets flushed out.

Soon we see a man matching the description walking through the 7-Eleven parking lot across the street. Sean flips on his lights and intercepts him, instructing me to stay in the car. Gladly.

“Where’ve you been tonight?” he asks the suspect.

“Drinking. At the Beauty Bar.”

“Can you prove it?”

The man shows his hand, bearing a stamp of the establishment. A few more questions and Sean lets him go. By then, we receive word that the actual suspect has been cornered and captured. We never see the man but we, too, are free to go.

The rest of the evening is more of the same. An elderly Filipino man driving the wrong way down a one-way street. A report of shots fired in a gang-infested area that turns out to be a false alarm. Another domestic disturbance, this time at a single-family residence.

Before I know it, the sun is rising and it’s almost quitting time. A routine night in Downtown Las Vegas. No dead bodies, no shootings. Just nonstop activity that makes 10 hours seem like 10 minutes.

I leave with a newfound respect for law enforcement and a few lessons learned. Mainly this: The people we’ve encountered got into trouble because they made stupid decisions. Every problem could have been avoided just by not doing something – driving without plates, dragging a drunken girlfriend down a hotel hallway, getting behind the wheel while hammered on cheap beer. It’s that simple.

And here’s another lesson: If you do get stopped, just answer the questions and don’t give the cops a hard time. That small act of self-control can make the difference between a little inconvenience and spending the night in an overcrowded cell.

Urgent Kill

by Brian Rouff

So, I wake up on a recent morning and my left ear hurts. Painful and itchy at the same time. Maybe I slept on it wrong. I pad into the bathroom to assess the damage. To my horror, it’s an angry red hue and twice the size of my other ear. Picture “Quark” on Star Trek. Some kind of bug bite, most likely. Don’t panic, I tell myself. Time to wake the wife. She’s more objective about these things. Unless it’s her ear.

“Does my ear look funny?” I ask.

She screams like the woman in “The Fly.”

Now it’s time to explore the options. My regular family doctor is no help. He’s currently booking appointments for June. I’ll be dead long before then. Same for Emergency. Unless you’ve got a gushing artery, you can sit there until the Second Coming. That leaves Urgent Care. Or, as my daughter likes to call it, “Urgent Kill.”

As I pull into the parking lot, I’m pleased to see only three other vehicles. Maybe it’s a slow day and I’ll get in and out. The grim lady behind the glass shoves a clipboard in my direction. I fill out the paperwork and take a plastic seat. A few rows over, a geezer hawks up a furball. I move as far away as possible. After only fifteen minutes, the grim lady calls my name. I pop up immediately and she ushers me into an examining room.

After a short wait, a short nurse enters. “What seems to be the problem?” she asks. By now, my ear is throbbing like a metronome on crack. I’m sure it’s begun to swallow the entire left side of my head. I point to the ear.

“Oh, my,” she gulps, really looking at me for the first time. Hastily, she jots down something in my chart, takes my vitals and backs out of the room. The door clicks shut.

“That wasn’t so bad,” I think. I position myself on the examining table, optimistically expecting the doc to arrive any second. Two hours later, I’m still waiting. Finally, he comes in, wearing a wrinkled lab coat and a distracted expression.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asks.

“My back hurts,” I say. “From sitting on this table.”

He actually chuckles. That’s when he notices my ear. He stops in mid-chuck. After a peek with that pointy flashlight thing, he says, “It’s an infection. Of the cartilage. We don’t see a lot of those. Very rare.“

Lucky me. “What can you do about it?”

“Antibiotics.” He scrawls out a prescription and I leave, but not before ponying up the $30 co-pay.

Four days later, my ear is good as new. The day after that, the infection comes roaring back, worse than before. I again find myself at Urgent Care. Another two-hour wait, another doctor, another ear discussion. He explains two possible courses of treatment, both involving different antibiotics. Then he asks, “What do you think we should do?”

Maybe he’s trying to cover his malpractice-prone ass. Maybe he believes medicine is a collaborative discipline. Maybe he’s a schmuck.

As a longtime consumer of TV doctor dramas, I’m totally prepared for this moment. “Which one is stronger?” I ask.

“The Cipro.”

“Let’s go with that.”

 Wait’ll he gets my bill.

Money Shot

by Brian Rouff

Excerpt from Chapter 1

"You may already be a winner!"
"No purchase necessary."
"One pull can change your life!"
"Is that your final answer?"

Magic words, all. Seductive phrases that whisk us away to fantasyland faster than we can say "Publisher's Clearing House." Who among us is immune to their power? Not me, that's for sure. Hell, I live in Las Vegas, and I like to play cards, shoot dice, and pull handles the same as the next sucker. I even drive to California for the occasional lottery ticket. But until recently, I'd never won a blessed thing, unless you count those time share calls, always around dinner, that start, "Mr. Alan Nichols, I'm happy to inform you that you're the lucky recipient of..." My personal-best hang-up time is 2.3 seconds.

Then Lady Luck waggled her finger in my direction. Not on the telephone, not in the mail, not in a casino, but in a completely unexpected way. A big-bucks bonanza from out of the blue (what a great name...it's available for licensing; call me, we'll do lunch). A million-dollar windfall to wipe the slate clean and serve up the one thing we all really want in our heart of hearts. A fresh start. Something to make up for all the crap that life dishes out. The speeding tickets and the medical bills and the tax audits and all the other bad beats we don't deserve. Like my friend Jimmy, the congenial owner of the friendliest bar in Las Vegas, once told me, "If I ever hit the jackpot, I'd give half to my wife, and I'd be out the door for good. No questions asked." This was before she walked on her own, taking a lot more than half.

But that's a story for another time. As for me, Ms. Luck's favors came with a catch. Like the man says, "There's no free lunch." Still, I was able to scarf down plenty of complimentary appetizers before getting tossed out of the party.

It all started this past winter. I had just climbed out of the black hole of my annual post-holiday depression, a condition brought on by too little sunlight and too much credit-card debt. After many years, my wife and teenage daughter know to give me a wide berth until, one day, I wake up and no longer feel suicidal, just mildly nauseated. Then it's back to business at Dunbar and Associates, Vegas's biggest advertising agency, where I've toiled these last dozen years, first as copywriter, then as Account Manager, more recently hitting the wall as Director of Creative Services. That's me, one of the associates.

When I first started, I was thrilled just to be on the Dunbar team. In those days, I'd come home and tell my wife Pam, "I can't believe they actually pay me for this." It felt good to be rewarded for my creativity. I enjoyed playing with words, moving them around like little puzzle pieces until they all fit together seamlessly.

The problem was, I kept getting promoted. Which meant less time writing and more time bullshitting and babysitting, kicking butt and kissing ass. Today, my job consists of selling stuff nobody needs to people who don't know any better. Fuel the fires of American materialism. Brainwash John and Jane Q. Public into believing the latest exercise video, teeth-whitening gel, high-performance sports car or Italian designer suit is the only thing standing between them and hot monkey love. It's not something I'm proud of.

Don't get me wrong. Advertising's been good to me. It's given me the money to buy a nice four-bedroom house in a quiet neighborhood, raise a family, and stay neck and neck with the Joneses, who are busy keeping an eye on the Smiths. All without having to shovel anything except hype, fix anything except bad grammar, or give back to the community in any conceivable way.

And, I'm good at it. I have the kind of brain that effortlessly cranks out clever little slogans that our clients are willing to pay actual money for. Lucky for me, I guess, because I have no other appreciable skills. Pam calls me a "savant," which is a fancy French word for somebody who does only one thing well. Like Rain Man, except not as good a driver. "If they ever drop the bomb," she says, "I'll have to leave you and find a real man. Somebody who can hunt and use tools. You have nothing to offer for the post-atomic age." I can't argue with that. They probably won't need an ad guy to come up with catchy copy to get us through the long nuclear winter. "Eat Fallout-Frosted Nuclies, the cereal with the shortest half-life." "Brush with Glow, now with Strontium 90." In case of attack, I'm leaving nothing to chance. I'll head straight for ground zero with a target on my ass.

I hit rock bottom earlier this year, when Dunbar asked me to personally pitch a new mob-themed casino called "Mugsy's." You know Vegas has come full circle when the "dese, dem, and dose" guys are once again all the rage. Not the real mob, who got bounced out on their cauliflower ears and went underground during the Howard Hughes era, but the gimmicky Disney-style mob of modern-day corporate America. Ironic, because the old-timers always say the town ran better and treated their clientele with more genuine respect before the Hiltons and Harrahs and Holiday Inns took over.

Now, you have to understand that Vegas needs another casino like I need a third mortgage. But Dunbar smelled easy money and that was that. Needless to say, I was less than thrilled and didn't give it my normal hundred and ten percent. Still, we threw together a cutesy Capone-like cartoon logo along with the following suggested themes: "We Got Your Casino Right Here!" "Tell Them Mugsy Sent You." And my personal favorite, "At Mugsy's, We Make You Feel Like a Made Man." Not exactly award-winning stuff, but, hey, this was spec.

So there I was at the big presentation, getting introduced to Mugsy's CEO Stephen Chapman and his gang of brown-nosers. Chapman, a cadaver-like character who looks like he mainlines chemo for the fun of it, has the personality of a liquid fart.

"Where's Dunbar?" he demanded, before I could even get settled in. "Mr. Dunbar sends his regrets. He's a little under the weather today," I lied. Dunbar never goes to these things, unless they've got seven-figure potential. This wasn't even close.
"You've got ten minutes," Chapman grunted. "But I should warn you, we're changing the name of the casino."
Feeling tiny beads of flop sweat materialize on my forehead, I said, "Our whole campaign is built around the name."
"That's the breaks. The new name is 'Steve's.' My wife came up with it. Catchy, huh? She used to be in the ad biz back in Duluth."
"A hotbed of creative activity."
Chapman missed the sarcasm. "Show us what you've got, anyway," he said.

With even less enthusiasm than usual, I plowed through our dog-and-pony show. A couple of graphs and pie charts, the aforementioned slogans and logo, and a bare-bones media plan. Years ago, I learned not to divulge too much to prospective clients or they'd steal it and do it themselves. Not such a bad idea, come to think of it. When I wrapped up, Chapman said, "Not enough TV. I want to see us all over the goddamned tube."
"To be honest, you didn't give us the budget for…"

Excerpt from the book Dice Angel

by Brian Rouff

The ringing phone ripped through my sleep like a buzz saw. I caught it on the fourth ring, nearly knocking the lamp off the end table in the process. Squinting through bleary eyes, I could barely make out the time. 3:11 a.m. “This can’t be good,” I muttered out loud, even though I was alone. Hoping for a wrong number I barked, “What?”

“James Delaney, Jr.?” an official-sounding voice asked. The little hairs stood up on the back of my neck.

“Who wants to know?”

“Officer Robert Ramos, Metro Police, sir.”

For a brief horrible moment, I pictured my seven-year-old daughter Jenny, dead in the gutter. But that was impossible. Jenny was in Salt Lake with my ex-wife Joy. And Salt Lake, as far as I know, outlawed gutters years ago.

Trying to sound casual despite my heart beating double-time, I asked, “What can I do for you, Officer?”

“They hit your place again.”

“Shit! I’m on my way.”

In the time it would take to ask more questions, I could be there. Wide awake now, I threw on a pair of faded jeans and a UNLV sweatshirt as I fumbled for my keys, a million thoughts racing through my mind. How the hell could they have gotten past my new super-high-tech security system? Maybe it’s true what the cops say, that locks and alarms only keep out honest people. And honest people are in short supply here in Vegas, or anywhere else for that matter.

I took the steps two at a time. As I flung open the front door, a blast of cold night air hit me in the face, sending an involuntary shudder through my body. Even after more than twenty years in the godforsaken desert, I’m still surprised by the extreme temperatures. Too fucking hot in the summer, too goddamned cold in the winter. Probably a lot like living on the moon, except for the gambling.

Jumping into my ’97 Mazda 626, the last sensible remnant of my married days, I peeled out of the driveway and headed for my bar. The screeching noise would most likely jar a neighbor or two out of a restful night’s sleep. Good, I thought with grim satisfaction. Why should I be the only one up on a night like this?

It’s a ten-minute drive from my condo to Jimmy D’s, the saloon and supper club that bears my name. I made it in five. Ordinarily, I like driving at night, especially on those rare occasions when I have the road to myself. Sometimes I even play slalom with the orange traffic cones that line most Vegas streets these days, the cones that locals refer to as the official state bush. But tonight, speed was my only concern. Not only to find out what the hell was going on, but to outrace the dark thoughts bubbling just below the surface of my brain. If this was an isolated incident, I could handle it. But it was starting to feel like the beginning of another long losing streak. Well … that was something better left alone for now.

Squealing into the nearly deserted shopping center parking lot, I aimed the car toward the familiar corner slot, where Jimmy D’s sits nestled between a bakery and a travel agency. When my father, the original Jimmy D, uprooted my brother and me and trekked across the country more than two decades ago, the bar’s location at West Sahara and Jones was at the far edge of Las Vegas. I can remember gazing westward and seeing nothing but sand and tumbleweeds. It reminded me of a scene out of some old cowboy movie. Most people, including the rest of the family, thought the old man was crazy. Nobody would drive all the way out there for a beer and a pizza. But Vegas locals were soon drawn to the friendly Irishman and word got out that his Detroit-style pizza was bigger and better than anything the Italians or the chain restaurants had to offer.

It seemed like everybody loved Jimmy D’s. Everybody but me, an eighteen-year-old kid who felt like an outcast in this desolate wasteland, forced to finish my senior year of high school among strangers, resenting every minute I had to help Pop at his stupid joint. But, the place got under my skin. After a while, I was helping out behind the bar, grilling up the burgers when the cook called in sick, glad-handing and swapping stories with the regular clientele. As Jimmy, Sr. said proudly on more than one occasion, “The apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree.”

Over the years, Las Vegas grew up around our popular little watering hole, enveloping it like a neon cocoon, so that it’s now pretty much in the center of town. By the time Jimmy, Sr. died of a heart attack in 1993, Jimmy D’s was a local institution, consistently topping the readers’ surveys in the Vegas newspapers. More than five hundred customers turned out for the funeral, an odd assortment that included everyone from borderline street people and political hotshots to a smattering of casino moguls. It was a moving testament to the old man’s life. The bar, I suddenly realized, was my father’s legacy. I vowed, then and there, to continue the tradition.

One refurbishing, two expansions, and three break-ins later, I swung into a parking space next to the only other vehicle, a shiny new Metro squad car. Briefly surveying the tavern’s exterior, I was relieved to see the windows intact. Whatever had happened, this wasn’t your garden-variety smash-and-grab. A uniformed officer met me at the door.

“I’m Delaney,” I said, extending my hand. Christ, the cop looked like a teenager. Well, who the hell else were they gonna put on the graveyard shift?

“Officer Robert Ramos,” the cop said, giving my hand a perfunctory squeeze. “We spoke on the phone.”

“Where’s the Z-man?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Officer Zelasko.”

“Oh, you mean Sergeant Zelasko. He got kicked upstairs. He’s a desk jockey now. Why, you know him?”

“We went to high school together. I’ll have to be sure to call and congratulate him on the promotion.”

“Maybe you better not. I hear he isn’t too happy about it.”

“All the more reason,” I said with a slight grin. “So what’s it look like in there?”

“See for yourself.”

Expecting the worst, I stepped through the door. At first glance, everything appeared to be in order....