Lucky Bang

by Deborah Coonts

  "Can you describe him?"

  Frenchie stopped shaking as his eyebrows snapped into a thoughtful frown. "A thin, white guy, tallish like you. Dark hair. Mean eyes. And always looking down his nose—talking down like I'm trash, you know?" Frenchie's eyes met mine. "I didn't like that, so I charged him double what I woulda took. Fool paid it."

  "A man on a mission." I eased off the stool. "How old?"

  "Like you."

  I didn't want to ask him what age he thought that might be—I'd established the guy wasn't seventy, so he wasn't Boogie. "How'd he find you?"

  "It was real weird, you know? He was out on the highway. Goin' for a drive, he said. He flagged us down when he saw us comin' out of the mine."

  "Really? What'd he say?"

  "He said some of his folks way back when had been miners in the area. He wanted to know if we'd found anything. We'd already stashed the sticks on the four-wheeler, so we didn't give out. We don't go givin' without gettin', you know? Besides, we didn't know this guy and he looked like trouble, all mean and angry-like."

  "I see." I pursed my lips and tried not to act surprised. "So how'd the same guy end up with the sticks? You're sure he was the same guy?"

  "I'm gettin' to that part." Frenchie nervously picked at a scab on his arm. "Here's the creepy part. The guy shows up later that day at the shop looking for me."

  "The shop? You mean here?" At Frenchie's nod I asked, "How'd he know your name and where you worked?"

  "He said he read it off my work shirt I had on when we met him on the highway. The shirt with my name on the front and the pawnshop info in big red letters on the back. My sister about shit when she heard I was wearing it out in the desert—those things ain't cheap."

  "Apparently he didn't believe your story about not finding anything."

  Frenchie's eyes flicked to mine. Thankfully he stopped picking at that scab. "The guy flashed a wad and I got greedy, told him what we had. His eyes really lit when he heard about the sticks. He wanted it then, but I didn't have it."

  "No, you'd conveniently stashed it on the top of my hotel. I should break you in two for that."

  He paled then hung his head with a sigh. "Probably should. Anyway, I had to get to work and it was convenient. With all the other stuff up there I didn't think anyone would notice. I agreed to meet the guy the next day, yesterday morning, to complete the sale. The rest is history."

  "Did he take anything else?"

  "Couple of clocks and the liquid things. I gave it all to him in the briefcase." Frenchie rubbed his arms as if he was suddenly chilled. "Funny thing though, the guy, the way he looked at me after we did the transaction, you know…it gave me a real bad feelin'."

  Yeah, unfortunately I did know. If the guy had anything to do with Boogie Fleischman, then Frenchie and Flea were lucky they'd run into him out in the open, on a well-traveled highway and again in a public place. "Look, I'll do my best to lower the heat on you, but I need you to do a few things in return."

  "Just say the word."

  "I need all the dynamite you've got left, and then I want you and your friends to try to track down the dude you sold the stuff to. If you find him, don't kill him. Bring him to me. Promise me."

  "You got my word." He banged his chest with a closed fist—some sort of secret salute or something, I figured. I thought he might break a rib. Then he pushed through the doorway to the back. A few moments later he returned with a weathered wooden crate, which he thrust at me. "This is all of it."

  Carefully, I grabbed it and looked inside. The wooden box held nine sticks, paper tubes really, each oozing a dark, gooey substance. Old and unstable. Great. I gave Frenchie the sternest look I could muster. "This is serious shit. You swear this is all there is? Your friend, Flea, he didn't take any?"

  He shook his head. "Swear."

  "And there's no more of this stuff on top of my hotel?"

  "Promise."

  Dane and Gracie's conversation was winding down behind me. I felt sure that, after we left, she'd have to wipe his drool off the bike. "Why'd you break the lock on the shed?"

  "Work was crazy. By the time we knocked off, someone had buttoned-up the joint. I broke the lock and took my property. When I was offsite and out of reach, I called Xavier."

  "You don't happen to know anything about the guy who bought the stuff besides what he looks like, do you? Like his name? Where he's from? What kind of car he was driving?"

  "Don't know any of the particulars, but he was sportin' a hot piece of iron, just like the one you got out there." Frenchie nodded toward the parking lot out front.

  It was my turn to be surprised. "A Ferrari?"

  "Yeah, local plates and a Babylon emblem."

  "You mean he was driving one of our Ferraris?"

  ***

  "Did you just offer that woman a night with me in exchange for the Harley?" Dane asked me as I carefully lowered the crate into the space behind the seats.

  We both settled into the car and belted up. I punched the start button and the engine growled to life. "I wanted to know what it would be like on the other end of that kind of transaction for once." I grinned at him with more humor than I felt. "I almost had a deal, too."

  "You think you're cute, don't you?" Dane tried to act angry but he couldn't pull it off.

  "No, just having fun at someone else's expense. Not a particularly proud moment." I eased the Ferrari into traffic, this time at a much more sedate pace. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about the decomposition of dynamite, would you?"

  "You were serious? You weren't just jerking my chain when I asked why we were headed to a cheap shop on the wrong side of town?" Dane's eyes widened, letting in a bit of light, apparently. "Don't tell me that's what's in the box."

  Keeping my eyes on the road, I nodded. Besides, I didn't have to look at him to know he rolled his eyes and then glowered at me. He unfastened himself and squirmed around to take a look, then he repositioned himself. "You got a big problem."

  "I have many, could you be more specific?"

  "That's really old stuff. Probably made sometime in the late fifties, early sixties before they switched to ammonium nitrate."

  "I know that much," I said in my 'brave' voice. "And all those Westerns I watched as a kid where they blew everything to kingdom come with the stuff. And that bit about one jolt setting it off? That was Hollywood, right?" I accelerated onto the 515.

  "Not really. This stuff is prone to unplanned explosions." Dane's voice got all quiet and serious. "I've heard of this stuff blowing when the sun hit it."

  One glance told me was serious. Careful to avoid any jarring, I quickly downshifted, decelerating to make the next exit, Flamingo Road. "Change in plans. Call AFT. Have them meet us in the parking lot at Sam Boyd Stadium. If we blow, I don't want to take anyone else with us."

  "If we go," Dane said as he grabbed his cell and started dialing, "it'd be a real waste—this car is a work of art."

  Dane and I had just circled the wagons in the vast lots surrounding the stadium at a point that I thought was the furthest from human life, when the bomb squad rolled in sirens blazing. I let Dane give them the skinny as I found a curb to sit on, well away from the car. The fact that we were very close to the site of a rocket fuel plant that had exploded, leveling a huge area of Henderson surrounding it, was sort of ironic. I hoped it wasn't an omen. I grabbed my phone and began making calls.

  ***

  The day had expired, but thankfully no one else had. Defusing the nitro situation had taken far longer than I'd imagined. Of course, not only did we have Metro to deal with, we also had the Feds. Despite the widely held opinion that most branches of the government were masters at making big goddammits out of hangnails, the ATF was anything but. They dealt with serious shit and a bomb really lit their fuse. Using a crane, they'd lifted the box of dynamite, then burned it in a far corner of the parking lot far away from humans. The whole thing would've been fun to watch, except one missing stick of volatile dynamite kept my
feet to the fire, prodding me to action. Time was slipping away.

  Firmly in the clutches of nightfall, Dane and I motored back to the Babylon. With no threat of immediate immolation, I once again let the horses run. This time, Dane didn't feel the need to hang on. Tonight, the lights of the Strip didn't hold their normal magic for me. Instead, they reminded me how hard it would be to find a dynamite needle in this huge haystack. Clearly I needed to narrow my search.

  Bert, my Ferrari man, was waiting for me in the dealership when I returned the car. "Lucky, I'm sorry I wasn't here when you called. I'm working the late shift tonight—in fact, I just punched in. When I'm off, I turn the cell off. I work hard, but they don't own me."

  "Clearly I'm not as adept as you at establishing boundaries." I admired a new, shiny red car turning on the dais under a lone spotlight. "The new California?"

  "Sweet machine. You'd look fine wearing one."

  "Nice try." I wandered over to the car, running my finger down the hood as I admired the new lines—a compact departure from the normal Ferrari. "Did they tell you what I wanted?"

  "Yeah, something about the name of a guy who had one of our cars yesterday." He pulled a white envelope out of his back pocket and extended it to me. "We had six cars out, all rented by males. I pulled the list for you."

  The list was short, names and addresses, not much else. "This really doesn't help." I bit my lip as I looked inside the California and tried to think. "I need some way of narrowing the list down."

  "Tell me what you know."

  I gave him Frenchie's description of the dynamite buyer.

  Bert blew out some air. "I could ask around, see who might've rented a car to a guy looking like that, but it could take awhile."

  "Time isn't something I have a lot of." I hoped he didn't ask me why. I didn't want to elaborate—nothing like a potential explosion to create a panic— and I didn't want to lie.

  "You don't happen to know where the car went, do you?"

  I stopped ogling the California, turning my attention to Bert. "I have an address. Why?"

  "Give it to me." Bert didn't wait. Instead, he stepped behind the counter and logged into the store computer as his mouth kept motoring. "I don't need to tell you how much dough we've got tied-up in these cars. If one went missing, well, insurance would give us a huge hassle. It would be better to recover the car." He looked up at me expectantly, a twinkle in his eye. "So we put GPS trackers in all of them."

  I punched up Jimmy G's place on my phone, highlighted the address, then handed it to Bert. "Try this one first. I have another route he took out the 95 toward Tonopah."

  "We'll overlay the address with the tracking system." He bent his head in concentration.

  On the theory that the whole watched-pot-not-boiling thing was true, I resisted leaning over his shoulder as he worked. Instead, I turned my back. Putting my elbows on the counter behind me, I surveyed all the toys in the dealership. Nervous glances at the clock on the far wall marked the glacial passage of time.

  Ten minutes had passed and my nerves were jumping when Bert said, "Bingo."

  I whirled around in time to see him circle a name on his list.

  "Here's the guy."

  "Albert Campos. Does he still have the car? Can we see where he is now?"

  Bert checked his records. "No, he turned the car back in yesterday."

  I knew that was asking too much. "Anything you can tell me?"

  Bert fell to work once again, his fingers flying over the keyboard. When he stopped, his eyes widened.

  "What?"

  He turned the monitor to face me. I leaned in to read where he pointed. I read it twice, then looked up. "You sure?"

  "Yup." Bert said. "Your Mr. Campos was personally recommended by the Big Boss."

  ***

  Still reeling, my life on tilt, I paused in the lobby trying to regain balance by absorbing some of the normal flow of nightlife in Vegas. Social creatures being primarily nocturnal, nightfall heralded an increase in activity. Tonight was no exception. Couples and herds of momentarily unattached hipsters, spiffed for the evening in their five-hundred-dollar jeans with holes in them, gathered in clusters or strolled. Five hundred bucks for something I used to make with a pair of Wranglers, a shotgun, and a washing machine.

  Casual observers eyeing potential attachments, or the already attached clutching each other in a show of ownership, they all not only partook of the magic of the Babylon, but helped create our aura of coolness as well, a perfectly symbiotic relationship. And it seemed to be working.

  Except for one strident note. Several teams of beefy guys checking every nook and cranny caught my eye, dispelling some of my elixir of self-satisfaction. They were so inconspicuous in their tight t-shirts with ATF printed in six-inch letters across the back and holding onto their bomb-sniffing German Shepherds. It wasn't going to be pretty once the Big Boss got wind of it, but there wasn't much I could do. Self-preservation dictated a flak jacket but Kevlar just wasn't part of my fashion-forward style.

  Thankfully, nobody seemed too alarmed, if they even noticed the sniffers at all. One bullet dodged.

  Registration was not particularly crowded—most folks coming in town for the Fourth already had arrived. Stepping to the counter, I caught the eye of Sergio Fabiano, our front desk manager, and motioned him over.

  A trim man, dark and swarthy, with chiseled features and a body like those immortalized in marble by ancient Italian sculptors, Sergio attracted female attention wherever he went. If he considered it a burden, he shouldered it well. His dark hair, long and straight, obviously tickled his eyes as he kept flipping it—a habit I found a bit irritating. After finishing with the couple he had been dealing with, he moved down the counter stopping in front of me. "Ms. O'Toole, how are you this evening?" His brows creased into a slight frown. "Raw steak or cold cucumber will help that eye."

  "Thanks, but I'm a moving target—ducking and weaving—no time for home remedies. But you can help me with something else."

  "Your wish." He shot me a grin—how I wished it was infectious.

  "Do we have a guest by the name of Albert Campos registered here this weekend?"

  "One moment." He bent his head and began scrolling through screens in the hotel reservation system. He pursed his lips as he worked. Before he looked up, I knew the answer. "It doesn't appear there is an Albert Campos staying with us. I'm sorry."

  "Not nearly as sorry as I am." I tapped the counter as I let my eyes wander over the crowd's reflection in the large mirrors behind the desk. "Thanks anyway."

  "By the way, I love your song." Sergio clasped his hands, his eyes bright. "So romantic."

  My eyes snapped back to his. "What?"

  "Lucky for Me. Teddie is so talented—I never knew." My employee gave me a warm look. "And he must love you so. You are a lucky woman, Ms. O'Toole."

  "How do you know about that song?"

  Sergio looked at me like I'd crawled out from under a rock, which apparently wasn't far from the truth. "Honey, everybody knows about that song. Teddie's been on every talk show in the Western Hemisphere. The world does love a love story.That tune is riding up the charts with a bullet."

  A bullet. I could think of one tight-assed little songbird I'd like to shoot with that bullet.

  Sergio's smile faded when his eyes met mine. "This song is not a good thing?"

  "Nothing I hate more than a private drama on a public stage."

  ***

  Flash's call caught me standing in the middle of the lobby unsure who to kill first. "I hope you got something."

  "Hell, I wouldn't be calling if I didn't." Flash didn't sound all that happy. "But don't get all woozie on me, I'm still just tickling leads. I've got a bunch of rumors, but nothing solid…yet."

  "Give me what you got." I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, squelching homicidal urges. Sticking one finger in my open ear, I pressed the phone tightly to the other, focusing on her voice. The noise of the lobby faded away. Too bad the si
lence amplified the hurt in my heart. And the noise in my head.

  "Well, I went back through all the police reports surrounding the first bombing at Jimmy G's."

  "How'd you get those?"

  "One of the detectives I used to hook up with back when I was young and stupid. I knew some stuff, so I did what I always do—blackmail."

  "Nice."

  "Some guys just got it comin'. Know what I mean?"

  My eyes flew open. "You were the one bangin' Crayfish Crider!" My voice was louder than I intended. When I saw some people look my direction, I tried to modulate myself, but I lack a revulsion-squelch knob. "Why didn't you tell me he was into cock stuffing? What the hell is that, anyway?" Now I had the attention of most of the folks in the lobby. I headed toward the casino, seeking privacy under the cover of noise.

  Flash didn't say anything for a moment. "How'd you know about that?" She actually sounded pained—a first.

  "Serendipity. It's not common knowledge, so don't go Googling hara-kiri."

  "Hell, I wouldn't go sticking a blade in my stomach. But if Crider is crowing about private matters, I'd be more than happy to start carvin' off some of his parts." There wasn't even a hint of shame in her voice.

  I needed some of that moxie. "More on that later. Don't think I'm letting you off without getting the whole story. But back to the police reports, you were going to tell me something?"

  "Right." She picked up steam again. "Anyway, two interesting tidbits. All the way to the slammer, Boogie claimed he was setup, that he didn't place that bomb."

  "The timing was a bit off, really." I thought back. "The stuff between the Union and the holdouts had sorted itself out by then."

  "Exactly," Flash agreed. "And if you think about it, with his rep, Boogie was the perfect scapegoat."

  I ducked into a far corner of the casino, hopefully away from eavesdroppers. "Convicted because everyone knew he was guilty of something—maybe not the bombing at hand. Okay, assuming that's true, who planted the original bomb?"

  "That's where the trail goes cold. Boogie turned into a clam. Just from reading the reports, I got the feeling he was taking the fall for someone."