Raymond Torres
As told to Leslie Nguyen-Okwu
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. But what happens in my car? That really stays in my car.
I’ve driven Warren Buffett, Mariah Carey, Jennifer Lopez, Brad Pitt, Ryan Seacrest, Adele, Bad Bunny, Karol G. I drove a high government official from another country who’d just survived an assassination attempt. I did transportation coordination for the Walmart family—one of the richest families in the world—for a five-day wedding in Big Bear.
People think it’s glamorous. They see the celebrities, the big tips, the Strip at night. They don’t see me sitting in a parking lot for three hours waiting for someone to finish dinner. They don’t see me detailing my car at 6 a.m. before a pickup. A lot of hours alone. Waiting. That’s most of the job.
You can tell within the first 30 seconds what kind of ride it’s going to be. Body language, tone of voice, a smile, how they greet you. The ones who think they’re famous are usually the most work. The actual celebrities? They’re often the easiest. They want to sit quietly and not be bothered.
I’m like a therapist on wheels. People tell me things they wouldn’t tell their own family. I’ve had people cry in my car, throw up, propose, break up. The 3 a.m. pickups are different. People are either really happy or really sad. No in-between. That’s when you hear the real stories.
We see what nobody sees. Celebrities are human. There are times where I can tell something’s wrong in their life and I’ll keep my eyes on the road and pray for them silently. I realize that even though these people have unlimited money, do they have peace? Do they have love in their family?
One of my most precious moments was driving Andrea Bocelli’s daughter from MGM Grand to the New York-New York Hotel and Casino—right across the street. I asked if she wanted to listen to any music. At that time I was preparing to drive Adele, so I’d been listening to all her music. I put on Adele. The daughter started singing. You could feel how much love Andrea Bocelli and his wife had poured into their daughter. I was tearing up while driving.
I don’t look at it as driving. I look at it as providing a service.
I’m usually 15 to 20 minutes early for every pickup. I walk the route in my head. I check traffic, construction, conventions, big fight nights. You have to think three steps ahead in this city. I keep mints, water bottles, phone chargers, tissues, hand sanitizer in the back seat. I have a little cooler in the trunk with cold towels. Someone gets in my car, they should have everything they need before they even know they need it.
I wear black Persol sunglasses made in Italy. Black leather gloves laced with Kevlar. A black three-piece suit, shiny Cole Haan shoes. I carry a tactical pen that’s also a window breaker. I detail my car myself twice a week. I iron my shirts. I shine my shoes.
Sometimes I travel to Colombia, Costa Rica. I set up security teams, put routes together, do advanced runs before the client arrives. We check the surroundings, look for local police departments and emergency units. We monitor the city for protesters, rioters and active shooters. These are things happening behind closed doors that nobody sees.
The truth is I was doing this work long before that. Back then I was trafficking drugs and providing concierge services to the big bosses who came to Vegas. I’d arrange transportation, get them tickets to fights and keep them safe. I just didn’t realize I was building those skills. Now I’m doing it the right way.
I served 235 months in federal prison for drug trafficking. When I went in, I didn’t have a formal education. I was a high school dropout. But I treated prison like college. My body was there, but my mind was never in prison. I was always thinking about what I was going to do when I got out.
Prison taught me that life is short. Behind bars, I lost my father, then my ex-girlfriend who committed suicide. I saw the aftermath of years of drug abuse on inmates. I realized I was contributing to people’s problems. I look at it like God plucked me out of the streets, out of what would have killed me. As they say, God puts his most prized possessions away in a safe place. Prison was my refining process.
When I was released, I was sleeping on my mom’s couch in her two-bedroom trailer. No car, no phone and no driver’s license. But I still had hope. A friend from the old days—he used to be a customer of mine, but he’d become a casino manager—offered to get me an interview at a luxury transportation company.
I told the owner about the stolen artwork, about Wayne Newton’s painting that I traded for 110 pounds of cocaine. He was fascinated. The last question he asked was if I had a clean driving record. I told him I hadn’t had a ticket in nearly 18 years. He laughed. “You know what? Just go get your printout. We’ll bring you on board.”
Six months later, I was driving the owner’s Rolls-Royce Ghost. People who’d been there for 8 or 10 years were asking, “Who is this guy?”
The hardest part of rebuilding was restoring relationships with my children. My son was five when I went away, my daughters were almost four and two. Even today, my son and I bump heads. But my daughters and I have come a long way. One of my daughters is my assistant now. She sent me a birthday card recently: “Dad, I see what you’re doing. You’re breaking the generational curse. I’m proud of you.”
I wake up every morning grateful. I have a conversation with God before I do anything else. Thank you. Where do you want me to go? Direct me. I know that because of God, I’m here.
I’m 57 years old now. I’m married to a woman from Colombia. I have eight granddaughters and two grandsons. I have my own company—LV VIP Concierge—and we’re expanding to LA and Medellín. I’m thinking about my kids, my grandkids. What can I leave them?
There’s a scripture in the Bible: a live dog is better off than a dead lion. Even though the lion is king of the jungle, he’s no longer useful. The dog is supposed to be lowly, but he’s better off because he still has a chance. There are so many things I still want to do in life. I love what I do. What happens in my car really stays in my car. That’s the promise. That’s the profession.
This story was co-published and supported by the journalism non-profit the Economic Hardship Reporting Project.
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