Sixty minutes downtown of San Diego, his car choked up to a place signposted:
Welcome to Barona! The happiest casino on earth.
Bruno’s body grew tense. He knew all about this place...the Indian Casino and Resort on the Barona Indian reservation. The only place there was to visit out here. The only place that would give him a job when he first came to America. He hated it. The day he left, he vowed it’d be his last time here. In the end, he believed gambling was nothing but a curse to the soul. Where men came to make a deal with the devil for a shot at winning big at the blackjack and poker tables. It profited several billion per year. And all its monies went to the Native Indians who lived on the reservation.
As the car rolled onto the premises, a waving man ? short, tanned, Mexican ? in a khaki uniform greeted Bruno with a smile as he steered down the wide, and winding private road to the grand building off in the near distance. The building itself was light brick, with a distinct green tiled roof like it was earning so much money it was bursting out of the place.
Easing off the accelerator, Bruno took a right into the enormous casino car park and chose a spot near the main entrance. Stepping out of the car, he stretched his back which had seized up traveling in the tiny vehicle, then crossed the parking area to the pavement and marched along the path towards the Casino. As he walked, he looked around. A pool and jacuzzi off to the left. A winding path to the right that led to a beautiful golf course and lake, filled with wooden deck chairs and outdoor lighting. Very nice.
Directly outside the entrance was a looped driveway larger than he’d ever seen on any house or hotel that wrapped around a massive oak tree, which stood before white stone stairs to the doors and gold colored railings on each side. Uniformed staff dressed in gold and blue were on hand, valets, luggage carriers, and doormen up the steps. Outside the grand entry stood ? six double doors with gold handles.
At the foot of the stairs, he stared up at the eight-story building in front of him. In huge block capital letters above the double doors it said, WELCOME HOME. His first thought was that it’d been a long time since he’d stepped inside these walls. His second thought was that he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Straightening, he paced up the white steps, glaring through his shades at the unnervingly cheerful faces of the Mexican doormen in the Casino’s staff. When he reached the doors, one was pulled open with an ominous, “Welcome Home, sir.”
Bruno De Luca strode in.
Noise, people, and a thousand different machines, the slots area he came into was like an indoor amusement park.
His eyes panned the room, and immediately everything came back...The elevators were stationed beside the buffet, and Bruno went directly there. As he went, he noted that nothing had changed about the place. It had all the universally defining qualities: slot machines just feet from the entrance, lighted fountains, a bizarre aura of homeliness. Nearly every machine, every table was occupied with money-hungry people. The majority chain smoking addicts, fighting to win big on their last buck.
Reaching the elevators, Bruno pressed the upwards arrow on the wall and waited. The smells from the food outlets and buffet were always overpowering. Italian, Mexican, Chinese, Japanese, you name it they had it. Everything you could possibly want at a fifth of the retail price. It was the part of the casino’s ploy to keep people inside this place, make the experience so good people never wanted to leave...even while burning away their life savings on a poker game. And they sure as hell knew how to do it successfully.
Bruno eyed the sign forall you can eat lobsterand the four huge lines for the buffet and shook his head.
Chumps…
When the doors in front of him pinged open, the big man stalked inside and clicked the button for the eighth floor. He waited in silence, watching the lit numbers steadily rise seven times before the elevator came to a stop. The doors rolled apart to reveal a place very different from the smoke-filled, cattle farm downstairs. Quiet and sophisticated, with fresh air. It was refreshing in comparison.
This was the hotel. Where the big spenders, the high rollers, were housed.
Stepping out of the elevator, he was immediately greeted by three smiling faces at the long, sweeping reception desk at the back of the room. He walked across the lobby like he owned the place, as he always did, and went over to the female receptionist in the center.
“How may I help you?” The lady smiled with genuine content. Looking way too satisfied with her lot in life for a woman earning minimum wage with no benefits.
“The names Bruno. Bruno De Luca,” he stated. “I have a meeting in the building, perhaps you can help me.”
The woman smiled. “Alrighty, let’s just find the room number, Mr. De Luca…..” She looked down her screen and clicked around.
Bruno took off his shades. While he waited, he glanced around the room, inspecting it more closely. Luxury from floor to ceiling: wide halls, ornate mahogany carpets, original art on the walls.
“Here we are, Room 358. Our Presidential suite,” she said, handing him a small cardboard pouch containing two credit card sized electronic keys. “You’re meeting with a Mr. Frankie Peterson, I believe?”
Bruno nodded slowly.
“Wonderful. Mr. Peterson’s already here. It’s just down the hall, you can go right on in.”
Bruno nodded once. “Thank you.”
Exiting the lobby, Bruno stalked down the hall, eyeing the room numbers until he came to two double doors on his right, set back from the rest in their own miniature cove in the wall, one of which had a golden 358 plastered on the door. From the outside, it was clear this room was larger than the others, with a great distance between it and the doors to the rooms adjacent.
Bruno went to the door, knocked twice, then waved the card over a magnetic plate. An LED blinked green. He pushed open the door and went inside.
The lush tone continued here in Art Deco and shiny marble.
The door locked behind him with a thud and Frankie, who was busy making a coffee, smiled slightly.
It was a smile Bruno didn’t trust.
