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

by Deborah Coonts

  According to Flash, Crider was holed up in a less-than-savory hotel. Not that there were any other-than-unsavory hotels here; in fact, there was a whole string of them, shutters hanging loose, paint peeling, plastic flowers faded under the unrelenting assault of the desert sun, hourly room rentals. Great. I slowed to a crawl as I turned in, trying to avoid the potholes in the asphalt. I didn’t even want to know what an alignment on a Ferrari would set me back.

  I angled into a parking place and killed the engine. As I unfolded myself from the car, I took a look around. No one seemed to be taking an interest in me or the car, but frankly, I don’t know why I bothered looking—I never saw the bad, even when I looked for it.

  Room 7 was halfway down on the right. Lucky 7 had been written in marker on the door. I felt like running.

  As I raised my hand to knock, the door inched open.

  “Yeah?” The voice sounded like forty years of unfiltered Camels. Through the crack, I couldn’t see the face obscured in shadow.

  “Detective Crider? It’s Lucky. Flash sent me.”

  After a moment, the door opened. Crider hid most of himself behind the door, but I could see enough to know it was him. A girl could never be too cautious. As I stepped into the gloom, I prayed no one had recognized me and memorialized this moment with a camera phone. But of all the worries I had, that was not even on the first page.

  As Crider closed the door behind me, the gloom deepened. “Christ, Crider, you growing mushrooms in here or something?”

  “I’m laying low ’til this whole thing blows over.”

  My eyes adjusted to the dim light and the room came into focus. Dismal would be too kind. The carpet, a filthy brown, had once been another color—at the edges it lightened to a mustard yellow. I took a couple of steps further in; my shoes stuck to the carpet, which made me a bit queasy. The bent and broken Levolors on the windows leaked a bit of the outside in, enough that I could see the clunky brown table decorated with the initials of former guests carved into its scaled and cracked varnish. The television still had a tube and rabbit years. The twin beds, covered with threadbare spreads, sagged under their burden of broken dreams.

  Unwilling to touch anything, I crossed my arms and planted myself in the center of the room. “Why are you holed up here?”

  Crider did not present the picture of arrogance I expected from a newly retired Metro detective. He looked old and broken. His white tee shirt, threadbare and stained under the arms, stretched thin over his belly. A worn leather belt on its last hole secured his khakis under the overhang and above indecency. Several days of thick stubble covered his cheeks, making up for the lack of hair on his head. A round face with bags under his eyes that hung like deflated balloons, he looked beaten up by life. With a meaty hand, he motioned toward the bed, then clearly thought better of it. “Not much of a place to entertain a lady.”

  “Well then, why don’t you tell me a story?” I tapped my foot and tried to not touch anything. “What are you doing here?”

  “Staying out of sight.”

  “I bet cops really blend in around here.” Sarcasm, one of my best things.

  “I’m not a cop anymore.”

  “Once a cop, always a cop.”

  “You sound like your father.” He made it sound like a good thing, which showed an unexpected bit of insight.

  “Why are you here, Crider?” I tried to keep the impatience out of my voice. I couldn’t tell if he was leading me on or just taking the long way around—I wasn’t a fan of either.

  He pulled a chair from the table and sat, extending his feet toward me. They were bare. He needed a podiatrist in the worst way. “I heard about that body and the ring and all.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “Well, your dad . . . ” He stopped as if searching for the right words. “Back in the day, he stepped up to the plate for me. Big time. He didn’t have to. To be honest, I didn’t deserve his trust or his concern. In fact, quite the opposite.”

  That sounded like my father. I gave him an encouraging smile as I tried to corral my impatience. I desperately needed to know what he knew.

  “I guess Flash told you I’d worked the fire scene at Jimmy G’s back in ’82?”

  I nodded. She’d also told me he didn’t know anything pertinent about the car bomb that derailed a future governor, but afraid to say anything that might shift him off track, I didn’t mention it.

  “I found that ring in the ashes.” He shook his head and looked hangdog.

  I felt like giving him a hug but resisted, given that I was alone in a hotel room with him and he had some interesting sexual fetishes—last time I’d seen him, he’d been in the ER at U.M.C. for one of them. I don’t think he knew I knew, so I thought it wise to keep that little factoid to myself.

  “It was under a big piece of stone. Came through that inferno looking like it was new.”

  “So how did it end up in the foundation of the Lucky Aces next to a dead body?” That was sort of redundant, but for the sake of expediency, I didn’t correct myself.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Can’t . . . or won’t?” My voice turned hard, and I let loose my impatience.

  “Can’t.” He sighed heavily, which sounded more like a wheeze. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together between his knees. “I’m real ashamed of what I did—your father going out on a limb and all.”

  My heart stilled. “What did you do?”

  Chapter Nine

  Las Vegas

  1982

  THE tremors wracking through Mona’s body subsided until they became intermittent spasms. Holding her tight against him, Albert stroked her hair and murmured to her, “Honey, it’s okay. Everybody’s fine.”

  Finally, she pulled away. She dabbed at her eyes with a napkin, then ran her fingers through her hair. “I must look a fright.”

  Albert went back to the other side of the booth so he could look at her. “You are always a vision.”

  Her smile lacked some candlepower, but at least she managed it.

  “Now, I need to ask you something.” Albert’s voice turned serious, chasing away Mona’s fledgling smile.

  She fidgeted with the napkin, clearly uncomfortable. “What?”

  “Mona, honey, how old are you? Really?”

  She swallowed hard. “Nineteen.”

  Albert’s heart stopped. They’d been right. Nineteen. That meant five years ago, when he’d first taken up with her . . . “Fuck.” Albert stared at Mona and tried to think. Nineteen now, which meant she’d been fifteen when he had knocked her up. A felony in every state, including Nevada. She’d looked so much older. He’d believed her lies when she’d told him she was twenty. Maybe he’d just wanted to believe. Regardless, the deed was done.

  And the East Coast guys were putting the pressure on.

  “Mona, honey, why’d you lie?”

  “I was on the streets; I had no choice. Nobody wanted a fifteen-year-old.” Her eyes were clear despite being puffy from crying. Strength returned to her voice. “What did you want me to do, Albert? When I met you, I thought you were just another john.”

  Grudgingly, he admitted she was right. He had behaved badly—and he wasn’t particularly proud of himself. She’d been so beautiful . . . even more so now. He’d fallen under her spell pretty quickly, but he did understand. Her choices had been limited. “You do know this makes life a bit more complicated, don’t you?”

  Her surprise seemed genuine. “Why?”

  “Having sex with an underage person is a felony.”

  Mona’s hand fluttered like a butterfly riding a breeze. “Oh, that. I’d never press charges.”

  That made Albert smile. Mona, the street-wise hooker, could be so naïve . . . part of her charm. “I know that, honey. But the D.A. might not feel so magnanimous.”

  “He can bring charges without me?”

  Albert nodded.

  Mona looked stricken as she lapsed into silence. Finally, she looked up. “What are
we going to do?”

  “I haven’t a clue. I know there is an answer, I just don’t know what it is right now.”

  “You’ll think of something. You always do.”

  Killing Boogie Fleischman would be a good start.

  #

  July 2012: Las Vegas

  My heart pounded as I waited for Detective Crider to fess-up, still straddling the fence as to whether I really wanted to hear what came next or not. “So what did you do?”

  “That ring, it was good as new, an expensive bit of junk. I should’ve given it to your dad. But seein’s how I was gonna take the high road from then on, if he got my ass out of a crack as he promised, I was gonna have a severe cash shortage—the county pays civil servants slave wages.” He glanced at me and gave me a one-sided grin. “I know it’s an explanation, but not an excuse.”

  “It’s history.” I tried to prod him forward.

  “I pawned the thing,” he said, his voice heavy with guilt, yet bright with confession.

  That wasn’t what I expected. “You pawned it?”

  “Yeah, took it over to that shop on Main. You know the one? It’s gone now.”

  “Joey Bone’s place? Sure, I remember it. Didn’t the Feds eventually close it down?” My mind shifted into overdrive.

  “There was some talk it was a front for the Mob and some numbers thing,” Crider said. “I investigated, but I never could prove it.”

  “Who else knew you pawned the ring?”

  “Hell, coulda been a buncha guys. Bones was hooked in with all the petty hoods and wise guys.”

  Another dead-end. Great. “What happened to the place?”

  “I heard Bones retired a wealthy man. He went south. The Caribbean, I think. He got a little press when he donated the whole kit and kaboodle to the Mob museum. Last I heard of him. For all I know he’s still sittin’ on a beach somewhere.”

  My wheels were spinning but the hamster was dead—I just couldn’t make sense out of any of this. Lotsa beads, no string to thread them on. I looked around the room. “So this is where hope goes to die, huh?”

  Crider glanced around. “Nothin’ here but despair.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  When he looked at me, his face had gone slack, his eyes hollow. “I know what your father can do when he’s angry.”

  Las Vegas

  1982

  “RECOGNIZE this?” Albert Rothstein placed the earring Lucky had found next to the bomb at Jimmy G’s in the middle of Davis Lovato’s dinner plate. It rolled into the empty carcass of a lobster tail.

  Davis plucked it from his plate, then held it up, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. He didn’t glance at Albert; he didn’t need to. They knew each other well. “What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was a low growl—he hated being disturbed at dinner.

  Rothstein pulled out a chair, flipped it around then straddled it, crossing his arms across the high back. Thankfully, Davis was a late diner and a man of habit. Tuesdays always meant the lobster special at Villa d’Este, 9 p.m. That day and time were by design—the restaurant would be virtually empty. Tonight that proved true, a fact that Rothstein was thankful for. Leveling a steady gaze at the attorney general, he waited.

  When Davis moved to pocket the bit of gold, Albert shook his head and said, “Oh, no, no, no.” He extended his hand. “I’ll need that back.”

  The attorney general’s gaze locked on his. Davis’s eyes were windows into a haunted soul. Albert had thought Davis smarter than that. Playing both sides of the fence could get you killed . . . or worse. Was stupid an inherited trait? Or was it made? Perhaps a bit of both.

  He took the bit of jewelry from Davis’s wavering hand and pocketed it, in an inside pocket. “Evidence.”

  “Of what?” Davis waved him away. “The chain of evidence is broken anyway.”

  “We don’t stand on that kind of pretense now, do we?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” A light sheen of sweat glistened on Davis’s brow.

  Albert glanced around looking for eavesdroppers. Finding none, he leaned in a bit closer. “I know all about Eugenia and her . . . condition.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Davis’s eyes flicked around the room as he swallowed nervously.

  Albert pulled the Polaroids Eugenia had given him out of his pocket and put them down in front of Davis. He waited while the attorney general flipped through them. When he looked up, his eyes were hard. Albert didn’t object when Davis pocketed the photos. “Keep them. There are more, lots more. She’s squeezing you, isn’t she?”

  A tic worked in Davis’s cheek. Albert could see murder in his eyes.

  “Look, you’ve got your ass in a crack.” Albert rolled his eyes at the ceiling in self-deprecation. “You aren’t the only one. But I’ve got a plan.”

  July 2012

  Las Vegas

  “Who do we know that can get me into the Mob Museum at this time of night?” I asked Miss P, who manned her desk as I breezed in through the outer office and into my old one . . . her new one. I knew she’d be there—we’d been together long enough that we could pull the vibes out of the ether when one of us needed the other.

  In her peach sweater and flawless makeup, she looked fresh as a daisy. If I didn’t love her, I think I’d hate her. Why did all the women in my life make me feel like a schlump?

  “Mayor Goodman.” She creased her brow. “Of course, it’s a bit late to call.”

  The whole Mayor Goodman thing had gotten confusing with Oscar, Mr. Goodman, bowing out because of term limits and the lack of a statutory basis upon which we could elect him emperor. In grand Vegas fashion, Mrs. Goodman, Carolyn—equally qualified in her own right, if not moreso—was elected to fill his shoes. “Oscar?” I asked, to make sure we were thinking along the same lines. At her nod, I said, “Perfect! Call him. He’s a night owl—reads until darn near dawn.”

  Miss P picked up the phone and dialed as I stepped into the private bathroom to make a halfhearted attempt to repair the day’s damage. Squinting at my reflection, I was happy to see that I looked better than I thought, although my appearance was far less than I hoped for. Typical.

  The theme song to life these days.

  As Miss P made arrangements with the former mayor, I set about touching up my face.

  I heard the outer door of the office open but couldn’t summon the energy or the interest to tackle whatever problem had let itself in.

  “Anybody here?” Detective Romeo.

  Oh joy. He was in the top three on my shit list. “Back here. Old office,” I called, keeping my voice as low as possible to not interfere with Miss P.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, then recradled the phone. She didn’t give Romeo a glance as he stepped into the room and sagged onto the couch. Instead, she lowered her head, and looking over her cheaters, she focused on me. Peeling the top sheet off the notepad, she extended it to me. “Here’s the code. He said go around back—there’s a keypad by the door. Let yourself in.”

  “Where’re you going?” Romeo asked. He rubbed his eyes.

  I got the distinct impression he was avoiding looking at me. “I got a bone to pick with you.” I stood in front of him, looming, with my hands on my hips.

  He looked up. “Was that pun intended or just casual brilliance?”

  The kid was trying to butter me up. Good luck with that. “Okay, let’s start with the bones first. You got an I.D. on the body in the cement casket?”

  “No.” He took a deep breath. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I sorta owe you one. We didn’t really find a body, just a bunch of bone fragments. All pretty damaged by fire, which is making the DNA analysis darn near impossible.”

  “Gender?”

  He shook his head. “That’s all I know. Had to send the fragments up to Reno to the crime lab. They’re working on it.” He rushed on, his words flowing together, “I’m really sorry about hauling your dad away like that. I did it fo
r his own good.”

  I cocked one eyebrow in disbelief. “His own good?”

  “There’s just a lot of chatter on the streets.”

  “What kind?”

  “Old scores to be settled.” He glanced up at me. “But I couldn’t have avoided hauling your father downtown if I’d wanted to. The order came from someone way above my pay grade.”

  “I know, the D.A.”

  “You got any idea what Daniel Lovato wants with your father?” Romeo bent forward, resting his arms on his knees, and lowered his voice. “If you got a theory, I’d sure like to hear it . . . before someone gets hurt.”

  “It’s just a hunch, but I’m willing to bet it had to do with his father and mine back in the day. I have this feeling the two of them were up to their asses in alligators, along with Detective Crider. I just don’t know exactly what went down.” And for the record, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I wanted to know—not if it threw my father into a bucket of boiling water.

  Romeo sighed, then belched. “Sorry, my stomach is killing me. This job is going to kill me yet.”

  I didn’t know what to say—the kid did look a bit green around the gills.

  He gave me a weary look and fought to hide another belch. “It gets worse.”

  I gave him my full attention. “What?”

  “Albert Campos made bail today.”

  “You mean our bomber is on the street?”

  “Footloose, fancy-free, with a score to settle.” Romeo stopped my heart with a hard look. “Your father posted his bail.”