Las Vegas
1982
After Albert Rothstein left him alone with his now-cold dinner, Davis Lovato pushed his plate away, his hunger having fled. Leaning back, he pulled a new Cohiba from his inside suit jacket pocket. The latest in a long line of storied Cuban cigars, the Cohiba wasn’t for sale yet. Davis had acquired his through some well-placed friends in the I’ll-scratch-your-back-you-scratch-mine world. When he’d started as a lowly assistant D.A., he never could have imagined the trajectory his professional life would take. If he’d had a glimpse, he would’ve been a bit more careful about the friends he cultivated along the way.
Holding the tightly wrapped tube between his thumb and forefinger, he rolled it as he held it to his ear, listening. Hand rolled . . . only the best. Fumbling in his pocket for the cigar tool he kept on his keychain, he pulled the tool out and went through the ritual.
The waiter jumped in and flicked his BIC. Davis stuck the cigar into the flame, taking a couple of quick pulls to get it started. After a final long pull, he sat back, waving the waiter away. Then he blew a long plume of smoke toward the ceiling as he savored the nicotine hit.
Rothstein was a clever fellow. Perhaps too clever for his own good.
July 2012
Las Vegas
“You coming?” I asked Romeo, who sagged on the couch looking like a puppet with severed strings had been severed. I extended my hand. He took my offer, and I pulled him to his feet where he wobbled a bit.
“My blood sugar is in the tank.” Sweat popped on his brow.
From our stash, Miss P tossed me a candy bar, which I handed to the kid. “Here you go, Detective. You’re no good to me if you faint on the job.”
He inhaled the sugar as if he was one toke over the line. After I had gathered my belongings, he looked a little bit brighter—a hint of pink blushed his cheeks. He trailed after me as I stepped into the hallway and headed toward the elevator. “Where’re we going?”
“To talk to some old ghosts.”
Las Vegas
1982
Albert Rothstein opened one eye. His office. He’d slept on the couch. For a moment, he allowed himself to linger. Then he unfurled and pushed himself to his feet. Stretching, he grinned . . . it wasn’t a happy grin. Today would propel him toward his dreams or give him a permanent home at the will of the government.
A gambler at heart, he’d put it all on the table. Today would make him or break him.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Time to get this show on the road.
July 2012
Las Vegas
The Mob Museum, a pet project of the first Mayor Goodman, my buddy Oscar, occupied the former Las Vegas Post Office and Courthouse, built in 1933. A huge stone edifice, it now boasted three floors of exhibits including the courtroom from the Kefauver Hearings in the early ’50s, to the bloody wall where the St. Valentine’s Day massacre occurred. Beautiful, accessible, endlessly entertaining and enlightening, the place gave me the creeps . . . in a good way. To be honest, I didn’t need a reminder of how ugly Vegas could be, but the tourists loved it.
Romeo stood guard behind me as I used my phone to shine a bit of light on the keypad by the rear door. For some odd reason, I’d memorized the numbers. The light in the hallway was on when we pushed open the door. “Looks like they wanted any intruders to think someone was home,” I said just to be cute. Glib wore better than scared.
“Are you sure we’re supposed to be here?” Romeo whispered.
“You’re a cop, what difference does it make?”
“That makes it worse. We don’t have a warrant.”
“We have permission.”
“Oh yeah.” Romeo rubbed his eyes again. “You know, I’m not feeling too good.”
“So you said. It’s going around.” I pressed the back of my hand to his cheeks and forehead. He felt clammy but cool. “You want to wait here?”
“And miss all the fun?” He shot me a weak grin, which faded quickly. “By the way, what exactly are we doing here?”
“Looking for a needle in a haystack.”
Las Vegas
1982
Albert Rothstein tapped his foot as he leaned against the front wall of My Place Lounge, surveying the parking lot and trying not to look nervous. His stomach clenched but time slowed—it always did when he was under pressure. At this early hour, the die-hards were stoned to the gills inside, but the parking lot was virtually deserted. Breakfast wasn’t the most popular drinking time, even with the shift workers and the minor muscle—they’d catch a few winks and be in around noon.
By then, Albert’s fate would be sealed.
He knew almost instantly when the big Lincoln eased in off the street. Davis Lovato was right on time.
Lovato angled the big car across three spaces. Albert noticed he left it idling as he opened the door and walked in Albert’s direction. Albert pushed himself off the wall and met Davis halfway. Ducking, he glanced around Lovato through the driver’s open door. In the passenger seat, Eugenia Campos touched up her lipstick in the mirror on the back of the visor in front of her. She didn’t acknowledge him.
Albert straightened and gave Lovato a cursory assessment. He looked calm.
The attorney general pulled a manila envelope from his inside pocket. He extended it to Albert. “Your turn.”
Glancing around, Albert satisfied himself that no one was around to see. He then took the envelope, opened it, pulled the papers out and scanned them.
“It’s all there: your gaming license, all the right signatures. You’re legit.”
Albert took a deep breath and looked over Lovato’s shoulder. Eugenia had stepped out of the car and now looked in his direction, a dainty hand shading her eyes against the morning sun. Albert nodded couple of times as energy surged through him. He was legit! The smile he’d kept contained burst through, and he laughed out loud.
“Now earn it, kid.” Lovato lowered his head and gave Albert a stern look from under the shelf of his brows. “You’re playing in the big leagues now.”
After stuffing the papers and the envelope in his pocket, Rothstein slapped Lovato on the shoulder. Then he sobered. “My turn.”
As Lovato turned to go, an explosion ripped the air. The concussion threw both men against the wall behind them.
Albert was the first to roll to his hands and knees. Fighting for the breath that had been torn from him, he hung his head and gasped. Finally, he was able to stagger to his feet. Hands on his knees, he waited until the world steadied.
Lovato lay crumpled against the wall. Albert dropped to his knees beside him. With one hand, he gently rolled him over. Lovato groaned. Dots of blood marred his face and a jagged cut bolted across his temple, disappearing into his hairline. It oozed blood. Albert helped him to a seated position, then dropped down beside him. They both looked at the burning frame of what had been a very nice Lincoln.
No one rushed out of the bar. Albert had figured right—most of them were drunk beyond caring. Finally, a bartender poked his head out the door. Gray headed, he obviously had been around—in the old days, everyone knew that rushing toward a car bombing was a great way to walk into the line of fire.
“You guys good?” His eyes widened in recognition when they landed on the attorney general. “Shit. They try and take you out, sir?”
Albert nodded. “But he’s okay. Did you call the authorities?”
“Not yet.”
“Might not be a bad plan.”
The man ducked his head back inside.
“Fuck.” Lovato hurled the invective at no one in particular. Then he brightened. “Man, I can really spin this. This is going to be great.”
“Eugenia,” Albert whispered, then dropped his head into his hands.
July 2012
Las Vegas
The Mob Museum was creeping me out. This late at night, surrounded by silence and the recitation of death, I was sure I could feel the ghosts stirring. The thin streetlight filtering in through the
occasional window didn’t help, but Romeo’s Maglite did. Waving the thing back and forth in front of me with Romeo trailing behind, we followed the cone of light. I closed my mind to the dark corners and what might be lurking there—clearly my imagination was working overtime. I wished it would clock out and go home.
The young detective and I stayed together as we searched each floor for Joey Bone’s stash of Mob memorabilia. We hit pay dirt on the third floor. A clever designer had fashioned walls out of glassed-in towers of old files and drawers stuffed with scraps of yellowed paper: receipts, notes—curiosities obviously deemed unimportant to the overall depiction of Mob shenanigans.
Oh, how I hoped they were wrong.
I inched through the chute formed by the glass walls, eyeing the collection inside with a critical eye. Stopping in front of one display, then cocking my head to the side, I thought I could make out the logo of Joey Bone’s pawn shop. Hope surged through me. “Hey, Romeo, I found something.”
No response. Romeo wasn’t behind me.
“Romeo?” Retracing my steps, I found him huddled on the floor, clutching his knees to his stomach.
Sweat glistened on his face. “Man, my stomach is killing me,” he managed through gritted teeth.
He still felt cool to the touch. Shivers twitched his arms and legs.
“When did you eat last? I mean, before the candy bar?”
“I grabbed a taco at the stand out front of the Babylon.”
“There’s your first mistake. Vegas isn’t known for its street food, although the new food trucks are changing that.” His groan stopped me. “Sorry. We need to get you to a doctor.”
Tucking the flashlight between my arm and my chest, I grabbed his elbow and tried to haul him to his feet. He couldn’t help me much. Giving him another tug, I felt the flashlight drop. It hit the floor, then rolled away in a splash of light. Like a spotlight, it lit the walls as it rolled.
As it arced across the far wall, the light caught the figure of a man. Then it fell back into darkness. My heart leapt. My pulse quickened. He’d been holding a gun.
Nothing moved for a moment. Then I shrugged. Just part of the display, I guessed, and chided myself for being such a wuss. My heart had just settled a bit, and I’d managed to get Romeo standing but leaning heavily on my shoulder, when a voice from the darkness stopped me cold.
“Find what you were looking for?” Boogie Fleischman strode into the glow from the flashlight. I’d been right—he had a gun. And it was leveled at my chest.
My heart leapt into my throat. Anger surged through me. I wanted to throw myself at him and beat him to a pulp. But staring into the cold black eye of the barrel, I thought better of it. I considered asking him what he was doing here, but that seemed stupid, so I waited.
Romeo wasn’t as patient. He grabbed the front of my shirt and whispered in my ear, “He was at the taco stand.”
My eyes snapped to Boogie’s as I tried to process.
“Yeah, the kid had no idea I was following him.” He gave a little self-satisfied chortle. “I could see he was puttin’ some of the pieces together.”
I resisted going for his throat. “What’d you do to him?”
Gently, I lowered Romeo to a seated position—I couldn’t hold him up much longer. As I did, he whispered, “Backup weapon.”
He kept a Glock 9mm in a holster at the small of his back. He made a big show of grabbing onto me as he slipped down my body to the floor—a nice bit of distraction that allowed me to find the gun and transfer it to the waistband of my slacks. The playing field was almost level.
Straightening, I stepped away from Romeo.
“Careful.” Boogie shook his gun at me.
“What do you want?” I glanced around looking for an advantage, something . . . anything. The gun was cold against the skin at my waist. I itched to use it, but Romeo’s life, and perhaps my father’s freedom, depended on me playing out this whole scenario the right way.
Boogie called behind him, “Kid, I got ’em.”
Albert Campos materialized at his side. He didn’t seem to be armed, but the odds had changed. Tweedle-dumb and tweedle-dumber.
“You guys are barking up the wrong tree.”
“Your father killed my mother,” Albert growled.
“No,” I shook my head slowly, buying time. “Your mother was killed in a car bombing.” I let that little tidbit hang there. My mind whirled. Davis Lovato’s son, the D.A., and my father both had a hand in young Albert making bail . . . for attempted murder. I felt for my pocket.
Boogie waved the gun. “Easy.”
“You think I got a gun? Wouldn’t I have used it by now?” Reaching in, I pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “This what you’re looking for?”
“What’s that?” Boogie tried to sound disinterested, but he didn’t pull it off.
“A receipt from Joey Bone’s shop with your signature, showing you bought that ring of my father’s . . . the one found next to the body.”
His eyes shifted to my hand. Momentarily focused on the slip of paper, he stepped toward me . . . and I ran. Diving behind a glass wall of files, I rolled and pulled the gun from my waistband. Pulling back the slide to chamber a round, I ducked as a shot exploded the glass over my head. In a shower of crystal particles, I dove for the stairs and tumbled down to the second floor. I heard a second shot. Bouncing to my feet, I pounded on. I knew just where I’d wait.
His steps were quiet, but his labored breathing gave him away.
I stilled myself. For a moment I closed my eyes, gathering myself. Then I opened them and assumed the pose, gun at the ready. There was just enough light from the glow of the illuminated exit signs to see movement.
Like a shadow passing in front of another, Boogie eased out of the stairwell and moved in my direction. “Lucky, girl, I know you’re not leavin’ your cop friend here. So where are you? Show yourself. We can talk. Negotiate. I get that paper, you get the kid.”
Where was Albert Campos? This was the only way down that I knew of—at least the only one close. The fire escape was on the far side—too far to come into play.
I held my breath as Boogie moved closer. When he looked in my direction, my heart damn near stopped. But his eyes flicked over me, then moved on. He kept coming. A few more steps . . .
“Lucky, I know you’re here.” Right beside me now. He could reach out and touch me.
One step. Two. He moved past me.
Another few steps and I spoke. “I’m right here, asshole.”
He whirled around and raised his gun. A body hurtled out of the darkness, leaping between us.
The sound of the gun shot reverberated in the small room.
Chapter Ten
UNIVERSITY Medical Center. How I hated hospitals. But as all things go, this trip wasn’t that bad. Leaning against the wall, I watched with a smile the cluster of friends gathered around Romeo’s bed. Propped up with pillows, he looked thin and wan, but alive. Brandy, my assistant and his main squeeze, clutched his hand with both of hers. Her face was pinched with worry, but a smile lit her eyes. My father, Miss P and her hunk, the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock, were there, too . . . even Dane. Jean-Charles had called. He was on his way. I’d phoned the story to Flash, and she was working to pull it together before her deadline. So life had settled back into some semblance of normalcy. Mona was the only one missing—Father had left orders that she stay in bed.
“You got him here in the nick of time.” The attending ER doc stepped in to hold up the wall with me.
“That’s all that matters. And Albert Campos?”
“He’s in surgery. The gunman only winged him; he’ll be fine.” The doctor gave me a half grin. “You want to tell me how you managed to plug up the gunshot wound and hang onto the gunman until the police arrived?”
“I was raised in a whorehouse—I can handle myself.”
“Remind me not to make you mad.”
“Save my friend over there, and you’re golden.”
&nbs
p; The doctor politely bowed out when my father stepped away from the gaggle around Romeo and joined me at my wall. “Are you going to go first or am I?”
I shot him a wry look. “Since I’ve got a feeling you and Daniel sprung Albert so he could save my bacon, I’ll start. You just tell me where I’m wrong.” I told him what I knew; it didn’t take long. He didn’t interrupt me.
After I finished, he said, “Do you have the receipt from Joey Bones?”
“Hell, no. We’ll have to tear the place apart to find it, if it’s even there.”
“You always were the best bluffer.” My father shook his head. “Hell of a risk.”
“It was the only play I had. And it worked. Romeo heard Boogie say he bought the ring . . . if not those words, close enough. Should be good enough to get you off the hook and Boogie Fleischman a one-way ticket to the Big House.”
“Oscar will be happy to hear we don’t have to tear his place apart looking for a scrap, then.” He gave me a warm smile. “I’m grateful for all that you did.”
“You want to tell me what all this was about, exactly?”
“Not really. Some secrets are best left unknown.”
“Secrets. They have a way of biting you on the butt. But I don’t think I need your help—I’ve got most of this figured out.” I looked him full in the face. “The whole thing started with you. Somebody from back east was putting the squeeze on you. I got a feeling the bones in the foundation are, well, maybe some muscle or something. You’d had a hell of a fight with somebody at Jimmy G’s when you saved me from the bomb.”
“How so?”
“The blood on your shirt was fresh and too much to have come from the split in your lip, which was still oozing. You also had a puffy eye.”
“Coulda been a fight somewhere close by.” My father eyed me, his face passive. But he wasn’t near the poker player I was.
“But it wasn’t. The guy died in the fire. Then you moved his bones to the foundation of the Lucky Aces.” I gave my father a long stare. “You owe me the truth. It’s going to come out anyway.”
Lucky Now and Then (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure) Page 13
