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Same Island, New Treasures

Treasure Island 3300 S. Las Vegas Blvd (800) 288-7206

 

No longer the resort you carted off your kids to for a good, old fashioned buccaneer show, the new Treasure Island, or TI as it’s dubbed, is a sexy, hip Vegas destination. 

 

Now that the “Sirens of TI’ show puts the ‘vamp’ in revamped and Tangerine lounge & nightclub offers a ‘strip view’ in more ways than one, TI rightfully claims its stake as one of the strip’s most tempting alternative.  Still, it manages to remain the home of more traditional attractions like Mystere, the Cirque de Soleil show and landmarks eateries like Canter’s Delicatessen (except this time around, as perceived by the Jetsons!)

 

With the addition of the sumptuous Mexican restaurant, Isla Mexican Kitchen & Tequila Bar, where Chef Richard Sandoval kisses traditional dishes with a modern twist, TI also brings in the food aficionados.  Try their crispy red snapper with cactus salad and citrus vinaigrette or the sautéed Jumbo prawns Maya with a spicy tomato and bell pepper sauce.  The chipotle Adobo guacamole with spiced pumpkin seeds is unforgettable and the Mexican Cucumber, a heady concoction made of vodka and fresh cucumbers, is pure heaven! 

 

 

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“A”

By Steve Valentine

 

Installment #2

To read chapter one, click HERE

 

Chapter Two

Epiphany

 

After spending a few days wandering around The Grove catching matinees or stalking leather chaises, Scott knew Randa Merow was right about the book he submitted, maybe even about his life. 

 

All of Scott’s friends were sick of hearing the “A-word,” the ex- assistant-turned actress, his big discovery.  He had helped make a young girl from the ghetto a star - - big deal.  The money he lavished on her; he’d won and lost that several times over.  Now he resented Ava’s daily frappucinos he used to bring to the office and the use of his car for her castings he’d set up.  He wanted to call all the makeup artists, photographers, and friends who did him favors, people she devoured with her celestial appetite….shit.  It wasn’t material any longer, it was emotional.  He needed closure. Letting go of the bitterness through the book was one way for him to work it out, though sometimes his mind tricked him into thinking about other ways.

 

Scott cleared some empty Chinese food boxes to find the cordless.

 

“Hello, Ms. Merow please,” Scott queried.

 

“Hello darling, you finished already?” 

 

“Uh, no,” Scott replied, matter of factly.

 

“Sweetie, then why are you wasting my time?  I thought I was clear,” Ms. Merow reprimanded.

 

“I know, I know, I’m fixing the manuscript.  I just wanted to thank you,” Scott enthused.

 

“For what?” Ms. Merow was caught off guard.

 

“For being right, for giving me this chance.  Someone once said to me, ‘I’ll make you a lot of money, just help me’ and I got fucked.  I’ve never believed in anything more in my life.  I’ve never believed more in myself,” gushed Scott.

 

Merow pleaded as her phone was beeping from call waiting, “Sssshhh.  Just go to work.  Oh, by the way …  you should think about changing the name of the girl at some point,” rushed Ms. Merow.

 

Chapter Three

Reanimation

 

Scott Allen was so ready to leave the Hollywood bullshit behind but not without leaving his imprint first. Even after so many years since he plucked Ava from obscurity and a Hermosa Beach temp agency, it was so easy to be bombarded by her.  He couldn’t go to the grocery store without seeing her picture on a magazine cover or watch television for fear of Mary Hart’s gossip about her new boyfriend.  The depression was harder and harder to stave off and lasted longer with each bout.

 

Most of his friends had written him off except Adam Davies. Adam was a newspaper reporter at the LA Times that had befriended him at the beginning of his advertising career.  They never crossed the line of friendship --- never lovers, always good friends.  Yet, the early 90s were good times, money, lots of sex, and clubs.  Their cavorting together and alone and gossiping about the town and its people was a harmless avocation.

 

 

Adam and Scott often met at an iconic downtown Los Angeles diner.  It was the hamburger steak and chips that had everyone coming to the hole-in-the-wall for more than 70 years . . .  or was it the French Dip?  Today was no different.

 

“Scottie sweetie, to what do I owe this treat?”  Adam asked inquisitively.

 

“Hey, you’re so shocked I asked you to lunch?”  Scott shot back defensively.

 

“Well, you know you haven’t been yourself in a while,” Adam said warmly.

 

“I know.  But all that is changing.  I think I’ve sold the story,” explained Scott.

 

“It’s about her, right?” Adam asked.

 

“Yeah . . . Ava.   I found a publisher who believes in the story.  I’m changing the whole perspective,” admitted Scott.

 

“Thank God.”  Adam sounded relieved.

 

“I want to finish this thing, once and for all,” pronounced Scott. “I’m heading up north for a week,” Scott added convincingly.

 

The drive to LAX from Downtown was murder, but the Northwest flight was direct from L.A. to Vancouver.  Not a bad ride.  Long enough to catch a B movie you’ve avoided for weeks.  But there wasn’t time to waste.  Furiously, the laptop was out and his fingers danced musically on the keys prior to take off.   He didn’t take the Emergency information card out of his seat pocket.  He didn’t view his exit route. As soon as the wheels of the aircraft were off the tarmac, he was right back in the mean, dirty, crazy wonderful world of L.A.  – on the page.

 

Chapter Four

Reflection

 

“Fuck,” David shot out.

 

David Stephens talked to himself as he walked in circles on the black and white checkered linoleum of the Koreatown single.  When he saw blood on his front door frame, he suddenly realized he’d left one of Ava’s shoes up on that hill somewhere on Stocker Ave. 

 

He soon forgot about this detail as the vodka began to kick in.   David needed a bigger fix though.  He needed to add sex to his pain.  He picked up a tattered gay rag on the counter and found an ad.  “Big, black man will drive you hard”.  David made a call and confirmed the cash payment.

 

He raised himself off the bed and quickly tore off his blood-stained shirt and red-soaked pants.  He’d never seen so much blood in his life.  When he cut her just below her chiseled jaw line, she’d barely made a sound.  He remembered how the arrogant ingénue came off in a Maxim interview about carrying a blade.  Yup, you can’t take the ghetto outta the girl.  A faint smile came to his face with the realization of this irony as he raced towards the bathroom.

 

Then cold wet fear set in.  David checked the clock it was nearly 1:00 a.m. by now.  He realized he must have sat up in the oil fields all night.  He showered off the remnants of the young girl’s blood and watched transfixed as it made a spiraling design down the drain of the tub.  Quickly patting himself dry with a threadbare towel, he walked into the bedroom.  David tightly wrapped his shirt and pants in the wet towel and hurried to the front door.  He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror and she was standing behind him.

 

Ava’s likeness in the mirror mocked him.

 

“We’re family, David.  I’ll make you lots of money,” mouthed a woman’s image.

 

“Ava, how long have you been here?”  David whimpered.

 

“I have what they want, supermodel arms, real tits.  Let’s send out more pictures and resumes, I want to be an actress,” the woman demanded slyly.

 

David turned away and lumbered over to the bureau and his vodka.  He picked up the empty glass along with Ava’s charm necklace and sent it crashing into the reflection just as a meaty knock sounded on the door.

- to be continued -