Lucky Now and Then (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure)

by Deborah Coonts

  Kicking aside some ash, the toe of his boot made contact with something solid. He bent down and brushed the residue away. Rock. No, granite. It must be the bar top. Cracked in several places, it had survived the firestorm relatively intact. Crider worked his fingers under one side and lifted, flipping the piece over.

  Underneath it, wood splinters, a piece of leather from the barstools, all of it remained unburned. Crouching, his haunches on his heels, one elbow on one knee, he sifted through the dirt with one hand. Picking up handfuls and using his fingers as a sieve, he let the ash drift through. On one scoop, he saw a glint of gold. Something embedded in the dirt. Digging further he managed to pry the object loose with one finger. A ring. Gold, with the letters ‘AR’ in diamonds.

  He glanced around to see if the techs were taking any notice. They weren’t. With a smile, he pocketed the ring.

  Chapter Eight

  July 2012

  Las Vegas

  AT THIS hour, Jean-Charles would be at full throttle in the Burger Palais. Hugging my mother at the elevators, I gave her a peck on the cheek. “Go to bed, Mother. We’ve done all we can today.”

  I watched the doors close, then I turned and dove into the crowd milling around the lobby. Gawkers stopped, craning their eyes upward to enjoy the thousands of blown-glass hummingbirds and butterflies that arced across the vast, coffered ceiling. Skiers careened down the indoor slope. Spectators gathered in front of the Lucite wall separating them from the winter warriors and oohed and aahed or groaned, depending on the success or failure of the particular run. Reception had quieted, only a few waited in line to check-in. Through the front doors I could see the valets running to shepherd away the thick collection of cars disgorging this evening’s throng of revelers. Some dressed smartly, apparently on their way to a show. Some dressed casually, ready for a night of gambling. The hour was way too civilized for the hip and trendy club set. They wouldn’t arrive for several hours yet.

  Dodging and darting, I worked my way toward the entrance to the Bazaar.

  Someone grabbed my elbow from behind. “Lucky, can I have a minute?”

  I stopped and turned. Boogie Fleischman. I froze. I didn’t know what to think or do. Should I break his nose? Should I run? I hadn’t a clue, so instead, I said with as much poise as I could muster, “Sure, Boogie, what can I do for you?”

  Short and spindly and bald with a thin fringe of greasy hair, which he wore too long, Boogie held a hat in both hands which he scrunched nervously as his eyes darted to mine, then away again. Liver spots dotted his weathered skin. His cheeks were sunken and hollow; his clothes dirty and wrinkled. He didn’t smell all that great either. “I heard about your father.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well . . . ” His eyes darted in again for a furtive strike, and he scrunched that hat harder, as if wringing it dry. “You know, the police and everything.”

  I didn’t react. If he was hoping to get some information from me, today was not his lucky day. I smiled at the pun, I couldn’t help myself. At my smile, he looked hopeful, then confused. “What do you want, Boogie?”

  His face closed down, his eyes turning flinty. He stopped worrying with the hat, then slapped it into form on his thigh and settled it carefully on his head. “You be careful, you hear. People can get killed messing in other people’s business.”

  The way he looked right through me gave me a chill, but I wasn’t going to let him see he got to me. As he turned to go, I grabbed his arm and squeezed, hard. I could tell I caught him off guard. I leaned down, my mouth close to his ear. “What the hell do you mean, coming in here threatening me? You’ve got some nerve.” I pulled him closer, and he winced away from me. “Don’t mess with me. I’ve got Rothstein blood coursing through my veins.”

  He tried to pull his arm out of my grasp. Good luck—I had him by forty pounds, six inches, several decades and a snootful of pissed off. “What’s your bit part in this melodrama?”

  He tugged once more. This time I let go. “Just giving you a friendly heads-up.”

  With that, he melted back into the crowd. I watched his hat bobbing along until he bobbed out the front door, into the night. I turned and eased into the flow of the crowd. Like a fish in a fast-flowing stream, I let the current carry me along. I didn’t look back. Fighting with myself, I worked for control.

  Threats didn’t scare me. They just made me mad.

  Although I was up to fending off threats, with more than a reasonable amount of sparkling wine sloshing around in my belly, I wasn’t as confident that my skill set extended to resisting an amorous Frenchman. However, through my Rosé haze, sacrificing a bit of virtue for the pleasure of his company seemed like a reasonable trade.

  The Burger Palais—yes, I fought to get rid of that name. I lost.

  Anyway, the Burger Palais was a trifling little venture for someone of Jean-Charles’s skill and reputation. With restaurants in all the major gastronomic centers of the world, it made sense that he should have his own high-end eatery in Vegas—which is exactly what the Big Boss had promised him. After some tense negotiations, Jean-Charles and I had agreed on specifics, and the crews were busy on the finish out, hopefully at a faster pace than the work on my new office. Needing to play in a kitchen while he waited, Jean-Charles took over the space of an Italian place that just hadn’t made the grade. Overnight, he had transformed it into a gourmet burger joint. For some reason, the idea of a James Beard, Michelin-starred chef in a burger joint made me smile . . . and like him all the more. He had told me many times he was just a cook and he liked to please. I was good with that.

  The ubiquitous line of hungry diners didn’t even slow me down as I sailed through the entrance, nodding at the hostess. With hardwood floors, muted lighting from brass wall sconces, rich green leather upholstery and brick walls with drippy mortar, the restaurant exuded the warmth, refinement, and openness of its proprietor. With the tables full and the air filled with yummy aromas and contented chatter, the restaurant wrapped around me like a heartfelt hug.

  Halfway back on the left, behind a wall of glass, the kitchen staff danced to their own rhythm, one that Jean-Charles conducted. I found him exactly where I thought he would be: in front of the large charcoal grill. Pausing in the doorway, I crossed my arms and leaned against the jamb, enjoying the fine-tuned syncopation.

  As Rinaldo, Jean-Charles’s right-hand man, eased by me on his way back into the kitchen, a bottle of Sherry in one hand, he paused before jumping back into the show. “An artist at work.”

  “Most would not consider hamburgers an artist’s medium,” I commented, surprising myself—my thoughts had a habit of bypassing my filter to leap out of my mouth.

  “Ah, but Chef takes everything he prepares very seriously. We all have been with him a long time—we have the scars from the lash of his words.” Rinaldo smiled, not looking the least bit put-off.

  “He is tough, then?” Jean-Charles had only let me see a glimpse of that side of his personality. In some ways, I was waiting for the gloves to come off.

  “He has to be. It is his reputation.”

  We both watched the chef as he shifted fluidly between stove, grill, refrigerator, console listing orders and the finishing table where he plated the food.

  “We had to learn how he moves,” Rinaldo explained.

  “How he moves?”

  “Each chef, at least the good ones, have a way of creating—a movement pattern that is intrinsic. It is part of their artistry. As staff, we had to learn his way.” Rinaldo made a sweeping motion with one arm. “Chef is the stone tossed into the water. And we are the ripples.” He touched my arm. “Stay here.”

  Not wanting to disrupt the flow, I did as he said, watching as the big man delivered the Sherry to one of his cohorts manning a selection of saucepans on the stove, then leaned in and said something to Jean-Charles. A nod, a moment, and Rinaldo stepped into the chef’s position, joining the dance with nary a missed step. Jean-Charles observed for a moment as he
wiped his hands on the white towel that hung from the sash of his apron. Only when apparently satisfied did his posture relax. He turned and graced me with a smile, melting me as easily as chocolate over an open flame. Raising his hand high, he pointed into the restaurant.

  I knew what he meant: he wanted to meet me at the bar. He didn’t have to make the suggestion twice. Turning, I headed across the restaurant, then ducked behind the bar—a beautiful mahogany construction that arced from the far wall. Grotesquely expensive—I know because I had to negotiate with Chef Gregor, the proprietor of the previous tenant, a failed Italian place—it added a special touch of class. The bartender, accustomed to my presence, acknowledged me with a quick grin, then returned to his mixing. Crouching, I squatted in front of the glass doors of the wine cooler. Ah, a nice white blend. I pulled the bottle.

  Jean-Charles straddled a barstool just as I popped the cork. “You like this wine,” he said with the flat tone of a rhetorical question.

  Setting one of the thin-stemmed glasses with a narrower bowl in front of him, I poured him a taste. Lifting it to the light, he swirled the liquid, then held it to his nose, taking a deep sniff. Apparently satisfied, he took a sip, then smiled.

  “Most of the nuance comes through the nose,” I parroted. If I had a dollar for every time he reminded me of that . . . well, this job would be history.

  He cocked an eyebrow at me, then extended his glass for a more generous pour. “We come from the same place, you and I.”

  Technically, he couldn’t be more wrong, but I knew what he meant, and I agreed.

  Before I could respond, Flash shouldered her way through the crowd, then wedged herself in next to Jean-Charles. “Hey, cutie.” She tossed the line at him, then focused on me. “Girlfriend, you are so not going to believe this.”

  Las Vegas

  1982

  Eugenia drifted down the alleyways, drawing nearer to Jimmy G’s, but hiding herself from view. She knew what to do. As a beautiful woman in a man’s world, she had the advantage. Men, they always followed their dicks. Working them was child’s play.

  The poor metaphor was lost on a woman of Eugenia’s intellect.

  Eugenia’s man, the one she’d had on retainer for years snapping photos for blackmail—or insurance, as she liked to refer to it—leaned against the back wall of a sandwich shop across the alley from Jimmy G’s, or what was left of it. Hidden in the shadows, he escaped Eugenia’s notice even though she knew where he’d be hiding. She found him on the second pass.

  Casually, she ambled over to him, then ducked into the shadow to stand close. “Get anything good?” She straightened his tie in a familiar way as she sidled just a bit closer to him than normal.

  He brushed her back. “You ever known me to disappoint?” He handed her a stack of Polaroids. “This is just a sample. I got the rest on regular film.”

  Eugenia flipped through them. Her smile grew. “Interesting.”

  “I thought you’d like them.”

  “I’ll say.” She touched his arm, letting her hand rest there lightly. “Are you ready to move up the food chain?”

  That piqued his interest. His eyes met hers. “Whatcha have in mind?”

  #

  July 2012: Las Vegas

  Flash’s skin flushed pink and her eyes shone.

  I knew that look—the thrill of the chase. “That was fast.”

  “The Internet … you’d be surprised what you can find. I also got this remote setup where I can access the historical records at the Review-Journal.” Planting a foot on the lower rung of the barstool, Flash boosted herself up. Then she leaned across the bar and grabbed a glass in one hand, and the wine bottle by the neck with the other. With bounty in hand, she dropped back onto the barstool with a satisfied grunt. As she poured herself a healthy dose, she gave me a look. “Lovato was easy.”

  “Give me the high points.”

  “Almost taken out in a Mob hit—”

  I held up my hand, stopping her. “Let me guess, there was a bomb involved.” It was a wild guess, but I had a hunch.

  Flash nodded, clearly unimpressed by my powers of insight. “Car bomb. He survived, but the woman with him didn’t.”

  “Who?”

  Flash shot me a thousand-candlepower grin. “Eugenia Campos.”

  “Whoa!” I wasn’t expecting that. To be honest, I had her figured as the bones in the foundation. If they weren’t hers, whose were they?

  “Yeah, creepy, huh?” She handed the wine bottle back to me, then took a healthy pull from her glass. “Lovato didn’t get very far after that: failed bid for the Governor’s Mansion. The whispers of philandering derailed him.”

  “Gosh, just think,” I added. “If the electorate still had such high standards, imagine how much better the world would be.” Politicians held the bottom rung on my ladder . . . right under lawyers. Davis Lovato had been both.

  “I got more.” Flash polished off her wine and pushed her glass toward me signaling a refill was in order. “That Crayfish, he’s been holding out on me.” She pulled a sheaf of papers out of her back pocket. Smoothing them on the bar top she motioned me closer. “Here, take a look at this.”

  I scanned the documents . . . twice. Then I saw it. “Crider worked the crime scene?”

  Flash pursed her lips and nodded. “He didn’t mention that. He knows something he’s not telling. And he’s scared.”

  Las Vegas

  1982

  My Place Lounge was a popular place with some of the wise guys. Co-owned by Frank Cullotta, it was frequented by Tony Spilotro and most of his Hole-in-the-Wall Gang. Normally, Albert Rothstein steered clear of this kind of joint, not wanting to be thrown into the pot of public perception as one of their associates. But today, he didn’t much care anymore; life had just delivered problems far more important than worrying about what people thought. Besides, they’d have to prove it, and he had Davis Lovato in his back pocket to take care of that, along with any whiff of indecision by the Gaming Control Board. He did not need his name popping up in their Black Book. Then he could kiss the Lucky Aces goodbye.

  The lounge was dark, even in the middle of the afternoon. The front had been blacked out, but once your eyes adjusted, it was bright enough. The aroma of pizza permeated the place—the bar adjoined Upper Crust Pizzeria next door. He waited in the last booth on the left-hand side, facing the door. Nobody with any smarts sat with his back to the front—people had been killed that way. Though to be honest, he really wasn’t worried. If they killed him, who would earn the money the Mob wanted to skim?

  Albert grimaced as he stared into his mug of coffee, his third. He had been a fool to think he could leave his past behind. That somehow building his dream, being on the up-and-up and legit, would erase his family’s well-connected history. Nothing like being born with the taint.

  Rothstein had known all along that the old guard in town wouldn’t take kindly to him going out on his own. They’d see it as a defection, a betrayal. Or an opportunity. Rothstein had no doubt that’s what they intended to do to him: get him over a barrel, then make him pay . . . and pay . . . and pay.

  He’d rather be dead.

  But Vegas couldn’t go on as it had, run by a bunch of hoods. No, for Vegas to reach her potential, she needed money—more money than the East Coast families could even dream of. Wall Street money. Banking money. And to get that, the city needed to be clean. Mr. Thomas and he had agreed on that, and as a banker, Mr. Thomas had been the first to put his money where his mouth was, making the first loan on a casino project. He’d taken another risk on the Lucky Aces.

  Albert Rothstein had made promises. Like Mr. Thomas, he was a man of his word . . . a dreamer, for sure, but also one hell of a scrapper.

  So the Family was on its way out, and they’d taken his defection personally—he’d known they would. But he never thought they’d come after his family. After all, that wasn’t how the Family did business. There were rules.

  And there was a price to pay for
breaking them.

  The bomb would have killed Mona and Lucky if it hadn’t been for Lucky and her curiosity. His blood boiled at the memory, the realization of how close he’d come to losing everything he valued.

  Revenge would be his, and it would be sweet.

  But first, he needed to square things with Mona.

  Even though he was still staring into his coffee, he knew the moment Mona walked into the joint. It had always been like that for him—if she was near, he could feel it. He raised his eyes and watched her walk toward him. Short shorts, long legs and a coltish stride, she moved quickly and confidently. Her long hair pulled back from her face in a tail, she looked like a fresh-faced kid. His face clouded at the thought.

  Mona’s smile dimmed just a hint as she slid into the booth across from him. “We almost lost her, Albert.”

  He smiled and covered her hands with his. “But we didn’t.”

  “What if . . . ?” Mona’s eyes turned dark with worry. Her smile wavered, then fled as her lips trembled.

  “Don’t.” He squeezed her hands. “I won’t let anything happen to her. I haven’t yet, have I? Did you leave her where I told you?”

  “Yes, Matilda met us there.”

  Albert nodded. “Good. Now, there’s something we need to talk about.”

  She stared at him as he talked, a lost look in her eyes. She hadn’t heard a word he’d said. The tears started slowly, trickling down her face until they became a steady flow. Albert could see her effort as she fought them, but she lost the battle. He squeezed into the booth next to her and wrapped her in his arms. He kissed her hair as she sobbed into his shoulder, breaking his heart.

  July 2012

  Las Vegas

  The Ferrari hummed as it accelerated up the Strip, warming to the task. I was pretty spoiled being able to steal a car from the dealership in the Babylon anytime I got the itch. This one was white,with a convertible top. I didn’t put it down. Neither a gal in an open car nor a Ferrari would be safe in Naked City. A down-on-its-luck stretch of the Strip between Sahara and downtown, Naked City had been home to most of the showgirls during the ’50s and ’60s. The girls used to sunbathe on the rooftops in the nude, hence the name. Of course, the tinsel had all moved uptown, and Naked City had become a rough neighborhood. Recently, refurbishment and investment had started filtering in. The pimps and dealers had been encouraged to move on, but Naked City still had a ways to go before it captured even a hint of its former glory.