So Damn Lucky (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 3)

by Deborah Coonts

  Tonight three bartenders and two waitresses worked the crowd that occupied all the tables inside, as well as four or five picnic tables outside under the tent.

  As promised, Junior nursed a longneck at the far end of the bar. Both of his elbows on the counter, he held the bottle with two fingers and lifted it to his lips in a casual, practiced manner, taking a pull. Being from West Virginia, this was probably an innate skill.

  Dane and I worked our way through the crush of bodies—I made a beeline for Junior while Dane angled toward the bar and tried to get a bartender’s attention.

  At a tap on my shoulder, I turned to face Harry and Mavis. The crowd pressed around us forcing me too close to Harry for comfort.

  “What are you two doing here?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard.

  “You know any aliens interested in a threesome?” Harry asked.

  “Seriously?”

  “Ha! Gotcha!” A huge grin split his face. “Me and Mavis come out here every year. It’s a real hoot. Earlier we caught that astronaut dude and bent his ear a bit about all this alien stuff.”

  “Dr. Zewicki?”

  “That’s the one,” Mavis said. “He was distracted and a bit rude if you ask me, but where else are simple folks from Muskogee going to brush up against a celebrity like him?”

  “Are you two going to the séance later?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Harry announced. “You’d be surprised at the strange stuff that happens during that thing.”

  I disengaged from Harry and Mavis, eventually working my way close enough to Junior for me to tap him on the shoulder. I motioned toward the door. With Junior following me, I caught Dane’s attention and pointed outside.

  “Quite a crowd,” I said when I’d filled my lungs with fresh air.

  “There’s always a crush when the UFO guys are in town. They put on presentations up here before taking everyone away from town for viewing.”

  “Presentations?”

  “On the latest UFO theories, mainly. Dr. Jenkins is regaling everyone with UFO shit as we speak. The crowd really laps that stuff up. But it’s sorta funny though.”

  “What’s funny?” I asked.

  “They scheduled Jenkins and his BS right after I did a talk on hoax busting—sort of canceling us both out.”

  “Did many of the believers come to hear you?”

  “You’d be surprised.” Junior took another long pull on his beer. “The true believers want the hoaxsters outed. And are there a ton of them—from crop circles to video and photos of UFOs—the advent of PCs and Photoshop was a boon to my business. You’d be surprised at the lengths people go to get attention.”

  “Probably not. I live in Vegas, remember?”

  Junior rewarded me with a grin. “Good point.”

  “Other than the séance later, is anybody else putting on a show tonight?”

  “I’ve seen Danilov around. I don’t think he’s on the schedule, but who knows. With this group, anything is possible.”

  He had no idea. “Speaking of which, have you been able to find out anything on Danilov and Area 51? I asked.

  “I shook down a few guys who used to work there—not the most reliable sources, but they were the best I could do. Whatever that program was, the government has a real tight lid on it.” Junior stepped away from the crowd, out of earshot, motioning us to follow. “Word has it your buddy Danilov was into some weird mental stuff—mind-reading, posthypnotic suggestions, you know the drill.”

  At least that was some kind of support for the mentalist’s version of life in Eden.

  “There was this guy, Carl—nobody knew his last name. He was the star of the program—apparently his abilities were off the charts. My guys said everything went okay for a while, but then weird stuff started happening, the participants became unstable. Everything fell apart when one of them died.”

  “Do you know who and how?”

  “A woman.” His bottle empty, Junior looked around for a can. When he couldn’t find one, he stuck the bottle in the waistband of his jeans. “I don’t have a name. The official version is she killed herself.”

  “But your friends don’t believe the official version?”

  “Nobody did, but what were they going to do? Take on the whole government?”

  Tilting at windmills—my stock-in-trade.

  “That’s the best I could do,” Junior said. “I hope I helped.”

  “Another piece to the puzzle.” I scanned the crowd milling around in the darkness. “I’ve never seen so many people up here.”

  “This is a pretty big crowd, even for this event,” Junior allowed. “Bart Griffin has everyone worked up.”

  “Do you know Mr. Griffin well?”

  “I’ve known him a long time, but can’t say as I know him well. He keeps pretty much to himself.”

  Dane joined us with fresh refreshments, beers for him and Junior, a Diet Coke for me.

  “What got him interested in the paranormal stuff?” I asked. “Was he Air Force?”

  “Test pilot back in the day. Now he loves to stick it to them.”

  “He had a falling out with the Zoomies?” Dane asked.

  “I’ll say.” Junior leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Nobody’s supposed to know this—he was ushered out of the service, an administrative discharge. You still want to talk to him?”

  “That’s why we’re here.” I said. “You know where he is?”

  “He wants us to meet him at the black mailbox at ten.” Junior tossed his empty in a can and took a pull on the fresh one.

  “Black mailbox?” I popped the top on my Diet Coke and drained it. Even at night, in late fall, the desert was as dry as ashes after a fire.

  “Nineteen miles east of here, back the way you came. They’ve seen some really good UFO shit out there. Want to follow me?”

  ***

  “What’s the significance of an administrative discharge?” I asked Dane once we were back in the car and following Junior back up the lonely highway.

  “They can be given for a lot of things, but mainly for psychological reasons.”

  “You mean he went nuts?”

  “Not necessarily. The Air Force simply considered him unfit for duty.”

  “From test pilot to head case. Big fall.”

  “In the Air Force, it would be huge.”

  Midway between mile markers twenty-nine and thirty, Junior eased his rental to the shoulder. Cars clustered in the desert near the hardtop, surrounding a white mailbox. Making sure the car was clear of the road and not stuck on the soft sand, Dane killed the engine.

  Junior poked his head in through the top. “Nice ride.”

  “Perk of the job,” I said.

  “I’m gonna have to get me a job like yours,” the West Virginian remarked as he pulled the crotch of his jeans and waggled a leg, shaking the boys down. “Bart’s over here.”

  “I thought you said we were meeting him at a black mailbox?” I said as he helped me out of the car.

  “It used to be black, then they had to replace it. Even though the new one is white, the old name stuck.”

  We followed Junior to a camouflaged Jeep Wrangler, open topped, with huge sand tires and antennas mounted to the roll bar. A man, his face hidden in shadow, sat in the driver’s seat, the tip of his cigar glowing red in the darkness.

  “Bart, this is the lady from the casino.”

  “Lucky O’Toole,” I said and stuck out my hand.

  The man in the jeep said, “Bart Griffin,” as he took my hand and gave it a good shake. “I understand you are a friend of Mr. Fortunoff’s?”

  “An acquaintance. He worked for me.” I leaned against the jeep and gazed up into the darkness. “Anything cool flying tonight?”

  “Not yet, the night is young. If the Air force is going to break out anything unusual, they wait until the last employees leave after eleven.”

  “What can you tell me about the notes? First ‘Pray Be Quick,’ then ‘Pray Tell.�
� What was the last one?”

  “Answer Tell.”

  “Right. Do you know what they mean?” I asked the radioman.

  “Haven’t a clue. Dimitri asked me to read them three nights in a row if anything happened to him.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Well enough.”

  “How’d you two meet?”

  “We went way back. Can’t really remember the first time we met.”

  That was helpful. Why did I get the impression this guy was hiding something? “How was the request made,” I asked.

  “Got a letter, postmarked from Henderson, mailed two weeks ago.”

  “Handwritten or typed?”

  “Typed.”

  “Return address?”

  “Nope.” He sucked on his cigar, the tip glowing a bright red.

  “How did Dimitri ask you to do this for him?”

  “Same way—typed letter.”

  “Did he sign it?”

  “Yup.”

  “You got the letters?” I asked.

  “Sure.” Mr. Griffin rooted in a computer case resting on the passenger seat. Extracting a few sheets of plain white typing paper, he handed them to me.

  Grasping them by the corners, between two fingers, I asked, “May I keep these?”

  “Don’t see why not.”

  “Is that all you got?” I tucked the papers between my sweater and my shirt, careful not to handle them any more than necessary.

  “Sorry,” Bart said without enthusiasm.

  I gave it one last shot. “You got any theories about all of this?”

  “Knowing Dimitri, it all started with Houdini.”

  ***

  Under the glowing orb of an almost full moon, the crowd assembled around the Little A’ Le’ Inn pulsed with energy by the time Dane and I joined them. As if cowed by the symphony provided by the creatures of the night—the howls of coyotes, the whisper of bats gliding by, the croak of a frog, the trills of grasshoppers—people talked in hushed voices.

  At the stroke of eleven, Dr. Zewicki strode to the stage taking the single chair. The crowd fell silent, expectant. Footlights supplemented the moonlight, washing the stage in a soulful shroud of half-light. Shining from down below, they shadowed Zoom-Zoom’s features, giving him an altered, sinister look.

  All the world’s a stage….

  Glancing around me, I didn’t recognize anyone. Not that I thought I would—despite the moonlight, I couldn’t see very far.

  Dr. Zewicki’s deep voice boomed, making me jump. “I will have to ask all of you, no matter what happens in the next hour, please do not attempt to interfere. Remain quiet and calm as I summon the spirits.”

  This whole thing was creeping me out. Despite my buoyant cynicism, I reached for Dane’s hand, clutching it. His touch was warm, reassuring…solid.

  Hands on his knees, Zewicki settled back in the chair and closed his eyes. Not a sound emanated from the crowd. Minutes ticked by, ratcheting the crowd to a fevered pitch until it was like a boiler ready to blow its rivets.

  Without warning, Zoom-Zoom bolted upright, his eyes wide. “I’m sensing a spirit. Walter, his name is Walter Rogers.”

  “My husband,” shouted a female from the rear of the crowd.

  “Walter died from a gunshot. Violence.” Dr. Zewicki closed his eyes. “Night. Fear. Anger.”

  “Yes, yes!” the woman cried. “He was a SWAT team member. He died in a drug raid.”

  The show went on as Zoom-Zoom provided details—supposed messages from Walter—causing the woman to sob by the end. Then Dr. Zewicki repeated the performance several times with other crowd members—each of them plants for the performance, I felt sure, although I had no proof.

  My eyes were growing heavy and my patience thin when Zewicki said, “There is one other presence here, a recently departed colleague.”

  Zoom-Zoom shut his eyes for a moment, milking the crowd.

  “Dimitri Fortunoff is here.”

  What game was he playing?

  “Mr. Fortunoff, can you name your killer?” someone shouted.

  The crowd drew a collective breath and held it, waiting, hoping.

  Finally, Dr. Zewicki shook his head. “He cannot.”

  The crowd deflated.

  “But, Mr. Fortunoff has a message for us. He says in honor of the Great Houdini, he shall return.”

  ***

  Like the gawkers at the scene of a bloody accident after the ambulance has left, the crowd filtered away, talking in excited voices. Dimitiri’s disappearance had captured the city and these folks knew they’d just been given another piece of the puzzle. Even I was smart enough to know everything was pointing toward Halloween—the anniversary of Houdini’s death. But just what kind of stunt this was, I hadn’t a clue.

  “Want another beer?” Junior asked Dane and me.

  “Not me,” I said.

  “I’ll take one,” Dane answered. “If it’s okay with you,” he said turning to me.

  “Sure, but let’s hit the trail in half an hour or so. It’s getting late and, since it’ll take us an hour and a half to get back, it’s even later in Vegas.”

  “Meet you at the car in thirty minutes.” Dane and Junior headed toward the bar.

  Alone, shrouded in darkness, I felt the pull of the desert. Drifting out of the light, away from the noise, I lost myself in memories. As a child, I’d often sought solitude in the Mojave—my refuge. Surrounded by the power of nature, bolstered by the resiliency of life, I found perspective.

  Tonight an unfamiliar sense of peace accompanied me as I gazed at the Milky Way and dragged my toes through the sand. For the first time in probably forever, I was at peace with my life. If I had known how cathartic unburdening myself would be, I would have done it years ago. Of course, with life, everything was a timing issue. Now was the time. I had been ready.

  A smile tickled my lips as I thought of Jean-Charles. Was he a timing issue as well? I was ready, so he appeared? How was I going to handle him? And Dane? How did he fit in my life? I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was standing high in the air on the edge of a glass overlook—like the one they have at the West Rim of the Grand Canyon—fighting that insane urge leap off.

  A hand grabbed my elbow.

  I felt a sharp object pressed to the small of my back. Adrenaline pumped. My heart pounded.

  “Don’t turn around,” a voice, low, menacing, muffled…unfamiliar…growled in my ear. “Walk.”

  The sting of the knife pricking flesh.

  The man pushed me deeper into the desert.

  Hidden under the cover of darkness, he pulled me to a stop. “Don’t,” he hissed as I tried to turn. “Stay away from Carl. Consider this your last warning.”

  A blinding pain to my head.

  My world went dark.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “LUCKY?”

  Voices. Pain.

  Like a swimmer caught in a riptide grasping at rope, I clung to the voices…to the ache. Real and visceral they pulled me to the safety of consciousness. Pushing myself to my knees, I paused, waiting for the world to stop spinning. My temple throbbed. Tentatively touching it, I felt a goose egg and the warm ooze of blood. Spitting sand, I gathered my strength.

  “Over here,” I shouted, then crumpled at the slash of pain, my hands grasping my head. It felt as if someone had split my skull with a meat cleaver.

  Dane fell to his knees beside me, his hand on my back, his face angled to see mine. “What the hell happened?”

  Junior skidded in beside him. “Christ almighty! You’re bleeding.”

  “Someone delivered a message,” I muttered

  “Who?” Dane said, as he circled my waist and helped me to my feet. “Steady.”

  Leaning into him, I gripped his arm. “I don’t know who. I never got a look at him.”

  “Can you remember anything about him?” Junior asked, as he held onto my other arm.

  “I didn’t recognize his voice.”

&nb
sp; “So you don’t think it was anyone you know?”

  “The guy was trying to disguise his voice, and he said very little.”

  “So he might have been worried you’d be able identify him?” Dane said.

  “That’s the logical conclusion.”

  The men walked me back to the Little A’ Le’ Inn and eased me down onto a bench in front of one of the outdoor picnic tables. “Could one of you find me some aspirin or something? My head is splitting.”

  Junior went in search of much-needed drugs.

  Gently, Dane probed my temple. “Heck of a bump and you’re going to have a thumper for a while. You should go to the hospital, you know. Stuff like this can cause internal bleeding that can be a real problem.”

  As I popped four extrastrength aspirin and chased them with a slug of water, I knew he was right.

  Damn. How I hated hospitals.

  ***

  With the doctor’s blessing, I finally headed for home. A second dose of aspirin kept the headache tolerable. Fury made me feel like my old self again.

  Four bells sounded as Dane eased the Ferrari to a stop in front of the Presidio.

  “Give the car to the valet at the hotel, they know what to do,” I said, as I undid my seat belt and opened my door.

  “Sure thing.”

  “Thanks for driving me up and back.” Pausing, I touched his face, then brushed my lips over his. “Weird night, but I’m glad I got to share it with you.”

  “Likewise. As first dates go, it was unusual. You sure you’re okay?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’d feel better if you let me stay. Head injuries are tricky things.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll be fine. And you staying would not be a good idea. Remember, no promises,” I said, as I climbed out of the car.

  “Understood. I’m a big boy. Quit worrying about me.”

  “I always worry.” Before I shut the door, I said, “I lost one friend by rushing to the next level. I’m not about to do it again.”

  “Gotcha.”

  I wished he’d stop saying that.