Lucky Score

by Deborah Coonts

  Without Jerry, I didn’t have a go-to guy in Security. No, I had a kid with an overblown ego reveling in an Alexander Haig moment.

  “I’ll fly solo on this one, Fox. You are out of the loop.” I disconnected before I heard him not call me ma’am one more time. I guess I’d reached that limit, too. The thought that I’d cut off my nose and all of that raced through the tiny bit of functioning gray matter I had left. Tonight, more than most, I needed Security. No, I needed Jerry; but, absent a miracle, I’d have to settle for an ally.

  I keyed Miss P. “Get me somebody in Security on the Q-T who I can trust.”

  She didn’t even hitch. Barely a pause. “How about Vivienne?”

  “Rainwater? Perfect. We’ll need a secure channel.”

  “Of course. Wait a moment.” I could hear her talking in the background, and then she came back. “Channel 77.”

  “Double sevens, I like it. Remind me to give you a raise.”

  “The ink hasn’t dried on the last one. But, when you’re feeling magnanimous, I could use some time off.”

  “Had you asked for a Ferrari, your odds would’ve been way better.”

  “If you don’t ask…”

  “I believe the more accurate line would be, if you don’t dream…”

  Her laugh as I disconnected reconnected me to my normal, and this was it.

  Ralph held open the elevator doors and peered in. “You coming out or just riding up and down for fun?”

  “Wasn’t there a kid’s story where a boy would get into an elevator and it would transport him to a different world?”

  “I believe it was a tollbooth.” Ralph gave me a sympathetic look, or maybe it was gas, I didn’t know.

  Key in hand, I stepped out of the elevator. “Tollbooth? Where the hell does anyone find a tollbooth these days?”

  “Most of them are gone, so, I’m afraid you’re screwed. You need a new fantasy.”

  “You have no idea how right you are.” I punched him in the arm because I needed to punch something and I couldn’t hurt him if I wanted to, which I didn’t. “You got a bead on one Billy the Boilermaker?”

  “Have you come back to knock some sense into more players? What you want with the kid?”

  “The kid?” I gave Ralph a slitty-eye. “Why? Does he need some sense knocked into him?”

  “I got a soft spot for the rookies. Him in particular. But he’s been sliding around with Boudreaux, not exactly a stellar influence in my book.”

  “Understandable. Tell me about Billy.”

  “Runt of the litter. Got the talent. A bit weak on the physical presence if you know what I mean, but the heart’s what’s got him here.”

  If Ralph wanted to worm anyone under my skin, that was the exact way to do it. The runt with a big heart, against all odds, and all those clichés. I tried to resist. “The kid has some information I could use.”

  Ralph had been in my employ long enough to know he’d put a toe over the line by asking, and he didn’t step any further. Instead, he motioned for me to follow him into the party. A human speedboat, he cleaved through the sea of people. Thankful to follow, I rode his wake. Normally happiest as the lead dog, I pondered the lot of the follower staring at the butt of the ones in front. That was a bit of change I’d never accept.

  Lead or die fighting my way to the front—a motto I should have tattooed on some visible body part, but I refused to do a Mike Tyson.

  As I launched once again into the fray, the music wasn’t quite at the level that would turn my brain to Jell-O and dribble it out through my ears, but close. Or maybe it was at that level but I didn’t have a brain left—a more probable theory. The bass thumped through my chest until I couldn’t breathe.

  Billy the Boilermaker wasn’t what I was expecting. He was a skinny white kid with acne scars, all legs and arms with hands that belonged on someone twice his size.

  “Let me guess, wide receiver?” I had to lean into Ralph to be heard.

  “No points for that guess.” He clasped the kid on the shoulder, making him jump—he hadn’t seen us coming. “Best prospect at that position in a decade.” Ralph leaned into Billy.

  I couldn’t hear what they said, but Billy turned to me with a tentative smile. He moved closer. “How can I help, Ms. O’Toole?”

  I held up a finger. “Ralph, I’ve got something I need you to do,” I shouted into his ear, then watched him weave his way back toward the bar. Then I turned my focus to the young man in front of me. “I’m here to make sure you have the key.” A shot in the dark, but I needed to prove my theory without showing my cards.

  He pulled one to match the one I had out of his pocket.

  Bingo—a rare win tonight for which I was grateful.

  “So old school. And what the hell am I supposed to do with this rope thing? Jesus!”

  The kid had no appreciation for tradition. Maybe that was part of being a kid or a football player. In an effort at solidarity, I showed him mine. “If you need another.”

  “Nah, I got it covered. Boudreaux wants me to let people in at ten-thirty tomorrow night.” He eyed me in an odd way. “You’re coming to the party?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “You got an invite? Rules is rules.”

  “Is they ever.” I managed a straight face as I patted my pockets. “A bit of lace. I have it somewhere.” I shrugged as I searched, then my fingers brushed the silk I’d taken off the guy stepping from the elevator. “Here you go.” I held the delicates up for him to see.

  His surprise registered. “You being with the hotel and all, I never would’ve pegged you as the Privé type. Remember, the costume is black and white only. Masks must be worn but can come off at midnight when we lock the doors.”

  “Is that to keep everyone in or everyone out?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” Locked doors invited a challenge, but I had a key and the code, which stacked the deck in my favor.

  “We meet here, and I’ll let you in.” He glanced at his watch. “But you need a costume.” He eyed my attire—hardly lack-of-color appropriate.

  “Black and white, I know.” My brain raced as I tried to figure out where to get a black and white costume. With twenty-four hours, I felt sure I could produce the pope’s robes if that’s what the evening called for, so I wasn’t worried. “What’s Boudreaux got to do with the party? I’m new to the whole scene and not sure I understand completely.”

  “Each party, the boss chooses a celebrity to host it. Adds to the cachet, or so I’m told. It’s not my scene. I’m running interference for Beau cuz—well, you know.”

  “He has a reputation to uphold?” Breaking Boudreaux’s nose would cost me; I’d known that when I’d done it. But now I realized how much. He had info I needed, and my skill set, limited as it was, didn’t include groveling.

  The kid looked like he thought Boudreaux was as nuts as I did, but he was wise enough to realize staying on Boudreaux’s good side enhanced his longevity.

  I wasn’t that smart—not that that was an alert-the-media tidbit or anything.

  This time, when I turned to follow Ralph, he was long gone and I had to fight my own way through the bump and grind crowd. I didn’t have far to go, but it took me a bit longer than anticipated.

  Through a doorway hidden behind a row of thick bamboo on the far side of the bar and down a longish hall, I let my eyes adjust to the relative darkness—I guessed the cave thing was meant to enhance the whole secret thing. Personally, I thought it a bit irritating. But, not my circus, not my flying monkeys. The Secret Suite was the product of our Operations brain trust. I couldn’t take the blame—I’d thought it a bad idea from the get-go. When our Operations Head told me we needed the suite to keep up with competition…well, it hadn’t been my best moment. I remember saying something about the Babylon never “kept up” but rather set the standard.

  Awkward, but true.

  You’d think it’d be hard for me to talk with my foot in my mouth, but not
so.

  Up ahead, at the end of the hall, I could see Ralph scuffling with someone. “Ralph. What are you doing?” I narrowed my eyes as if that would help me see in the darkness.

  “Ms. O’Toole! Ms. O’Toole. Get him off. He will kill me.”

  He’d found Sergio Fabiano, as I’d hoped and feared—I’m not good with disappointment.

  “Kill you? No. But make you suffer? Now, there’s an appealing idea,” I said, trying to feel it.

  Ralph lifted Sergio up and set him on his feet. He looked at me with big eyes as he shot his cuffs and marshaled his dignity. I waited for it. I didn’t have to wait long. He flipped his dark hair out of his eyes then gave me his patented pout.

  My eyes rolled so far back I could see my brain, or the empty space it had occupied. Games. I hate games. “Hold him. Do not let him go or talk with anybody,” I ordered Ralph, who accepted with a nod as he pulled Sergio away from the door.

  For some reason, the word “Private,” stenciled in red letters, held an ominous warning. I was just looking for a party, so I wasn’t sure why I was so jumpy.

  Of course, the perforated body of Senator Lake had tilted my universe.

  Using a knuckle, I keyed in the new code I’d put in place. I’d been careful not to include any common number with the previous code, the one anyone accessing the suite in the past twenty-four hours would have used. That way, I felt sure I wasn’t obscuring any useful fingerprints.

  The music thumped, or was that my heart?

  I tested the door. Still locked. Inserting the key in the lock, I turned it to the left until I heard a click—a double validation lock that enhanced the whole privacy thing.

  A light push and the door moved inward with a whoosh worthy of the stone guarding the entrance to King Tut’s treasures. That was by design—an effort to conjure Babylonian riches hidden beyond. And it wasn’t too far from the truth. Several million dollars had gone into the finish-out of the suite. Crammed full of high-end electronics—so many that the equipment to run them needed a climate-controlled closet—the suite even had a Japanese toilet that came with a clicker. Depending on the setting, the toilet would invade your privates in more ways than you could imagine, cleaning every crevice. The only thing it wouldn’t do is hand you a hundred when it was finished and ask if it could see you again sometime. Personally, I thought that was a huge missed opportunity.

  Inapposite of the rest of the hotel, the Secret Suite was a contemporary oasis. While my father preferred the panache of calling the twenty-five-hundred square feet of sunken couches, Italian marble, and big-screen TVs, the Secret Suite, I, in my call-a spade-a-spade style simply thought of it as the playroom where wine could be spilled and no one would cry over a hand-knotted silk Persian carpet…or be billed for it. The noise-dampening construction was also a selling point—when the privileged set partied, things could get out of control and often did. The key was making sure the rest of our guests slumbered peacefully or partied on without alerting the media.

  The foyer was dark, illuminated only by the light filtering in with us, which was minimal—just enough to light overactive imaginations but little else.

  “Lights. Dim,” I said with an authoritative tone—maybe I couldn’t order around the people in my life, but I’d be goddamned if I couldn’t command a bunch of electronics. The lights responded, easing in the brightness. I had a reason not to brighten them further—a wall of glass separated the Secret Suite from the swimming pool in Babel. And it was dark tonight. Bright lights inside would not only attract attention from the partygoers above but also would allow them to see inside.

  An undulating green light, ghostly and iridescent, waved along the walls. Two-way mirrored glass formed one entire wall of the great room, providing a view into the crystalline waters of the Babel pool. Voyeurism at any other pool, but at Babel few took a dip, not willingly anyway. I rounded the corner into the great room, leaving the lights off. The weird light through the pool was enough…more than enough.

  As the lights eased on with the subtlety of the rising sun, I crept down the hall.

  A hand clapped over my mouth.

  “Coming to spy, are you?” A low, gravelly, angry voice growled in my ear.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SENSING THE power of the presence behind me, I stifled the urge to fight.

  “Are you going to scream?” he asked, a hint of expectation in his voice.

  Boudreaux. Great, a guy who got his rocks off hurting women. And I’d find out just how long he held a grudge.

  I wanted to tell him screaming would be ineffective, but as my mouth was covered and sharing that bit of info would not be in my best interest, I decided to bite him instead.

  “Ow!!” He let go.

  I whirled on him. “Shit, Boudreaux! You knew it was me.”

  He took two steps back until out of elbow range. “Self-preservation. Last time you got this close, you broke my nose.”

  For a tiny pinpoint of time, I thought about apologizing but didn’t think I could overcome my insincerity. And, quite frankly, pretending I had hat in hand, my groveling would have a hollow ring that even Boudreaux would recognize. “You deserved it.”

  He gave a little laugh…a very little laugh. “Not gonna argue. Just didn’t expect some girl to deliver it.” He took a step back, shielding his nose, which had a twist of tissue extending from one nostril. Blood still crusted around the other nostril and the whole proboscis angled off-center. “Are you still looking for a fight?” With that tissue and probably blood and swelling, his voice sounded all nasally.

  He struck me as the kind of guy who would say that with a leer, but he didn’t. “Yeah, but rebreaking your nose would be redundant.”

  “Good to know.” He let his hands drop, but remained wary.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” I almost smiled at the absurdity—me against a pro football badass. As long as I remained wary and saw it coming, I felt sure I could hold my own, or at least run fast enough to stay ahead until I could call for help.

  “Don’t lie.” He motioned toward one of the couches. “Take a load off. I assume you’re here for a reason. You found me. Let’s compare notes. Can I pour you a beverage? I hear this place comes fully loaded.”

  No way was I going to show him mine, but I could play along. “Primo juice, epic bubbles, and top-drawer distilled spirits. Only the best.” I settled on the couch, then leaned back and watched the lights dance, and marveled at the odd figures silhouetted through the pool water—like tripping but with no psychedelics involved.

  “Pick your poison.”

  “Champagne.” I justified my choice to myself—lower alcohol content, not as large a sin. The double-edged sword of self-delusion.

  Boudreaux returned with a glass, then took a position by the window. “Don’t worry about the nose. It gets broken twice a season at least. You were right; I deserved it. Life’s a little out of control.”

  “I can identify.” Bonding with a rebel footballer—I wasn’t sure how to process that. “Being put on the chopping block couldn’t be good for your career.”

  He lasered me with a sharp look, then turned back to the window. “Where’d you come by that information?” He dropped the play at being collegial.

  A sore spot…and maybe not common knowledge—if I read the subtext right. I blew at a lock of my hair that tickled my eyes. “I have no idea. Probably just assumed given all your recent trouble, the suspension, the lawsuit, all of that. You’re a big distraction for the Marauders right now.” I paused as a thought hit. “And you were the kind of bad the team didn’t need when trying to present its good face to the citizens of Nevada.”

  His shoulders hunched up around his ears.

  The sucker-punch of truth.

  “Ponder wanted me out.” Boudreaux’s voice vibrated at the lower register of hate. “He didn’t care about my value to the team. Told me he had it on good authority that I had more than a drinking problem, which I don’t. I’ve been trying to figur
e out whether he was making it up or somebody was out to get me.”

  I didn’t point out that he’d played into their hands beautifully. “And?”

  “I don’t know. I got a lot of haters, I won’t lie.”

  “And Ponder?”

  “Like all the robber barons, the guy’s a snake. If it lined his pockets, he’d be all over it.”

  “No matter who got run over in the process?” I asked, not that Boudreaux had the inside skinny on Nolan Ponder’s ethics, but his opinion would be interesting. He certainly had a beef with his boss.

  “Collateral damage, he calls it.” He turned to face me. “Look, I could really use your help here,” he said before I could think how to play this.

  I sipped the bubbles for a moment, delighting in their tickle, then the warmth as they delivered the alcohol punch. Bottled happiness. So why wasn’t I happy?

  I needed friends and I needed answers, so I jumped into the snake pit. “Maybe we can help each other. Want to tell me about the party? How’d you get sucked into all of this? Seems you’ve got a lot to lose at this point.”

  He turned his back, preferring to stare into the shimmering pool waters and at the party above. “It’s not what you think.”

  I wanted to tell him that nothing was what I thought it should be, but that sounded overly dramatic and self-indulgent. The fact that it was true made it so much worse. “So, what is it?”

  “The NFL knows, but you can’t tell anyone.”

  “They know about a party you’re throwing in Vegas while on probation and they’re cool with it, but I can’t tell anyone?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Convenient. However, the bigger the lie, the more truth it held—one of those clichés with a kernel at the heart of it. This one had a ring to it. “Must be a big fish you’re after.”

  This time, he gave me a different kind of stare. “You didn’t get to be Vice President of this hotel group by nepotism alone.”

  It was sort of hard to look beyond the tissue hanging from his nose and see the intelligence behind it, but I knew suck-up when I heard it. “If you’re looking to sway me with undue flattery, you’ll have to do better—Vegas is the Bullshit Capital of the Universe. You wanna tell me what’s going on? I can shut down this party.” The suite had been subtly altered for a crowd—furniture moved back, an extra bar added at the far end of the room. I couldn’t see through the doorway to the bedroom, not that I would expect that would be part of the entertainment area, but this was Vegas and nothing shocked me anymore.