The second we set foot outside the automatic sliding doors of the Vegas airport, the heat hits us like a brick wall. Optimistically, we’d convinced ourselves that the low humidity would make the high desert temperatures much more tolerable. It’s a dry heat, we’d tell each other, it won’t be like it is in Southern Ontario. At this point I’m not sure it’s unlike Ontario, but I am sure it’s like standing inside a giant, impossibly sunny oven. Just outside the doors, a number of black men in black suits stand in front of black limousines of various shapes and sizes.
“You guys need a ride?” asks one of the men.
My cohort, Mitchell, smiles as if he’s finally been recognized as the important person that he truly is. He’s really into it now, I can sense it. He’s arrived in Vegas and he’s ready to indulge in everything this treacherous city has to offer.
“Why, yes we do,” Mitchell responds. He points to a large, black Cadillac Escalade with windows so dark, I’m not sure that it’s safe to drive. “But I think we’d like that one.”
The men in suits acquiesce instantaneously and begin to load our luggage into the back of the Escalade.
“You boys know how to ride in style,” says one of them. He has an effortless swagger, even as he takes our bags, the sort of fellow who makes you feel like he’s letting you in on a little secret every time he speaks. “I’m Earl. And boys, I’m here to get you anywhere you need to go.”
