My shortcomings were stacking up like floodwaters behind a dam.
At some point, physics would exert her power.
I handed the kid a twenty and was rewarded with a smile.
The traffic on the Strip moved at slightly more than its normal glacial pace—midafternoon was the best time to cruise. Not in the mood, I wove in and out of the gawkers, the hopefuls, and the lost.
The neon faded under the assault of the afternoon sun. The city always seemed muted to me during the day, missing its magic. Not my favorite time. Yet I felt the anticipation building.
A true Vegas rat, I loved the magic of the night.
Expecting to run the gauntlet of protesters, I was amazed to find them but a bad memory. But that was the way with protestors—all fire and brimstone that quickly burned itself out. Tooling up the curved drive of the Babylon, I entered a different world where energy only slightly ebbed, gathering strength as day eased toward dusk. A steady stream of cars kept the valets running. I tossed my keys to one who darted in my direction, then strode through the entrance.
Today I barely noticed the Chihuly overhead or the indoor ski slope behind a wall of Lucite to my right. To my left, Reception was busy but not overwhelmed, and a nice crowd moved toward the entrance to the Bazaar, where everything from a frozen daiquiri to a high-end wedding was available for a king’s ransom.
I followed the bright tile mosaics in the white marble floor, which formed a subtle yellow-brick road leading all to Emerald City, the casino. Crossing a bridge over the waterway that wound its way through the lobby, our version of the Euphrates, replete with reeds and grasses, waterfowl, and glimmering golden fish, I had to dodge a couple taking wedding photos. At least that’s what I thought they were doing. The biker attire complete with leather bustier, chaps, no pants underneath, and lace-up boots made me doubt my guess until I spied the tiara with a mini veil. The guy wore leather pants, a vest, and so many tattoos they sorta ran together in a Where’s Waldo bit of mashup craziness. They had matching tattoos on their necks—something about bikers and bitches. To each his own, I guessed, but I didn’t like it. Although it wasn’t hard to figure which common interest brought them together.
What commonality did Jean-Charles and I have?
That thought lasered me out of left field. Since no answer sprang readily to mind, I parked the question for another day.
Water behind the dam.
Right now, I needed to know if our thief was back.
And, if so, the odds of me not becoming a guest of the state at some maximum-security facility were dwindling by the second. He’d out-clevered me once. I’d choke the life out of him before he did it again.
The shouts of joy, the energy of the crowds ringing the tables, the smell of money did little to lighten my mood as I strode through the casino, although I did notice a stain on the mosaicked carpet and one of the wall sconces was sputtering. Barely slowing, I bent and retrieved two empty longnecks from a potted plant, then tossed them in the bin and kept going.
Down a long, almost hidden hall, a nod to the security guard who wisely recognized me, I burst into an immense glass-domed atrium. Tall plants climbed toward the soaring ceiling. Trailing tendrils of flowering plants hung from the metal latticework supporting the glass high above. Bungalows nested together, a babbling stream slipping between them. Most of the bungalows had several bedrooms and a great room—a private oasis, some with a tiny dipping pool in back, others without.
Bungalow 7 was by far our largest with five bedrooms and a private pool large enough for a bit more than dipping. Miss P waited by the door. She didn’t look happy. Guess it was contagious.
Kneeling beside her, one of the CSIs from the Coroner’s Office dusted the door lock. Vivienne stood to one side looking nervous but calm. If I could get a cup of whatever Kool-Aid she was drinking, I’d slurp it down by the bucket. Short with skin the color of a very dark tan and the jet-black hair and high cheekbones that telegraphed her heritage, Vivienne looked like she’d stepped out of a sepia-toned photo from the past. Regal, that’s what she conveyed, and I both liked it and envied it. Smart and unflappable, she was essentially Jerry’s right-hand man. Whether he considered her that or not, he should.
I deviated for a quick tête-à-tête with her. “Have you had a chance to review the tapes of Mr. Ponder’s Knife Show?”
A wisp of a smile. “He just showed up. Appeared in a crowd of people that quickly dispersed when they noticed him.”
“I bet. I’m surprised someone didn’t get trampled to death. Was he on any of the feeds from outside?”
“No. It was dark and one camera coming up the driveway was inoperative. We had a guy working on it, but it was down when Mr. Ponder would’ve walked by, assuming he walked.”
“Given his state, he couldn’t have walked far. And Fox? Is he on duty today?”
“His shift starts at five.”
“When he shows up, let me know. Thank you.”
I moved to loom over the CSI as he worked. “Anything?” I asked.
“Wiped clean.” The youngster didn’t even glance up at me.
Of course, it was.
“He’s back,” Miss P whispered.
Our thief had cut a wide swath across the West disappearing into Canada. As far as I knew, he’d never been caught. “How could he get past the lock? The electronic board has been replaced, the vulnerability fixed.”
“Got any other explanations?”
“Of course, I do. The guests handed out keys or didn't keep care of them. Somebody could’ve let the thief in. They could’ve left a window open and temptation in the open.”
“They were at the party at Babel.”
“So they say. You lose millions of dollars’ worth of stuff, you’re going to lie about it. Have you pulled the tapes?” It was one thing to lie, another altogether to fool the omnipresent cameras, not that it couldn’t be done. But to do it, one generally needed help. I tapped the CSI on the shoulder. He rose from his crouched position to tower over me. “Can you pull the lock? I’d love to know how somebody waltzed in here and stole some serious swag.”
“Sure. I’ll give it a shot. Between you and me, I’ve seen a lot of these locks. The manufacturer got complacent, making the hackers unusually arrogant and sloppy. Fifty bucks and they could piece a device together to open these things that would fit in a lipstick tube.”
“You’re not making me feel better.”
A smile lifted one corner of his mouth—so quick if I hadn’t been looking for it, I would’ve missed it.
“Only thing you can do is change out the electronics inside.”
“We’ve done that.”
“Then I don’t know.” He set to work taking off the lock. Set into the door, the lock and its removal took lots of dismantling and more than a tolerable level of noise.
“Can you open it up and tell me what you find?”
“I’ll have to put it through some tests back at the lab. Things that look right might not be right.”
“Boy, I’m living proof.” Everybody gave me the wide-eye. “Didn’t mean like that. My experience has proven his point; that’s what I meant.”
“Nice recovery,” Miss P said. “Maybe you really are you even if you haven’t been acting like it.”
My eyes grew slitty, but that was the best I could do. She’d seen enough of my act, so I didn’t scare Miss P anymore, not that that put me off trying.
The whole criminal enterprise was growing in front of my eyes like a super-virus or something. And, like antibiotics, my superpowers no longer worked.
Was Jean-Charles my kryptonite?
Focus, Lucky, focus.
Wild Turkey 101 was a more likely culprit. Anything to excess exacted a price.
My head throbbed. The spindle of my life was spinning out of control, wobbling and on the verge of toppling. Problems I’d solved were coming back to haunt me.
I’d never felt more lost.
“Okay, let me know what you
find about the lock,” I said to the CSI, then I grabbed Miss P by the elbow and moved her away from the noise. “Who was the big loser last night?”
She swallowed hard. “Stanley Lipschitz.”
“Great, a sleazy pawnbroker.” If today could get any worse…
“I heard that.” The voice came from the bowels of Bungalow 7—a pouty, medium-high whine. “You’re into me big time, Miss Big Shot.”
The Stanley Lipschitzes of the world made all the rest of us look like shining examples of pure virtue. We’d had a few run-ins through the years, especially when I worked at the Big Boss’s properties downtown closer to Stanley’s shop…it had been his father’s then. Stanley, Senior, they’d called him Big Mo—don’t ask me why—and he had been a shrewd businessman. He’d been gunned down in the parking lot of the Desert Dunes before they imploded it, so maybe he wasn’t as shrewd as I remembered. Anyway, Stanley had inherited his mother’s Cadillac and his father’s twitchy trigger finger. If he had any other assets, personal or otherwise, they remained hidden. Big Mo left his shop to his brother Sonny with the proviso that Stanley be paid a salary for the rest of his life. He could be paid to work or to stay away; I hadn’t a clue. But, if I were his uncle, I know which I’d choose.
The grapevine had been buzzing a few months ago about Sonny passing on. Something about his death being suspicious. Guys like Sonny, with his old Vegas cachet invited that kind of water-cooler talk. I hadn’t heard anything further, so I figured it was one of those rumors that would be buried with the body. Nobody said who’d gotten the shop, or I hadn’t heard, not that I cared…until now.
“It gets worse,” Miss P said, her voice the harbinger of Worst Fears Realized.
“Let me guess. Okay, we have a pawnbroker, so there must be a fence. Am I getting warm?”
Miss P gave me a withering look that did not have the desired effect.
“Okay,” I tapped my chin with my forefinger and stared up at the glass dome above me as if thinking. In truth, I didn’t need to think. Bad seeds like bad apples tended to find their way into the same basket. “Murray Godwin.”
Miss P deflated. “How’d you know?”
“This kind of gambit has his stink all over it. I swear deceit is built into his DNA. The NFL, money, players paid to test their strength rather than the limits of human intelligence, is fertile ground for the shysters of the world. Murray Godwin is the pretender to the throne. I’d be shocked if Murray wasn’t in this right up to his gold chains, open-necked polyester shirt, cheap suits, and MJs older than the kids shooting each other for them. In fact, if he wasn’t, I’d be sort of disappointed.”
“You’d be the only one.”
I’d been itching for a fight. Looked like I’d found one.
“Be careful. Jumping to conclusions can be lethal.”
“Warning duly noted.” I softened my tone. “Thanks.” I appreciated her concern and cherished her friendship. The older I got, the more I realized how truly valuable friends who hung around in spite of me were.
And Murray Godwin was the enemy who wouldn’t go away, proving my theory of yin and yang, balance to the Universe. Frankly, I could handle a little wobble to the world spinning on its axis if he’d just disappear.
Murray would not go quietly into the night. Admittedly, he wasn’t exactly the battle I was looking for, but he’d do.
“Who’s inside?” I motioned toward the dark maw of the doorway to Bungalow 7.
“Stanley, Murray,” she paused, taking a deep breath, “and their lawyer.”
Three against one, pretty even odds, if I did say so myself.
I dove through the doorway, then paused to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. “Lucky O’Toole here, Stanley. May I come in?”
“In the great room,” Murray answered.
“Why don’t you turn on some lights?” I asked as I felt my way down the hall and around the corner, the world slowly coming into view.
Two men sat in opposing chairs, their feet on the vintage Danish midcentury coffee table, in knotty chestnut, long extinct. They leaned back, balancing on the spindly legs of the Neils Moller side chairs. A third man, presumably the attorney, stood silhouetted in front of the plate glass window. The water in the swimming pool fractured the light into thousands of dancing diamonds, mottling the walls, the furniture, and the man in front of the window. His back to me, he painted a familiar outline.
When he turned, I masked a gasp of recognition.
Squash Trenton stared at me, his mouth set in a hard line, his eyes cold.
Wavy brown hair, stocky but solid build—I’d seen him in skivvies and a Superman apron when we’d traded repartee in his kitchen—he was the personification of pugnacious. We’d connected with an easy banter, a friendship beyond the lawyer-client relationship, or so I’d thought.
Apparently, I was wrong.
He fired the opening salvo. “It’s just business. Don’t take it personal.”
“Business is always personal,” I said, a bit confused by his presence. He’d been on my payroll as recently as a few weeks ago. I didn’t know our current status but finding him on the opposite side of the fence reeked of an ethics violation at the very least. “What are you doing here?” I asked the obvious because I needed to hear him say it.
“What I always do, representing my clients.”
Murray and Stanley gave me shit-eating grins.
I wanted to tell them they hadn’t out-maneuvered me as I didn’t know I was in the game, but I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they’d shifted my world slightly.
“Nothing but a hired gun, is that it? So the whole lecture you gave me about being at a point where you could pick and choose?”
He squirmed, which gave me a moment of satisfaction—not much, considering evisceration was the lightest sentence I’d consider appropriate, but it was something in a miserable day of nothing.
“But seriously?” I made a sweeping gesture with my arm to include the two no-loads threatening to break my chairs, damage my furniture, and push me over the edge toward homicide.
“Their money is as good as yours.” He stepped toward me as he pulled a paper from his pocket.
“Aren’t you still working for my family?”
“Here’s your final bill.”
When I didn’t take it, he laid it on the coffee table.
“You’re not still tying up loose ends for the Big Boss and Mona?” Seventeen years of care and feeding on both sides. Didn’t that count for anything? In my book, for sure, but I wouldn’t grovel, especially in front of the low-rent peanut gallery watching each verbal thrust and parry with ill-concealed glee.
“All done. Your parents have released me from their indenture.”
Subtext there, for sure, but I had no idea what it meant. “From lofty heights to bottom-feeding, how the mighty have fallen.” My emotional footing was sinking in the quicksand of disbelief and, to be honest, a feeling of betrayal.
Lawyers, a bad reputation well earned.
I’d thought Squash Trenton was different, given family history and all. My mistake.
“Innocent until proven guilty.”
“Oh, those two are guilty. Long track record to prove it.”
Lipschitz grinned as he hefted his glass, an exquisite cut-crystal Steuben tumbler in a classic style no longer made—easily seven hundred for two. He held the glass between his thumb and forefinger with an irreverence appropriate for a two-dollar purchase from Crate and Barrel. “This little lover’s spat is so much fun. I wonder who jilted who?”
“Whom.” I snapped off the syllable like a knife-thrower releasing his blade.
“Ah, must be the missy who’s getting the boot.”
I could do without the commentary, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a forceful “shut up.”
“I don’t know.” Murray Godwin eyed me through his round-rims, looking like a human owl, blinking against the light. The only hair on his head were tufts growing from each e
ar. His Coke-bottle lenses magnified his eyes to cartoonish size.
“The lawyer is licking a wound, seems like.”
That brought me up short. Was this payback for a personal rebuff? Men could be stupid—I was engaged for Chrissake! Could Squash’s manly sensibilities, to the extent that isn’t an oxymoron, be so delicate? So…misguided? Did he really want to poach from someone else’s herd? So not cool.
Men could be so disappointing.
But they didn’t have a lock on it. I’d been a huge disappointment to myself lately, so who was I to cast the first stone?
Squash darted a look at Murray.
“Seriously, Trenton? This is personal?” I asked.
“Nothing like a lover scorned,” Lipschitz said with a knowing nod.
“Woman,” I barked.
“What?”
“Woman scorned.”
“So it was you who got squashed?” Murray chuckled at his own cleverness.
Note to self: give up puns this instant; they are demeaning.
“No.” Icicles hung from the word. “The quote. You got it wrong.”
Lipschitz shrugged as his feet hit the floor and he reached for the bottle of Wild Turkey hiding behind the flower arrangement in the middle of the coffee table. “Seems right to me,” he said as he filled his glass.
My stomach roiled as the bourbon smell hit me. The stab of pain behind my left eye pulsed. My mouth held not one hint of moisture. “Water.”
Nobody moved, so I helped myself at the bar, plucking ice from the sterling silver bucket, and then drinking with the relish of a lost man stumbling onto an oasis.
“My clients have suffered an incredible loss at your hands,” Squash intoned as if pleading to the jury.
Lucky Score Page 14
