The sex hadn’t been bad either.
I clamped my mind shut to those memories—they could get me in trouble, especially in light of my current libido problem.
Twenty years older than me, Irv was every inch the successful Vegas casino owner. Tall, trim, perpetually tanned, he was the center of female attention wherever he went. A touch of gray in his hair, chiseled features and eyes that danced with delight every time he saw me, I was a goner the first time I met him. It had taken me a whole year to get the stars out of my eyes and to see through his well-oiled veneer.
But, whether he knew it or not, Irv Gittings had taught me a few hard lessons.
Irv liked his women pretty, young and stupid. Once I had fit that bill. Not anymore.
I pondered the made-over me who stared back at me from the mirror. I squinted my eyes. In a dim light, I could still pass for pretty, but I needed a touch-up. The cosmetics I had purchased at Samson’s as part of the whole makeover thing were in a small pouch at the bottom of my Birkin. Now, if I just remembered how to use them.
Finished, I surveyed the result. Sultry eyes, lips painted in come-on red, I poofed my hair and pulled a few strands down so they framed my eyes.
Not bad.
I threw back my shoulders. You can do this, O’Toole.
Even I didn’t believe it.
I wet a towel and dabbed at the blood on my elbow—Willie’s blood. I couldn’t do anything about the red splotches staining the white leather of my shoes—no matter how hard I scrubbed, they didn’t budge. This had certainly been a day of men from the past.
After popping Willie’s tape out of the recorder, I secured it in a zippered pocket in my bag. I shoved a new tape in the device, checked the battery level, then turned the thing on and put it in my pocket.
Showtime.
IRV’S office occupied the best corner, with the best view on the best floor—the top one. “Nothing but the best for Ol’ Irv,” he used to say, his arm wrapped around my shoulders as we stood before the wall of glass in his office—Vegas at our feet. As smooth as he was, Irv had the irritating habit of referring to himself in the third person. Back then he’d included me on his list of “bests for Ol’ Irv.”
The elevator deposited me on my requested floor. The doors closed, leaving me stranded and apparently alone. As I moved down the corridor toward Irv’s office, I felt like a condemned woman making her last walk.
The outer office was empty. Irv’s assistant had apparently gone home for the night. No witnesses. Luck still perched on my shoulder.
“Anybody here?” Light came from Irv’s office, so I headed that way.
Irv stepped through the door.
Damn, still gorgeous. A little worn around edges, but handsome as ever.
“Lucky?”
“My assistant gave me your message. I thought I’d stop by instead of calling.”
“Sure.” If he was surprised, he hid it well. Stepping aside, he motioned me through the doorway. “Have you been getting my e-mails?”
“Yes.” I walked through the outer office and into his inner sanctum.
Large, even by Vegas standards, Irv’s office had changed little over the years. The same monstrous antique desk occupied its place in the corner. According to Ol’ Irv, some important document in American history had been signed on that desk. I didn’t believe that, but I could name at least five women who had been screwed on the thing. Irv probably still etched his conquests’ names in the wood on the inside. Thankfully mine wasn’t one of them—I drew the line at doing it on desks.
Photos of Irv with every celebrity imaginable from the last two decades competed for wall space with clever forgeries of a few lesser works by the great Masters and a few strategically placed mirrors. That was Irv Gittings—all show and no substance.
I took a chair in front of the desk.
“So, if you got Ol’ Irv’s e-mails, why haven’t you answered?” He parked his butt on the corner of his desk. Fingers interlocking, he held one knee with his hands as he surveyed me with those inscrutable gray eyes.
“I don’t discuss future employment opportunities on my current employer’s time. And I certainly don’t negotiate by e-mail.” I crossed my legs and leaned back.
“Negotiate?” His gaze wandered to my legs, then back. “So you’re open to discussions?”
“Why else would I be here?” I leaned forward. “Look, Irv, let’s get this out of the way. You and I were over a long time ago.” He had tossed me aside for twin blonde gymnasts who could apparently do amazing things with their tongues.
He shifted uneasily.
“No hard feelings,” I added, even though he’d thrown me out for the trash. “I assume you aren’t offering me money to be your girlfriend. If this is business, I’m always open to bettering my financial position.”
“So you wouldn’t be Ol’ Irv’s squeeze again?”
“I’m about ten years too old for you.” And much too smart.
“So true,” the asshole said, but not to me. He was looking at his own reflection in the mirror on the wall behind me when he said it.
What had Mother used to say? A man in love with himself could never love anybody else? Of course, I hadn’t paid attention to her, so that had been the first of Ol’ Irv’s hard lessons.
“I’ve got to get back to work, so if you have a proposal, I’m all ears.” I leaned back again, this time crossing my arms in front of my chest. “But I warn you, it’s going to take an obscene amount of money to lure me from the Babylon. Frankly, the Athena would be a step down for me—a big step down.”
One dart straight to the ego.
Irv’s cheeks flushed.
Bull’s-eye.
He jumped off the corner of the desk. “Wild Turkey, neat. Right?”
“Right.”
Hidden behind a secret panel in the corner of his office, the bar boasted a variety of top-shelf liquor. Only the best for Ol’ Irv, I thought as I watched him busy himself with bottles, glasses and ice.
“Do you remember how we used to talk about being the Vegas power couple?”
I nodded. Like an old dog howling at the moon, he was going to make me sit through the same old song.
“We could still do that.” Worse than a self-conscious teenager, he glanced at himself in the mirrored glass behind the bar as he finished our drinks.
I raised an eyebrow as he handed me my whiskey.
“Not as a couple but as business partners,” he continued, his eyes on my face. He took a sip of the clear liquid in his glass.
He drank very expensive tequila, if I remembered correctly. “At the Athena?”
“Oh hell, not in this dump. Our talents would be wasted here.”
I didn’t want to point out the obvious—Irv’s talent had run the Athena into the ground. Of course, it was probably somebody else’s fault. With Irv, it always was.
He set his drink down, then grabbed the arms of my chair and turned me so I was facing slightly away from the desk. Like a lawyer delivering his summation, he paced back and forth in front of me. “Ol’ Irv has bigger plans.”
“Really?”
Second dart straight to the ego.
“Yeah, really.” His tone turned defensive.
So far, I was batting a thousand. I waited, my heart in my mouth. Come on, Irv!
“You don’t think Ol’ Irv can pull it off, do you?” He stopped in front of me, a hint of bruised ego in his eyes.
I calmly took a sip of my drink, then lowered the glass and looked into it as I slowly swirled the bourbon around. His face had turned a deeper shade of pink when I again looked at him.
“You’re blowing smoke, as usual,” I said, trying to look mildly disinterested.
Third dart to the ego.
Irv’s face flushed crimson.
Home run.
“I’m going to make a tender offer for the Babylon,” he announced, pride oozing from every pore.
“What?” I felt the glass slipping through my fing
ers. I caught it just in time.
“That got you, didn’t it?” A self-satisfied smirk split his face as he pulled a chair close to mine and took a seat on the edge. He leaned into me and said softly, “I’ve got the money all lined up. And . . .” He took my free hand in his. “I want you to run the place after I take over.”
“You want me to run the Babylon . . . for you?” I looked at my hand in his. His flesh on mine.
And I felt . . . nothing.
Could Irv the Creep have been the cure for my libido problem?
I slowly extracted my hand from his grip. I’m not sure he even noticed.
“You’re the key,” he said. “I know how important you are over there. Everybody likes you—the employees, the guests, the entertainers—you charm them all.” He jumped to his feet and started pacing again. “You make the Babylon work. You know how to run a casino. If you stay after Ol’ Irv becomes the boss, everyone else will stay.”
“I’m flattered.”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
“How worth my while?”
“I’ll double your salary and give you a bonus of one percent of the pretax profit.”
I looked him straight in the eye. “A tender offer for the Babylon will require a serious chunk of change.”
“As I said, the money is there. Some foreign money, some venture capital, and I’ve been setting some aside from the operations here.”
I took another sip of my drink as I looked him over. Impeccably turned out, every i dotted, every t crossed, he still gave off a hint of quiet desperation. Hang around Vegas long enough and you develop a nose for it. “The Big Boss will never sell.”
“The board of directors will force him to,” Irv announced, a look of triumph on his face. “You, see, Lucky my dear, Ol’ Irv has your Big Boss by the balls.”
“You?” I asked, putting some skepticism in my voice. “Have The Big Boss by the balls?”
“I’m going to bury him.”
“How?”
“He’s mixed up in something really bad. So bad, he’ll go to jail. And you know how the Gaming Commission frowns on felons running casinos. They’ll jerk his license for sure.”
“It’ll take more than your word to bring down The Big Boss.”
“I have it all on tape. Your boss is a goner.” Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms, a look of immense satisfaction on his face. “Yeah, Ol’ Irv is going to be running the show.”
I paused more a moment as if in careful deliberation. “Okay, I’ll play. Assuming what you told me is true, let’s talk money. The older I get, the more I like it. Now, tell me about this one percent.”
TWENTY minutes later, I found the Ferrari where I’d left it, the nervous valet at its side. I exchanged a twenty for the keys and folded myself into the car.
“Thanks, Ms. O’Toole!”
“You bet. You’re Brandy aren’t you? From my class at UNLV last fall?”
“Yes.” A shy grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I’m surprised you remember.”
“Hard not to. You were one of the brightest in the class.” I pulled a card out of my wallet and handed it to her. “If you ever consider changing jobs, come see me.”
“For sure!” Her grin grew wider. “Thanks!”
At the turn of the key, the engine growled to life. Like a big cat, the car waited, coiled to spring into action. Unfortunately, the drive up Las Vegas Boulevard to the Babylon would be slow and short, but it would give me time to think.
The lights of the Strip competed with the fading sunlight, beating it into submission as day marched relentlessly toward night. As I eased the car into traffic, a few clusters of people wandered the streets, drinks in hand. The night was young and laden with the expectations of untold delights—food, fun, entertainment—maybe some luck at the tables or with the opposite sex—or the same, depending on your preference. I drove with the window down, drinking in the dry, fresh desert air, trying to wash away the sour taste left by Irv Gittings.
While it would make interesting listening, the tape I’d made of our conversation didn’t provide direct proof that Ol’ Irv had added murder to his résumé. And I wasn’t sure that it mattered. Whether Irv instigated the murder or merely took advantage of the opportunity when Felicia appeared with the tape, the Babylon’s board of directors would take a dim view of his shenanigans.
Something else he’d said niggled at me. Some of his tender-offer funds were monies he’d set aside from the operations of the Athena. How does one set aside money when the hotel operates in the red? Either I knew nothing about operating a casino, or Irv Gittings had been skimming from the house, which was a definite no-no with the Gaming Control Board, not to mention the IRS.
The light at Flamingo turned red, so I eased the Ferrari to a stop. Whistling their appreciation for the car, a group of young men passed in front of me. I smiled back at them. They raised their beers in a salute before they disappeared around the corner.
The light turned green. I kept the car at a slow crawl. The huge, illuminated signs lining the Strip flashed their come-ons. Magic shows, a popular singer at Caesar’s, various Cirque du Soleil extravaganzas, an impersonator at the Venetian, Teddie at the Babylon, each sign painted the car with multicolored lights as I passed.
I didn’t believe for a minute that those two petty blackmailers, Felicia and Willie, could dream up, much less pull off, a plot against The Big Boss. No, it had Ol’ Irv’s stink all over it. But that wasn’t my problem—the police could sort it out.
Irv would have been a fool to actually pay Felicia Reilly for the tape. Giving money to a murderer would be a quick pass to the slammer. Irv was slimy, but he wasn’t completely stupid. No doubt he had promised money then stiffed her.
That meant Felicia was on her own, with only the grand from Mr. Fujikara—these days even if you travel light, a grand won’t take you far.
I smiled as I tapped my hand to the beat of the song playing on the radio. Since she had no money, Felicia Reilly would probably go back to doing what she did best, blackmail. The Trendmakers party on Thursday night would be irresistible—she’d already told Jeep she’d be there to get her dough. Oh yeah, she’d show all right. And we’d be waiting.
THE Big Boss was waiting for me when the elevator deposited me in his apartment.
“Have I got a story for you,” I announced as I brushed past him and headed straight for the bar.
“I’m out of Wild Turkey,” The Big Boss said as he punched the hold button for the elevator then followed me. “You drank the last of it last time you were here. I forgot to call down for more. Want me to do it now?”
“I don’t need a drink, just a bottle of water.” I grabbed one from the fridge and drained the whole thing in two long sessions before coming up for air. The empty bottle sailed into the trash can, dead center. “Two points.”
The Big Boss eyed me warily. “You’re in a fine humor this evening.”
I plopped on his couch facing the window and the lights of Vegas and patted the place beside me. “Sit. You’re going to like this story.”
He did as I asked.
“Here.” I took his hand and spread it open, palm up, putting the two tapes and the recorder into it. “I think you’ll find these . . . most enlightening.”
He started to close his hand.
“Wait.” I grabbed the tapes and pried off the little tabs on the back of them. Now they couldn’t be recorded over. Notoriously technophobic and inept when it came to small electronic devices, The Big Boss couldn’t be trusted.
“Listen to those when you have a chance,” I said, “but I’ll give you the CliffsNotes version now, if you want.”
“What is that on your shoes?” The Big Boss deposited the tapes and recorder in his pocket.
“Blood.” Perfectly good Chanel flats ruined. A small price to pay for the opportunity to break Willie’s nose.
“Not yours?” The Big Boss looked genuinely alarmed.
I sh
ook my head. “Willie’s.”
“You found Willie?” The Big Boss’s head swiveled to me.
“Yep.” I leaned my head back and let the feeling of immense satisfaction wash over me.
“How’d you get his blood on you?”
“I broke his nose.”
“That’s my girl,” The Big Boss said with a chuckle. “Where is he now?”
“The police have him, but they’re keeping a lid on that fact for a couple of days.” I crossed my hands behind my head. “One of those tapes I gave you is Willie’s confession. He said you knew nothing about the murder of Lyda Sue.”
The Big Boss grew very still beside me. He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his words were soft and full of emotion. “I owe you.”
“Seems to me you’ve had my back several times through the years.” I reached down and squeezed his knee.
“The police are keeping the lid on Willie’s arrest as a favor to me.” I sat up and looked at the lights of the Strip. The sun had almost disappeared behind the mountains, shooting the sky full of oranges and pinks. I had no more than thirty minutes before I’d promised Miss Patterson I’d be back. “I need some time to find Felicia Reilly.”
“You know where she is?”
“No.” My elbows resting on my knees, I cupped my chin in my hands. “But I have a good hunch where she’s going to be.”
“You’re going to tell me?”
“Not on a bet. You’ll send your goons after her.”
“No, I won’t.”
I gave The Big Boss a disbelieving look. “Let me handle this.”
He eyed me for a moment. “I owe you that much. Besides, you’re doing fine on your own.”
We both stared out the window for a minute, the reality of the day washing over us.
The Big Boss reached in his pocket and pulled out his wallet, extracted a hundred-dollar bill, then returned the wallet to his pocket. As I’d watched him do a thousand times, he began creasing and folding.
Wanna Get Lucky? Page 19
