Lucky Score

by Deborah Coonts

  My youngest associate, Brandy, filtered through the throng. Still young, still willowy with long legs that drew long stares, still pretending to be oblivious, she was a former stripper I rescued from earning easy money the hard way. She’d taken to the corporate life, despite the serious pay cut and longer hours—respectability the thumb pressing on that scale. Her worried look made me think perhaps I hadn’t done her any favors.

  And I knew who caused the worry. Romeo.

  Her gaze passed over me twice before I bled through the gauze of her distraction. Without a smile, she shifted course and strode toward me. Standing on her toes, she shouted in my ear. “I got all the players here and all set up with table service, bottle service, and pretty much every other kind of service. We had to make a detour through the Bungalows. Mr. Whiteside forgot something at his bungalow. But now they are all here.”

  I nodded my thanks but didn’t ask how all-inclusive she’d been. She knew providing an illegal service, and prostitution was curiously illegal in Clark County and thus in Sin City, wasn’t allowed. But, making something illegal didn’t make it unavailable. The war on drugs had proven that beyond argument. The illegality simply removed the income stream from the taxing authorities. However, providing either would land the hotel in a heap of hurt, so it didn’t hurt to check on staff occasionally. Everybody had their price.

  Brandy’s lower lip quivered, offsetting the anger in her eyes. She grabbed my arm with both hands, anchoring me in place. “You talk with Romeo?”

  A question with ample latitude for prevarication in its answer, thank God. “Nothing of substance. Why?” Cocooned by the noise, I was certain our voices wouldn’t carry more than a few inches, so eavesdroppers weren’t a concern.

  “He’s been acting weird. I can’t put my finger on it, but something bad is going down. He doesn’t want me to know, but he’s been hanging with Reynolds.”

  My eyebrows lifted in displeasure. Detective Reynolds! I’d loathed the man when I’d met him. One of the bottom feeders. I couldn’t prove it, of course—he was too clever by far. But I was letting him run with the line, hoping one day soon I could jerk him up short.

  I stared into the worried eyes of my assistant, then put my lips close to her ear. “And you’re worried Reynolds will lead him astray?”

  Brandy leaned back and gave me a measured look, then leaned in close again. “No. Reynolds is an ass, sure, but there are lots of them.”

  Given her stripping thing and my working-my-way-up-through-the-ranks thing, we’d both seen more than our share.

  “He doesn’t hit my two-bit-hood meter,” Brandy continued.

  We had differing opinions. Perhaps her youth shaded her view. “Why is Romeo slumming with the detective?”

  Brandy pursed her lips, making most of the men within eye-shot go weak-kneed. If she was aware, she hid it well. “Something screwy about this whole NFL thing.” A tear trickled out of the corner of her right eye. She ignored it. “I don’t have any specifics, just a gut feeling, you know?” She waited for my nod before continuing. “But Romeo has his ass in a vise. Not sure how, or who’s turning the screws, but I know it as well as I know my own face.”

  I’d felt it, too, but I wasn’t going to add fuel to her fire—she was worried enough. And, with a black belt in some obscure form of mortal martial art, she didn’t need encouragement to run around town busting kneecaps or something.

  “You’ve got to help him.”

  And therein lay the problem: he hadn’t shared. If he wouldn’t let me in, how did she expect me to right this wrong and save my young Galahad, who had saved my bacon more than once? I’d returned the favor a time or two, but I think I was still on the short end. “When I catch up with him, I’ll tie him down until I get his story, okay?”

  The tear had made its way to her chin where it clung, a shimmering drop catching the multicolored lights. She swiped at it with the back of her hand, then gave me a weak smile.

  My offer wasn’t much, but it was all I had.

  Saving someone who didn’t want to be saved wasn’t one of my superpowers. My inadequacy washed over me, pissing me off as I watched my assistant ease her way toward the bar. I didn’t watch long enough to identify her target.

  Ralph had moved a few steps away, giving Brandy and me room to shout at each other in peace. I rejoined him to once again to survey the crowd. I tilted my head slightly toward the ear with the earbud, as if that would help me focus through the noise to hear Temperance when she let me know our trap was set. Nothing so far.

  Owing to their size, the football players stood out, clumps of trees in a swamp of people. I could picture Ralph as one of them. Same size, same fearlessness.

  I nudged him with my shoulder. “Who’s the class out there?”

  He took a moment—perhaps to walk down memory lane. “I’m an old guy, so I know them best. But I’d say no one out there is classier than Marion Whiteside. He was the meanest, toughest middle linebacker on the field. He’d just as soon put you in the hospital as anything. But off the field? A good man, you know? Lost his wife last year to breast cancer. Not really back with us yet, if you get that.”

  I so got that. “Which one is he?”

  He lifted his chin toward a man who looked like he was having words with another man half his age and half again his size.

  Funny how loss could shrink a person.

  Black on white. The thought surprised me. I’d never differentiated people by race or creed. By gender, for sure. The men had the upper hand in that game, so I leveled the playing field when I could. Every now and again, I used to wonder what it would be like to be a man in a world built for men—not that I’d ever have that chance, but it was fun to dream.

  But the current PC dictate of being über aware of race had filtered through my consciousness, and it pissed me off. The fact that we had to be aware because of racists and bigots and horrible things appalled me.

  To me, people were people—good, bad, or indifferent. Race had nothing to do with where you fell on that spectrum.

  When the younger guy turned, the light caught his face. “Beau Boudreaux. Once an asshole, always an asshole.” Even though I couldn’t hear them, it was easy to tell who was messing with whom. The asshole wore his dirty blond hair long and his anger raw. His eyes, set too close together above wide high cheekbones, closed to slits. The bruise I’d seen before was already darkening to purple from fresh red.

  “Boudreaux. Yeah, he thinks he’s all that. My man Marion has been all that and ended up being so much more.”

  Boudreaux. Out in the open causing a ruckus. Why hadn’t Fox been able to find him? Or Sergio for that matter. But players became unrecognizable once they no longer had a number on their backs.

  Hiding in plain sight. Interesting that was the thought that tugged for attention.

  “Your man’s name is Marion?” A Boy-Named-Sue kind of indignity. “Tough gig.” I vaguely remembered stories from his playing days, but he was before my time.

  Ralph gave me the side-eye. “That was the Duke’s given name.”

  “Yeah, I know. And they changed it to John Wayne.”

  “Well, in Marion Whiteside’s case, he didn’t need to hide behind a pansy-ass Hollywood name.” Ralph’s grin ran headlong into my scowl.

  This whole night had me itching for a nose to break—not a good thing for someone who was paid to de-escalate. I so needed to get over what was really bothering me, if I could only put a finger on what it really was.

  I needed to grow up. Well, maybe not grow up—that wasn’t hard; it was inevitable. But identifying as a grown-up—now that was the kicker. I was a walking, talking prolonged adolescent, or at least I was acting like one. But identifying the problem didn’t mean I knew how to fix it.

  With both hands, Boudreaux shoved Whiteside in the chest, rocking him only slightly, but not moving him off the bit of real estate he’d claimed. Whiteside raised his hands but didn’t give ground. I couldn’t hear what he said, but Boud
reaux flushed scarlet.

  That’s all I needed. Ralph was one step behind me when I pushed myself in between the two men.

  “You’ve got my stuff,” Marion growled.

  “CTE got you, old man?”

  Marion reached across me, and I knocked his arm to the side. “Enough.”

  Being the gentleman I was counting on, Marion Whiteside pulled his punch. Beaux Boudreaux wasn’t cast in the same mold.

  His punch glanced off my jaw.

  Without thinking, I cocked my elbow, aimed for his nose, then threw my bulk behind it.

  I caught him expecting me to cower at his manliness.

  His nose exploded in a mist of blood.

  Shoulders hunched, he cupped his nose in both hands. Blood oozed through, small drips dotting his white shirt. His eyes slits, he glared at me. “You hit me.”

  “Restating the obvious. Not the brightest bulb, are you? What, a forty-five watt?” Marion stepped in on one side, Ralph on the other. “I’m coming for you, asshole.”

  “One against three,” Boudreaux muttered, his words muffled by his hands and his failing courage.

  “Two old guys and a woman.” I tossed that threat into the three feet separating us. Stupid, I know. “You ought to be able to take us.” Somewhere in the dark recesses of my empty skull, a bell of warning sounded: humiliate a bully and they’ll come for you when the odds are more in their favor.

  His hands raised, Marion stepped forward.

  Boudreaux stepped back.

  I hid my smile as he teetered on the edge of the pool. Some of the crowd around us realized what was going on and had stepped back, out of the way, to watch. The music pounded. The dancers danced. Boudreaux took another step, his heel finding air. He flailed his arms, fighting for balance. Blood from his nose ran down his face.

  Marion leaned forward, giving him a push with his index finger.

  As large as he was, Beaux Boudreaux made a huge splash.

  Not the kind he wanted, I felt sure, but the one he deserved. His Brioni tux would never be the same, but several-thousand-dollar bespoke tuxes were consumables for these guys. Hell, since it was part of the NFL required uniform, the League probably paid for them.

  Boudreaux popped to the surface, gulping air. He flapped his arms like a wounded bird, beating the water into submission. “I can’t swim.” He disappeared under the surface. The pool was just deep enough he couldn’t stand and breathe at the same time. But he could bob up and down like an apple at Halloween.

  The crowd laughed as they recorded his humiliation. Life had been a lot more fair before iPhones and their megapixel cameras. In my day, we could suffer humiliation but not have to have it shared with the world.

  My glee over teaching him a lesson evaporated—this had crossed the line.

  The player popped back to the surface. “Help me!” His voice held the high-pitched whine of true fear.

  Ralph reached in and grabbed the player. Fisting one hand in the front of his shirt, he pulled him out of the pool.

  “Impressive,” I stepped in next to him to make sure the kid wasn’t going to die of apoplexy in his embarrassment or something and to keep Marion from coming for him right now on my turf.

  “I keep in playing shape,” Ralph explained. “Not that I want to play again, you understand. I like my job. Just habit. Part of who I always was.”

  No matter how much we want to change, we are always who we were.

  Marion Whiteside gave me the once-over—not in an ugly, aggressive way, but in a more you-just-broke-his-nose kind of way.

  A curiosity I was used to.

  Teddie used to tell me it was my way of keeping the world at arm’s length.

  Teddie. He so got me. Then he left.

  Maybe he did me a favor—he knew me better than I did. His absence gave me time to catch up and maybe glue the broken bits of me back together. But that didn’t change the fact that my heart still hurt. Over time, not nearly as much, but still…

  “Ms. O’Toole, we’ve got the elevator,” Temperance’s voice echoed in my ear, saving me from a brutal turn through the past. When I grew up, I’d been expecting to leave self-doubt in the rearview. But little about being an adult was as I expected. “Everything is in place. They’re on their way up.”

  With one finger, I pressed the bud in tighter to my ear and held the little mic in the wire up to my lips, cupping it in my hand. “All as I asked?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Roger. I’ll take it from here, but make sure your friends in Security keep the video and audio rolling.” Ralph didn’t ask any questions when I turned and left him to handle the fallout between the ghosts of football past and football present.

  That’s my life, nothing but a voyeur in a Dickens novel with a modern twist.

  Yeah, pun intended. I was on a roll—not a very good one, but at least I had a bit of me back.

  I cleared a semi-circle around elevator eleven, diverting a few folks to the other exits—not that there were that many takers this early in the evening. Mostly folks hovered around the elevators as a way to carve out a bit of breathing room while strategizing their dive into the melee. Those, I encouraged toward the bar. In an effort not to be looming when the doors opened, I decided to hold up the wall next to the elevator opening.

  Even though I’d done this sort of thing a million times, my heart beat a bit faster than normal. Was it the upcoming confrontation or simply being hardwired to the pissed-off position?

  Would be good to know, but I didn’t have a clue.

  An eternity passed before the doors slid open and I pounced. Feet wide, I blocked the doorway.

  Chase Metcalf, clutching a gossamer thread of a black and white G-string, gave me a shit-eating grin. “Always wondered what doing this sort of thing would be like. I’ve been married since like forever.” The way he said it left no doubt as to his supreme joy in that fact.

  “Thanks.”

  He handed me the G-string. “Wouldn’t want to explain that to the Missus. She has a jealous streak.” With a wink, he slipped past me, staying within earshot.

  The girls moved to join the party.

  I cut off their exit. “Not so fast.” I joined them in the elevator. I held up the bits of lace that passed for underwear these days. “Fancy.”

  The girls had the same look: impeccably groomed, sheathed in designer from boobs to butt, with stilettos that had me drooling. They were beyond beautiful—the stuff of male fantasies world-wide. But high-end hookers usually didn’t troll in elevators. Their hourly rate alone was sufficient to rule out all riffraff except the high-roller riff-raff. High rollers were usually high profile. They didn’t troll for fun in elevators either.

  Big eyes gazed at me, widened in pure innocence. Well, maybe not pure—their skirts barely peeked out from under the hem of their jackets. With no shirts, their lovely light pink lace bras were on full display along with the assets they held, ripe and presumably appealing. This season’s Valentinos with silver spikes and five-inch heels added a bit of class.

  The taller one, a world-weary brunette with duckbill lips and a wind-tunnel face, sized up the situation quickly. “You mean this was a setup?” She gave Chase a look that would turn most men to stone, and not in a good way. “Honey, you don’t know what you’re missing.” The words held attitude, but her eyes held anger and a hint of fear.

  “No offense intended, ma’am, but why would I want hamburger when I have steak at home?”

  An impressive use of the derogatory inflection of ma’am.

  “I think he just insulted us,” the taller one who’d been doing the talking said to her partner in crime. The blonde hadn’t said a word—she looked like she knew the score.

  “You think?” I hid my laughter, which wasn’t hard as pissed-off took over. With everything else on my plate tonight, I didn’t need two hookers challenging my word and testing my resolve. “Ladies, let me escort you to your appointment with Metro while Mr. Metcalf avails himself of t
he festivities.”

  “Oh, man, Ms. O’Toole, you’re not going to turn us over to Vice are you?” The blonde finally found her voice. She even worked in a whine—a whine I remembered.

  What was her name? We’d met before, here in the hotel. Stella! Of course. She’d upped her game and her attire. While unfortunately still in the business, at least she’d moved up the food chain from giving blowjobs in the men’s room.

  “You know the rules, Stella. I told you before I didn’t want to see you back plying your trade in my hotel. This isn’t baseball. Two strikes and you’re gone.”

  The brunette whirled on her partner. “You were caught here before?”

  “Nice try.” I gave her points for trying. “Don’t be so hard on her. I’ve seen you as well—threw you out for tag-teaming in the casino. What’s your name?” She clammed up as I snapped my fingers while I searched the dark recesses. “Olivia!” She didn’t confirm or deny, but she did flinch. I’d hit the target. “Both of you, you need to come with me.”

  Chase had joined the party in Babel, and I was alone on the descent with the two ladies. I fought with an idea for a few floors, then dove in. “You two want to make a deal?”

  A glance passed between them. “We’re open,” Olivia said. “If you take us out of the action tonight, we lose a month’s worth of income. We both teach school in Iowa. We come in for the big weekends. Our take this weekend could make our year.”

  A sob story that fell on deaf ears…sorta. As a champion for the underdogs, I loved a good sob story.

  The blonde put a hand on her friend’s arm. “But we weren’t—”

  A lasered look from the brunette shut her down.

  “You weren’t what?” Two Iowa schoolteachers. I couldn’t quite get that to fit comfortably in my pea brain. I’d been around long enough to know their second job wasn’t unusual, but I still felt a bit conflicted. Most would be shocked to know how many women traveled to Vegas to engage in our oldest profession for a big weekend—fight weekends were the best. Then they would go back to normal lives, their friends and co-workers none the wiser.