Lucky Bang

by Deborah Coonts

  "I saw it, but I didn't know what it was." I paused as a shiver chased down my spine. Or was it up my spine? Who knew? "Thank God I mentioned it to my mother."

  "The place was leveled, wasn't it?"

  I nodded, remembering. I was running, Mona pulling me…the explosion. "What little was left burned. The building was a total loss."

  "But nobody died."

  "No."

  "Thanks to you."

  "No, thanks to my big mouth and a boatload of guardian angels." Placing the paperweight back on the corner of my desk, I pretended to be consumed with getting it in just the right spot while I gathered myself.

  Flash didn't leave me alone with my thoughts for long. "You think the two are related?"

  "I haven't a clue, but I have a real bad feeling." I glanced at her. "The bombs were identical."

  She raised her eyebrows, then made a quick note. "Okay, so what do you want from me?"

  "Keep that bomb part on the Q.T. for now—I've got to chase a cold trail and I don't need the bright light of public scrutiny chasing my moles back underground."

  "That's all?" Flash's words dripped with sarcasm.

  "I always do right by you so quit grousing. And I want you to do what you always do: chase down witnesses and put together pieces. Give me a better picture of the whole story surrounding the original bombing."

  "You got it." She tapped her pencil on her notepad. "But I got a story to beef up and, if I'm gonna' sit on what you just told me—which, by the way, will blow the town wide open—for that, you need to give me enough to get me the friggin' Pulitzer."

  ***

  Like a racehorse at the bell, Flash charged off full of investigative zeal and I turned to meet the day. Feeling the need to make myself a little more presentable, I grabbed a new outfit from my old office closet—jeans, a sweatshirt, and Nikes. After wiping off the worst of the grime—a shower was beyond my current capabilities—I touched up my face then called it good.

  Curiously, my debriefing at the hands of the ATF had gone quickly. The questions were few, and I was able to give them only what I knew, keeping what I feared to myself. I called Romeo to give him my suppositions, though. As I knew he would be, he'd been a bit skeptical. But he assured me he'd look into it, though, from his tone, I knew he had about as many ideas as I did about where to start. Zip point doodle. The Big Boss could shed some light, but he still wasn't answering his phone. I tried to be calm—if Mona wasn't concerned, then I shouldn't be…at least that's what I kept telling myself. It didn't work. Even with the clock ticking into the third hour of a new day, I was wide awake, hyped on worry.

  Before heading off to slay dragons, I glanced in the small mirror hanging on a nail in the wall next to the door to Miss P's office. I brushed my hair even though it didn't need it, as if outer order would bring inner order. It never worked that way—I knew that—but I couldn't resist trying. Squinting, I gave my face a good going-over. High cheekbones and blue eyes were the high points. The Steri-Strips covering the sutures in my forehead and the blooming dark pool of blood collecting under my right eye were definitely the not-so-high points. Overall, 'presentable' appeared to be aiming a bit high.

  Desperate for food but feeling pretty good about myself despite my appearance, I stepped out of my office and ran headlong into Miss P, the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock, and my second assistant, Brandy, who was younger than I ever remembered being and prettier than I had ever dared hope. Actually, I ran into their asses as they huddled around the phone with Miss P holding the receiver in the center of the group so they all could hear.

  "Anything I should know about?"

  The three of them jumped as if I'd fired a gun over their heads. Miss P slammed the receiver back in its cradle. Each of them busied themselves with some feigned task. No one met my eyes. And no one answered my question. I just stood there, waiting.

  Finally, Miss P broke.

  "It's Teddie," she started but, at my glare, she clamped her mouth shut, her lips forming a thin line. Narrowing her eyes, she seemed to debate the wisdom of continuing. Apparently she spied a chink in my armor, so she bolted through. "That man has it bad…he leaves twenty or thirty messages a day for you…one of these days, you're going to have to cut him some slack and call him back," she said in a breathless run-on, as if rushing the words would lessen the blow.

  "When the fountains at the Bellagio freeze over." I enunciated each word trying to shut her down.

  "You know, ice was a real problem when they first opened. Something to do with water pressure…" Brought up short by my narrowing eyes, Miss P retrenched."But back to Teddie."

  "A very bad time for this topic—magnanimous would not be an appropriate adjective for my mood at the moment. Besides, I've moved on."

  "Perhaps, but you must deal with the past before you can embrace the future."

  I would've laughed if I thought it wouldn't hurt my bruised ribs. "You know how I feel about your platitudes—pabulum for the easy-answer crowd."

  "Grown from a kernel of wisdom." Apparently willing to risk bodily harm, she put both hands on her desk and her life on the line as she leaned closer. "I know he left. I know he hurt you. I think he finally realizes what he had."

  "And what he turned his back on." I glanced at Brandy and Jeremy, unsure whether I really wanted an audience for this conversation—when contemplating homicide, leaving witnesses is not considered wise, or so I'd been told.

  Caught in the act of paying attention, they quickly dove back into whatever task they were pretending to do. Hooding my eyes to shield my sorrow, I sunk into a chair across from Miss P's desk. My self-satisfaction dissolving in a mist of memories, I tried to bury the pain but, like a trick candle, it kept flaring.

  The truth of it was, Teddie had broken my heart. No, he'd shattered it. And, almost worse, I'd lost not only a lover but my best friend. "Someday I might find it in my heart to forgive him, but I don't know how to ever trust him again."

  "Maybe this will help." Despite Jeremy vigorously shaking his head, Miss P punched the button on the message machine. I wanted to run but, barely breathing, I couldn't move, a bystander transfixed by the carnage after a devastating wreck.

  The message beeped. I heard random musical instruments in the background, like a symphony warming up before a show, and mingled voices. Then Teddie's voice. "Lucky, this is for you. I wrote the melody a while ago. The lyrics… well, I've been doing a lot of growing up lately. Listen. I hope you'll understand. Although still pretty rough, the song has heart…my heart. I titled it Lucky for Me." The strains of a song started, then his beautiful, smooth voice cutting my heart wide open.

  "Fuck." I buried my face in my hands. Music, the language of love—Teddie could wield it like a weapon.

  "Do you want me to stop it?" Miss P asked, concern replacing her scolding tone.

  I shook my head. I'd listen. In her own way, Miss P was right—the sooner I faced him, the sooner I could put him behind me.

  Naturally, the song was brilliant. A song of regret, of longing, of being on the road and wanting to come home. Teddie could pluck my heartstrings like an angel with a golden harp.

  But where did the act end and the real guy begin?

  Happily ever after was such an illusion.

  Silence filtered in around us as Teddie's song came to a close and the machine beeped, signaling the end. No one said a word. What was there to say?

  "Wow," Miss P finally whispered as she straightened and patted her skirt down. She reached over and squeezed my hand. "Love sucks."

  "A ringing endorsement." I flashed her a tentative smile. "I don't even want to know what that implies about those of us who keep diving in, hoping the waters are deep enough that we don't break our necks." I would've jumped to my feet and started pacing, but given the current state of my body, I decided against it despite the fact that unspent nervous energy usually made me dangerous. Miss P reared back as I pushed myself to my feet. Apparently she had taken my hollow threats to heart. I li
ked it. "Time to get this day under way. What do we have?"

  Leaning back, she ran a hand through her short, spiky hair. "Honey, you may be amped on adrenaline or whatever they gave you at the hospital, but the rest of us are ready for some shut-eye."

  "Oh," I glanced at the other two. The whole lot of them looked like their go-juice tanks were pegged on 'E'. "Sorry. My clock is all messed up. Go home."

  Miss P retrieved her purse from a desk drawer. Brandy did the same, then Jeremy stepped over my outstretched legs and opened the door, holding it for the two of them.

  "Oh, hang on, I almost forgot." I tried not to be bothered by the fact that thoughts of Teddie made thoughts of bomb-making idiots on the loose flee like animals before a forest fire. "Jeremy, can you try to track down a guy named Boogie Fleischman? He paroled out of the penal system about eighteen to twenty years ago, I think."

  "Boogie? Is that his given name?"

  "Probably not." I thought back. Had I ever heard him referred to by another name? If I had, I couldn't remember, but I knew who would. "I can get you that info."

  He flashed his dimples. "No worries. Finding his real name won't be the hard part."

  "Hey, if it was easy, what would we need you for?"

  "If it was easy, then I could retire and try my hand at stripping at Olympic Gardens. I hear they make real money."

  I swallowed hard, clamping my mind shut to that visual.

  "Over my dead body," Miss P announced as she hooked her arm possessively around his waist. "Come on, stud bucket, time for some rack time."

  "Woman, I thought you'd never ask." He let himself be pulled through the door.

  "What are you going to do?" Brandy asked as she stepped over me, following the others.

  "Take a dose of French medicine to cure what ails me."

  ***

  Most of the casual dining restaurants at the Babylon were round-the-clock establishments—the Burger Palais was no exception. Even though the dining hour had long since passed, the restaurants would be gearing up for the post-gambling, post-clubbing crowds. And I hoped a certain French chef would still be manning his grill—burgers being the perfect antidote to too much alcohol.

  In fact, Jean-Charles Bouclet was the perfect antidote to all of my excesses, including adrenaline.

  For some reason, I decided to take the stairs from the mezzanine to the lobby below. Halfway down, my body groaned like a gear frozen under decades of rust. Holding the handrail, I eased down one step at a time, then gingerly pushed through the fire door at the bottom.

  As I knew it would be, the lobby was quiet. Only a few couples wandered hand in hand, lingering next to our version of the Euphrates—a flowing stream that wound its way from reception and into the casino beyond. Spotted with arched bridges and lined with flowering plants, the water was a nice oasis. Home to fish and fowl, it was one of the Babylon's signature features, along with the ceiling of blown-glass birds arced in flight and an indoor ski slope on the far side of the lobby covered with man-made snow now being groomed for tomorrow. Marble floors inset with multicolored mosaics, brightly colored cloth in varying vivid hues tented over the reception desk, and groves of palms, subtly hinted at the Persian theme so exquisitely amplified in other parts of the hotel.

  At reception, I angled to the left heading under the arch announcing the Bazaar, our singular collection of high-end purveyors. Here you could buy anything your heart desired, from Ferraris to French couture and jewels worthy of a sheik's first wife. Many of the shops were shuttered at the moment. Even the lights had been doused in the Temple of Love, our wedding chapel, and Samson's, the hair salon and spa where a staff of buff and beefy Samson look-alikes awaited to ply each guest with Champagne and attention. I didn't care. All I wanted was a French burgermeister.

  In the interest of full disclosure, Jean-Charles Bouclet was so much more than a burger man. The owner of a chain of eponymous eateries around the world, he was the toast of the gastronomic set,and a coup for the Big Boss when he'd lured him to Vegas to open a high-end restaurant in our new property, Cielo. Technically, the new hotel was my pet project, so I could arrange my day to have the Frenchman perpetually near—not a bad plan. Especially since he had…well, we had, leapt the boundaries of professionalism and taken our relationship into personal territory. So new, we were still feeling our way. I grinned at the pun—puns were the least of my many vices. And I flushed a bit at the memories. His lips on mine. A jolt of heat where skin touched skin. The smile in his eyes. The sound of his voice. So perfect. Of course, there was Jean-Charles's son, Christophe, to complicate things. A very small boy, he was a very big concern. I had yet to meet him, but he would be arriving soon. My skills with men were bad enough. But little boys? I was flying blind.

  Needing a hug and a smile, I hurried through the wide corridors, dodging a random gaggle of twenty-somethings. The young women, sheathed in tiny tubes of Lycra and balancing on impossibly high heels, held tightly to the arms of young men, stylish in their t-shirts, velveteen blazers, and French jeans. Laughing, the group rocketed on a high-octane mix of alcohol and youthful enthusiasm. For a moment, I felt the bite of jealousy, then came to my senses. I wouldn't go back there to save my soul. At my age, I no longer had the energy to handle all that desperation, which was probably a good thing. I had a sneaking suspicion the wisdom that supposedly came with age was really apathy resulting from an inability to muster enough ergs to care. If true, it was one of life's many cruel jokes. But it didn't really bother me… apparently that whole apathy thing had come home to roost. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Somehow, I didn't care. And as simple as that, the whole question had become a tautology.

  The double wooden doors bracketing the entrance to the Burger Palais stood open. Delicious smells of onions sautéing, bacon frying, and grass-fed beef sizzling over a charcoal fire beckoned all those who passed. Salivating in earnest now, I ducked through the doorway. The hostess stand was empty, so I breezed on in. With knotted wooden floors, exposed brick walls, green leather chairs, and banquettes and checkered table cloths, the place was elegantly casual, invoking the customers to relax and enjoy—or so said Jean-Charles, and I wasn't one to disagree. Brass sconces exuded a subtle light, adding to the welcoming ambiance. An ornate wooden bar from Scotland arched from the right-hand side of the dining room. Dotted with stools, also in green leather, it called to me. Another medicinal libation sounded like what the doctor ordered. However, since I had no idea what or how much the staff at UMC had plied me with, I decided to forego, at least momentarily. Besides, drinking alone had such negative connotations—not that that got in my way very often.

  Instead, I angled to the left, toward the kitchen. Behind a wall of glass, a variety of culinary types carried out their tasks to the rocking sounds of Coldplay. Standing behind gleaming stainless steel workstations, replete with requisite shelving behind and refrigeration below, they juked to the music as they sliced and diced. If I tried that, I'd be minus a few digits in no time.

  Casting my glance wider, my heart fell. Rinaldo, Jean-Charles' right-hand man worked the grill—Jean-Charles' normal position. A mountain of a man with curly black hair, a round face topping at least three chins, and hands the size of salad plates, he beamed when he saw me. Motioning toward the back of the kitchen with his spatula, he raised his voice to be heard above the music. "He's back there. But he's not real sociable—something about bad crabs."

  I bit off the obvious reply as clearly in poor taste.

  Apparently my appearance finally registered with the big man as his eyes grew worried, wiping the smile out of them. "Hey cutie, you okay?"

  "Dodged a bullet."

  "Seriously?"

  "No, that was just a shallow attempt to get attention and sympathy." And sidestep the question, I thought, but I didn't say that part. Apparently it worked as he moved aside to let me pass without further elaboration.

  Using the term 'office' to describe Jean-Charles' workspace was a bit optimistic. A batt
ered, wooden, French schoolboy table tucked into a corner and a three-legged wooden stool hardly qualified, at least in the American vernacular of office excess. Functional with a bare bulb on a flexible metal stand clamped to the side of the desk, the only piece of envy-worthy equipment was a brand new 24-inch iMac. With the French being the world's arbiters of cool, it made perfect sense my chef would be a Mac man.

  His back to me, Jean-Charles hunched in concentration as he straddled the stool, his feet hooked in the legs. He didn't notice me until I bent and placed a kiss just below his right ear. Pulling air in through his nose, he straightened. "Ah, Lucky. How did you know I've been missing you?"

  I couldn't resist nibbling on his ear, taking delight in his shiver before I stepped back. "I didn't know, but I was hoping."

  Still seated, he turned on the stool to face me. Grabbing me, he pulled me onto his lap, then leaned back to get a good look.

  I tried not to let him see that he took my breath. Even with a pair of cheaters resting on the end of his nose, his blue eyes going all serious and dark as they roamed over my face, his full lips thinning into a line of concern, and weariness deepening his laugh lines, he was by far the best dish in the house. Looping an arm around his neck, I wove my fingers through his hair which, to my delight, he wore a trifle long. A medium brown with a slight curl, I found playing with the tendrils that drifted over his collar irresistible. His thighs, long and lean, felt solid under me. His chest was a hard, comforting backdrop to lean into. What was it people said? Never trust a thin chef? I wondered if that meant only his culinary skills or his character also. One way or the other, I didn't care.

  With the back of the fingers of his right hand, he touched my cheek. Then he ran his thumb lightly over the cut on my forehead before kissing it. "You will tell me about this day."

  "Yes." I maneuvered my weight off his lap, fearing that if I stayed there any longer, I would cut off blood flow in his legs. "Perhaps over dinner? Although I've been told you are dealing with bad crabs."