The Inspiration for the Characters

At its heart, The Showgirl is about risk, glamour, and the people who refuse to stay in the shadows. Along the way, I borrowed a few character traits from real life—some only a trace, others a heavier hand. What follows isn’t a roadmap, but a peek behind the curtain at where a few of these figures came from.

Janice may be pure invention, but her spirit carries the touch of a woman I once knew in the 1980s—bold, untamed, working two jobs yet never too busy to chase life’s adventures. She had a go-for-it attitude that left its mark, and I folded that into Janice.

Janice is a composite—memory, imagination, and a deliberate streak of male fantasy woven into something unforgettable. She’s the woman who turns heads without trying, who carries herself with the kind of confidence that makes a room lean her way. Janice thrives on risk and the thrill of being noticed, but she does it with style—always more allure than exhibition. She knows the power of her sexuality and isn’t afraid to use it to get what she wants when the stakes demand it. Like Vegas itself, she is dazzling, unpredictable, and irresistible. Her recklessness may lead her into danger, yet it’s that intoxicating blend of sex appeal and elegance that makes her impossible to forget.

Jim’s roots trace back to a neighbor I knew growing up in Tsawwassen. He wasn’t just a guy on the block—he was more like a second father, a figure you watched closely because he seemed to know how the world really worked. He drove a Cadillac, paid for everything in cash, and wore mystery like a tailored suit. Officially, he was a realtor—but one who never seemed to have a house for sale, a detail that only deepened the aura.

What I remember most are the racetrack trips. They weren’t a rare adventure; they were a regular rhythm of his life, and by extension, mine. He’d sneak me out there time and again (something my parents never knew about), and his gambling friends welcomed me instantly when I said my ambition was to become a pit boss. Looking back, those afternoons felt like a secret education in risk, confidence, and the seductive pull of chance long before I ever set foot in Vegas.

Some of the best advice Jim ever got from Nico in The Showgirl—the kind that sounded carved from experience—came straight from that old neighbor. Most of it was about women.

“Chase them if you want, kid—but never use money to impress a lady. That’s how you buy trouble, not affection. When a real woman crosses your path—don’t fake your way into a relationship.”

And once, when I was just old enough to want to impress a girl but too young to know how, he tossed me the keys to his Cadillac and said, “Go on. Take her out. Just don’t fall in love unless you’re sure you can afford it.”

Originally, Jim was meant to be the novel’s protagonist. But the showgirl herself quickly stole the spotlight—her energy, her unpredictability, her sheer presence. Before long, Jim shifted into the role of co-star: essential, compelling, but orbiting her flame.

Ronnie and Marvin were born from echoes of my own twenty-one-year-old self, when cards, adrenaline, and the rush of winning seemed like the only things that mattered. But the resemblance stops there. They’re exaggerated, reckless extensions of youthful bravado—fiction turned loose simply for the fun of it. They’re a nod to that reckless time when youth feels unstoppable. 

The Bankers began as a one-off cameo—two women who always seemed to win, gliding through the casino with uncanny luck. When the real-life inspirations shrugged and said they’d never read the book, I felt free to sharpen them into something far more sinister. On the page, they became elegant predators: polished, calculating, and dangerous. They’re not villains who shout; they’re the kind who smile while pulling the strings, manipulating people with a whispered aside or a quiet look—cunning and always three moves ahead.

The name carries weight—Greek mythology, heavy and inevitable. But no parents named Beauregard would ever christen their son “Kronos.” That’s why it became a chosen identity, adopted later in life. His real name, Thomas, grounds him in reality, while the reinvention into “Kronos” suggests the way people in this world craft their personas like weapons. He is ruthless, intimidating, and theatrical—a man who understands that power isn’t just taken, it’s performed.

Latisha is pure fiction, but she’s drawn with deliberate edge: sharp-witted, ambitious, and unwilling to play the background role assigned to her. She brings volatility into the mix, someone who can seem vulnerable in one moment and cut to the bone in the next. Yet beneath that fire, she’s quiet—watchful, almost unassuming—until her talent gives her away. In a city built on illusion, Latisha can’t stay hidden from the destiny that keeps finding her.

Donna embodies temptation wrapped in glamour. Where Janice risks for thrill, Donna risks for leverage. She turns every encounter into a game of temptation, always betting that she’ll be the one still standing. Characters like her give Vegas its dangerous shine—the sense that a single night can change everything. 

Betty stands apart from the gamblers and schemers around her. Where others play the angles, she doesn’t. She’s steady, practical, and never dazzled by the quick score. In a world built on risk, Betty’s strength comes from her refusal to gamble with her own integrity.

What makes her essential, though, is her loyalty. Betty will always step in for a friend, no matter the cost. She may not chase the glamour or the danger, but she anchors those who do—offering a kind of quiet protection in a city that rarely offers any. Grounded, dependable, and unshaken by the neon’s glare, she reminds us that friendship itself can be a form of courage.

Tony is the archetypal enforcer, but not a cardboard one. He brings menace with intelligence—the kind of muscle who knows exactly how far to push. What makes him dangerous isn’t his strength, but his smarts. He never raises his voice, never rushes the moment—he just waits, certain that sooner or later, everyone gives him what he wants. And when patience runs out, he’s never afraid to use violence.

Nico stands as Jim’s mentor—the kind of man who speaks in lessons carved from experience. Many of his lines come straight from real advice I once heard whispered at the track or muttered across a casino floor. He represents the old-school gambler’s code: built on confidence, chance, and an understanding of odds and women—and the knowledge that both can turn on you the moment you think you’ve got them figured out.

Marie began as a background figure but grew into a character marked by nostalgia, quiet charm, and the steadiness of a teacher. She carries a touch of wistfulness in a story otherwise fueled by danger and adrenaline. On the surface, she comes across as conservative, careful, and tied to routine—but beneath that restraint lies an adventurous side waiting to be set free. The question lingers: will Janice, with her fire and unpredictability, be the one to draw it out?