8. Sage
SAGE
The morning after the party, as I’m getting dressed for the day, my phone lights up with a we’ve decided to go elsewhere email from The Exquisite Show.
I grit my teeth in frustration.
Yes, The Exquisite Show was a long shot, but our pitch was strong.
And this stings. I wanted that show here. But it turns out the producers have chosen another hotel for their brand-new production.
I text my sister and let her know.
Ivy replies with an emoticon of a cartoon character’s head encased in fiery rage.
Then a GIF with a celebrity shrugging off bad news with a Whatever -style hair flip.
And a final text: Onward and upward!
I laugh as I read the rapid-fire notes.
Sage: Glad to see your ability to process your emotions at rocket speed is still top-notch.
Ivy: That’s me! I drop emotions like college students drop boring 101 classes. In any case, I’ll see you in thirty minutes downstairs. Be the badass you are for our Sunday morning planning meeting. Since we’re workaholics.
Sage: As if I’d be anything other than a badass.
With tailored slacks and a white silk blouse, I do look the part.
When my hair is done in its French twist, I slide into basic black heels and head to the executive offices to tackle the day, replying along the way to The Exquisite Show producers, letting them know we were grateful to be considered and that whoever won the show will surely do a fantastic job.
Briefly, I run through my Rolodex of Strip hotels, picturing where the acrobatic fiesta would work best.
The Bellagio maybe?
Possibly The Venetian?
It could fit at The Invitation too. But it seems unlikely that the new kid on the block would nab such a coveted show already.
Wherever it winds up, though, I’ll see it.
For pleasure and for intel, of course.
It’s a shame we didn’t win it, but I won’t let that loss get me down. Competition is de rigueur in this town, and I’m already eyeing other fabulous forms of entertainment to bring to The Extravagant.
That includes a hot new magic act that’s been rising up on the scene, with Penn & Teller-esque payoffs that boggle the mind and delight the eyes. Their names are Max and Alex, and I love that a pair of female magicians are getting their due.
The next day, Ivy and I meet with the magicians’ managers on a golf course off the Strip.
We both know how to play. Our father taught us, saying golf was an essential skill for any executive to possess.
Along with knowing a martial art, another language, and how to compromise.
I learned Mandarin Chinese growing up, and Ivy can speak Spanish.
Both help, since Max is from Beijing, and Alex hails from Madrid. Their managers are also multilingual, and as we golf, we tell them we’re putting together a proposal for their act.
The meeting goes well, the golf game even better, and I have a good feeling after we say goodbye.
But feelings aren’t enough.
Rock-solid deals with terrific terms are.
In the limo on our way back to The Extravagant, Ivy and I brainstorm how the magic act can fit into our new One Night Only lineup of entertainment.
“I could see Max and Alex starting as a One Night Only act, but quickly moving beyond. To become a regular,” I say.
Ivy gives an excited ooh . “Yes, I love that idea. Like we’re doing with Stone,” she says, mentioning the rock star who kicked off our One Night Only series of concerts a month ago.
“Yes, his residency starts next month, and I can’t wait. We’re already selling out all his shows.”
I offer her a palm to high-five, since she brought him into the fold, and he brings the crowds and the big spenders. “Here’s my idea,” I say. “What if we propose that Max and Alex start with a One Night Only, but we offer them the regular gig too?”
Her blue eyes glint with enthusiasm as the limo turns onto the Strip. “I love their style of magic. It would be a risk to lock them in early, but I also think the payoff could be huge.”
She’s right—it’s a gamble. But as I gaze out the window at the sky-rise hotels, the billboards taller than life, and the promise of thousands of dollars turning into millions, I see a whole city built on gambles. “And they want the security of a regular gig. We can give them that.”
“Let’s do it.” Ivy wiggles her brows. “Wonder-twin powers activate.”
I roll my eyes. “You are such a dork.”
“So are you.”
I stick out my tongue. She does the same to me.
I love having a twin sister. Always have.
We put our heads together that afternoon and send off a brilliant proposal that night.
The pace continues into the next day and the next, when I spend the morning prepping for a solo meeting with the new hotel owner in town—Cole Donovan, who runs The Invitation.
We’ll be working with the city’s marketing manager on a new ad campaign, now that “What Happens in Vegas” has run its course.
The city wants marketing that focuses on the experiences that we offer them, and as such, all the hotel owners are working together on “Experience Las Vegas.”
But before that meeting, I want to say hello to the man across the street.
I’ve never met him. He moved to town a mere few weeks ago, but he’s the new competition. He’s supposedly ruthless, supposedly heartless.
I’ll need to play nice with him, since that’s how we do things here, even though he’s the rival across the way.
I’ll welcome him to the family , to this place marked by cutthroat competition under a veneer of friendliness. All of us here on the Strip, owning and operating these hotels, must come together at times, even if we tussle daily for everything—rooms, customers, money, employees.
But manners are manners. And I was raised to welcome the new kid on the block with a gift.
He won’t need champagne. A wildly wealthy hotelier has plenty of his own. Caviar is so horrid I refuse to give it. And it’s not as if he needs a weekend at a spa, or a retreat at a luxury hotel, so those are out.
I’ve found the best gifts for men like him and women like me are the simplest ones.
The ones everyone can love. Things we learn from, things we all enjoy.
Books and chocolate.
Since I don’t want to give him any of the brilliant nonfiction books I’ve finished recently on economics, social justice, or science—lest they provide a window into my other thoughts—I dip into my stash of chocolate from Paris.
As my mother used to say, You can’t go wrong with chocolate from Paris.
I select a few bars of dark chocolate, then a milk chocolate for good measure, add a silver bow, and place them into a small gift bag.
I head to my office, check the time, and then make sure my lipstick looks good for my first meeting with the man across the street.
He’ll be arriving any minute.
I walk over to the window in my office that looks out on the casino floor, watching the crowds weave in and out, savoring the view of the hustle and bustle of my hotel.