Movers & Shakers

The Plastic Surgeon Dr. Frank Stile is building a better Las Vegas—one breast at a time A recent Sunday afternoon at Scores, Dr. Frank Stile launched into his routine before an audience of 250 young female dancers. However, he wasn’t selling his body—he was selling the opportunity to make certain things bigger, certain things smaller, and everything more profitable. Stile, 41, is one of the busiest plastic surgeons in Vegas, where surgical enhancement is considered more of a job requirement than a personal whim. The native New Yorker arrived five years ago with billboards that pictured him surrounded by patients in thongs. “It raised the ire of more traditional plastic surgeons,” says Stile. “But it got people in the door.” That door leads to Stile’s $5 million, 10,000-square-foot plastic surgery mecca, which cribs ceiling sky scenes from Caesars Palace and chandeliers from the Bellagio. Office manager Tiffany Gunn is a former Playboy model who also happens to be Stile’s fiancée. Stile estimates that 20 percent of his patients are “entertainers,” a catchall term he uses to describe porn stars, strippers, and call girls. He cultivates this client base with presentations like the one at Scores, and while the response is generally positive, he has a secret weapon that helps him close the deal. “When I was in college and med school, I was an entertainer myself,” he says. Stile often steers clients away from the oversize implants that characterized Vegas “entertainment” in the ’80s and ’90s in favor of a more natural look. “It doesn’t mean National Geographic natural,” he says. “It means an un-operated-on look.” In fact, a thriving part of his practice is correcting old surgeries for former entertainers who “want to downsize so they can go to PTA meetings.” However, most of his patients are looking for more, not less, and Stile thinks the economy is partly to blame—more ample dimensions mean more ample tips. But he’s optimistic about his patients’ prospects. “If you look the best and feel the best you can, you’ll do better in this town. Trust me.”

1:00 A.M.
CHRISTIAN AUDIGIER THE NIGHTCLUB
The trendiest new club on the Strip was created by the fashion designer responsible for the trucker-hat craze. But don’t hold that against him. Inside the midsize Treasure Island casino venue, Audigier’s trademark crystals, tattoo-art roses, and giant metal skulls decorate the walls, hinting at the decadence that awaits. Fashionably slutty girls crowd the dance floor. Two 1,000-gallon tanks swarm with jellyfish. “There’s a whole room in back full of equipment just to keep these things alive,” a waitress notes. The sea life glows under a blacklight, but eyes wander to a pair of blondes working stripper poles by the VIP area. Apparently, there is a second DJ on a terrace that looks directly onto TI’s live pirate show and the Strip, but we never make it that far. The night proceeds, sans trucker hat.

2:15 A.M.
NOIR BAR
BEEP! Guys, where the fuck are you? Lost you after the club cleared out, and now I’m in the Luxor—somewhere. I came in through this hidden side door. Reservations only—I hooked up with some girls who were on the list. We stumbled through a long red corridor before busting into a very cool new bar. Called Noir Bar, if you can find it. It’s like a little speakeasy. They’re saying it’s open till 6 a.m. It’s weird. There isn’t even a drink menu. You just tell the bartender what you like—vodka, chocolate, steak, um…Metallica, whatever—and he spends 10 minutes mixing up something bizarre. Everybody is drunk. I just knocked back a carrot-cake martini. Yeah, a carrot-cake martini. I hope that doesn’t make me gay. Wait a second, is that Dave Navarro? Anyway, you guys are morons for not being here. I’ll find you in the morning.

3:00 A.M.
Take the biker dude you’re hand­cuffed to’s word for it: Do not call your girlfriend and ask for bail money.

3:15 A.M.
WESTERN HOTEL & CASINO
“Don’t take your eyeballs off them chips,” wheezes the nicotine-stained codger teetering on the blackjack stool next to you. “This place is full of assholes who’ll snatch ’em and run.” Yep, finding yourself inside this dingy cave of a casino five sketchy downtown blocks from the Fremont Street Experience is a prime clue that your high-roller night has taken a bizarre turn. The smoke is thick, the floors are bare wood, and you’re more likely to witness an arrest than a bachelorette party. Blackjack tables have $3 minimums 24 hours a day, a roulette wager is a measly 25¢, and the slots are looser than the hookers trolling the parking lot. Tip your hard-times waitress generously and she’ll bring tallboy beers till she looks like a Brazilian bikini model. (They pair well with the snack bar’s fanciest dining option, a chili dog.) Just don’t get too comfy, friend. Stay alert enough to ward off the locals begging for chips. Or, what the hell—toss somebody a fiver. Suddenly, here, you’re a high-roller after all.

4:00 A.M.
MAKE AN IMPRESSION (ON YOURSELF)
You have no intention of getting a tattoo. Then again, you had no intention of drinking your weight in tequila and visiting a wedding chapel with a pre-op transsexual, either. But here you are, staring into the window of Vince Neil’s tattoo parlour in the Flamingo—yep, the chubby Mötley Crüe singer/reality star. Look, some chick is getting a tat of…a butterfly. How original! Inside there’s Crüe crap everywhere: Crüe stage outfits, Crüe motorcycle, Crüe videos playing on flat-screens. You know what would be hilarious? Demanding a big Poison tattoo on your ass. Hell, your buddies think it’d be rad! And the tequila is saying there’s no way you’ll regret this in the morning.

10:00 A.M.
TRUEFITT & HILL
Last night was epic—a depraved blur of sweaty clubs, controlled substances, and anatomically explicit lap dances. Now you’ve gulped a fistful of Aleve and ritually burned your “lucky” boxer shorts. And yet you still feel…funky. Truefitt & Hill, the traditional British barbershop tucked into a corner of the Caesars Forum Shops, can complete your decontamination with style—and make you presentable for the skeptical girlfriend picking you up at the airport tonight. The hot-lather shave alone, complete with straight razor and warm towels ($65), is enough to soothe a guilty conscience. “But we advise guys not to return home looking more clean-cut than when they arrived in Vegas,” says master barber and all-around wise man Uziel Munoz. “It’s too suspicious.” Still, throw in a neck massage and a shoeshine and at least you’ll walk out feeling like a proper English gentlemen. Definitely not the sort of rogue who’d talk a pair of retired schoolteachers into a three-way in the elevator.

2:00 P.M.
Who knew an airport bench could be so comfy after two nights with no sleep? In fact, you just dozed right through your boarding call. Oh, well, another 48 hours in Vegas won’t kill you.