I must’ve looked like a banshee from Hell—he retreated into a corner, his color and his courage receding. “Even a condemned man gets a last wish.” He trailed the words out like a flower girl dribbles rose petals—a reluctant peace offering.
“Hollywood hogwash,” I growled. “You need to leave.”
The elevator doors closed and we remained immobile. I figured we had twenty seconds at the outside before someone called the car. I’d been taken for enough rides lately, so I stuck my card in the slot and punched the appropriate button. “Okay then. You got fifty-one floors.”
Dane slapped my hand away then mashed the emergency stop. Grabbing my shoulder he pulled me around to face him. “I need your help. I didn’t kill her and I need to find the SOB who did before your buddy Romeo digs a pit and throws me in it.”
He looked scared. And mad as hell.
The fight trickled out of me like water through a rusty pipe. “Give me one reason why I should help you.”
He deflated. “I can’t.”
Not the answer I expected. I found it a bit redeeming. Somehow, I’d known from the beginning I’d help him. And I’d also known it could be my undoing. If I was wrong; if my gut was leading me astray; if he really killed his wife…well, there was nothing like the prospect of being hoodwinked into helping a murderer cover his tracks and frame somebody else to dampen life’s little joys.
“I’ll listen, but not now.” I released the emergency stop, and pressed the button for an intermediate floor. “Meet me in Delilah’s in an hour.”
When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, Dane stepped off. His hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunched up around his ears, he didn’t look at me.
As the doors closed, I stuck my hand out, holding them open for a moment. “And, Cowboy…”
Dane turned to look at me, his face impassive, his eyes haunted.
“No guarantees.”
***
Mrs. Olefson, the hotel’s resident grandmother, lived in a corner room on the forty-first floor with a nice view of the Strip and the Spring Mountains beyond. We’d met when she’d asked to marry her dog in the Temple of Love at the hotel. I intervened, and made a wonderful friend in the process.
Widowed, well into her tenth decade with no real family, Mrs. Olefson and Milo, her Maltese, had asked to stay permanently. God knew we all could use a den mother. Sometimes life gives you gift. We set her up in a sunny room where she held court every day, serving tea, biscuits, and sage advice to all visitors. She was happy. We were happy. And Milo was getting fat.
Giggling greeted me as I raised my fist to knock on the door.
I knocked firmly and the giggling stopped. Heels clacked across the tile floor, then the door flew open.
“Oh, Lucky! I knew you’d come!” Mona, resplendent in a dark purple peasant skirt and a flowing peach top that swooped precariously off one shoulder, grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. Holding my arm to her side, she kicked the door shut. “Come, come. We have that tea you like—the peach one from Teavana. And you’re in time—we’re just getting started.” A smile danced across her face, then sparkled in her eyes. Pregnancy had filled the hollows of her face, rounding the sharp edges. Her dark brown hair fell in soft waves curling lightly at her shoulders, bangs barely tickling her doe eyes. Like a Rembrandt Madonna, she glowed. And she looked like my sister—my younger sister.
Just getting started, she’d said. I didn’t even take the bait—I’d find out what she was up to soon enough. Giggling usually meant mischief.
With Mona, naughtiness was gift—a natural aptitude bestowed on her at birth.
At some point in the normal course of life, the roles of parent and child are expected to reverse, with the child assuming a parental caregiver role. I had been born into the role. Lucky me.
Mrs. Olefson beamed when she saw my delight as I took in all the touches she’d added to her space. “You like it, I can tell. I’m so pleased.” A tiny woman, she all but disappeared in the overstuffed chair. As usual, with her white hair perfectly coiffed, her face painted to accent not alarm, and dressed primly in a St. John suit and sensible pumps, she looked prepared for an audience with the queen. Milo, a ball of white fur with a black nose and a red bow, curled at her feet. He’d pricked one ear at me, then had lost interest.
The tea service, made of exquisite bone china glazed with a pretty floral pattern and arrayed on a silver platter covered with a linen doily, was placed on a table within Mrs. Olefson’s easy reach.
Trotting out her best Emily Post, she delicately pinched the curved handle of a tiny cup with one hand and the larger handle of the pot, covered with a crisp white napkin, with the other. Holding them both up, she raised a questioning eyebrow at me.
“Yes, please. One lump, a touch of milk.”
“Traditional. I thought as much.” She smiled as if I’d earned a gold star.
While she performed her duties, I glanced around, taking in my surroundings more completely. Yup, Miss Marple’s drawing room. That’s what this whole thing reminded me of. Something very British, very proper.
“Here you go.” She extended the cup to me.
Reaching, I cradled the delicate porcelain with both hands, as I would a baby bird, afraid to crush it. Steam and the subtle scent of ripe peaches filled my nostrils as I breathed deep. Blowing briefly, I then took a tentative sip. Still a bit hot.
Mona, ruffled her skirt around her as she kicked off her shoes, then pulled her feet up, tucking them under her as she settled into a corner of the couch. She worried with a stray thread and refused to meet my gaze directly. Squirming like a child under adult scrutiny, she chewed on her lip.
I waited, biting down on my smile. If Mona was good for anything, she was good for a laugh. But, she would also interpret a grin as a sign of weakness. And history had taught me that I never, ever wanted to give my mother the upper hand if I could help it.
So, I remained calm, detached. “Mrs. Olefson, I love all the personal touches you’ve added.”
“Thank you, dear.” Her hand shook a bit as she grabbed a cube of sugar with the silver tongs, then dropped it into her own cup. She added a dollop of milk, then settled back with a smile of self-satisfaction as she gazed around the room.
“Is that your husband?” I nodded toward an oil painting on the wall of a smiling man with a round face and happy eyes.
“Oh, yes. It wouldn’t be home without Ollie.”
“Ollie Olefson. That’s…memorable.”
“Ollie is his nickname. His given name is Randolf and he just hates it.” She spoke of him as if he’d just gone off to work for the day and would be home soon. Her loss made me sad, but her memories filled my heart. At the end of the day, that’s all there really was.
“Lucky, we have something we want to talk to you about.” Mona had apparently filled her quota of quiet time.
“Then this isn’t a purely social visit? I’m shocked.” I grinned as I lifted my cup to my lips.
Mother straightened. Sitting tall, she made herself big then leveled her gaze, but her eyes didn’t meet mine. Instead she looked to my left out the window, leaving me with the distinct impression she was following the instructions on what to do when confronted by a grizzly. “You know how I gave up Mona’s Place because you told me to?”
“That’s not exactly how I remember it, but go on.” I took another sip of tea—it had cooled nicely.
“Well, I’ve been at loose ends since then.” She worried with a bright pink toenail. Finally she looked at me. Her eyes held the expression one would expect from a dying man pleading for his life. Mona and her drama. “I’ve been so bored, honey. I just don’t know what to do with myself.”
“Apparently you’ve engaged in some forms of…recreation.”
She paused, a quizzical look on her face.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Mona, the horizontal cha-cha?” Miss Olefson gave a surprisingly throaty laugh.
Mona’s face reddened a little. “Wel
l, one can’t do that all the time.”
I’m not sure that had been her opinion when she ran the brothel, but I didn’t point that out. I had no intention of being perforated with a pair of sugar tongs today. “Mother, in a few short months, you are going to be busier than a bookie during March Madness. I think you’ll have plenty to do when the baby comes.”
“I’m not talking about busywork. I’m referring to something more intellectual. Mrs. Olefson and I have decided to go into business together.”
“Doing what?” I eyed her warily as I relished another large gulp of tea. Somehow I just couldn’t get past the words Mona and intellectual in the same sentence.
“Phone sex.”
My tea spewed out my nose. “What?” I reached for a linen napkin. Blotting at the tea dripping down my face, I worked at composing myself. “How?”
“A nine-hundred number through the main switchboard should do it.” Mona had done her homework.
“You want the Babylon to be a conduit for nine-hundred-number phone sex?” My blood pressure didn’t even spike—I must be dead. Either that or I had been inoculated against clear idiocy. Regardless, I found it next to impossible to work up a good case of red ass. Which was a good thing. I had a feeling it would be like yelling at a couple of two-year-olds—I’d wear myself out and end up with a mess I didn’t want to clean up.
Mona mistook my silence for complicity and drove right into the impending storm. “Here, let us show you.”
Like children practicing for the school play, each woman pretended to hold a phone to her ear. Then Mona whispered, “I’ll be the john.”
Mrs. Olefson, her eyes as big a saucers, nodded, her perfectly coiffed white curls bouncing. She worried a finger through her pearl choker, twisting it.
“Ring, ring,” Mona said.
“Hulloooo.” Mrs. Olefson’s lowered her voice at least an octave, infusing it with warm, sultry undertones. “Honey, who do you want me to be tonight?”
Like a passenger in a car watching the accident in slow motion, I was powerless to stop the scene unfolding in front of me. I bit down hard on the inside of my mouth and turned toward Mona, waiting expectantly. The price of admission to this show had been cheap, so I might as well enjoy it—before I shut it down.
“I’m a fireman,” Mona growled. “I need a hose handler.”
My cup rattled in its saucer.
Mrs. Olefson held her imaginary phone away from her ear and whispered, “Is this where I tell you what I’m wearing?”
Mona rolled her eyes and hissed, “Just like we practiced. You remember.”
“I’m not sure if I’m dressed properly…to be a hose handler, I mean.” Again that sexy voice.
If I closed my eyes. If I didn’t know she’d grown up long before Las Vegas had…
“Tell me what you’re wearing.” Mona’s fireman needed work.
“Well, I’m not wearing any underwear.” Mrs. Olefson couldn’t quite get the note of incredulity out of her voice. I’m certain the woman had never gone commando—the premise clearly confused her.
“Tell me more,” Mona encouraged. Then she turned to me and whispered. “The delivery needs a bit of work, but the voice is great, don’t you think?”
“Words fail me, Mother.”
“Well,” Mrs. Olefson dropped her voice, “I’m wearing a black lace nightie my husband gave me—”
“No,” Mona corrected. “No husbands. Remember?”
“No husbands?” Mrs. Olefson crinkled her brow and snatched a glance at Ollie hanging over the fireplace.
The laugh, so long held in my belly burst forth. Struggling to catch my breath, I swiped at the tears. Then I dabbed at my nose, which had started to run. Mona glared at me, which made me laugh harder.
Mrs. Olefson hung up her imaginary phone. “I really suck at this.”
That pronouncement cracked Mona’s stern veneer. Laughter started slowly, then built, doubling her over. Mrs. Olefson remained above the fray, serving us all fresh cups of tea and gracing us with a beatific smile.
Finally I thought I could hazard a conversation without convulsing. “Mother, what ever gave you the idea?”
“Sex is all I know.”
Well, that little bit of honesty was a showstopper.
“Mother.” I put my cup and saucer on the silver tray, then rose. “You know that’s not true. But we need to go, I’m sorry. I need your help.”
When I asked for help, which was usually the last act of a desperate woman, Mona was front and center, no questions asked. We made our exit with appropriate thank-yous and promises to come back soon.
Once safely in the elevator, I punched the button for the Penthouse, then turned to face my mother’s questioning stare.
I proceeded to fill her in on my morning.
She listened without interruption, nodded once as the elevator doors opened, then hooked her arm through mine and gave me a comforting squeeze. “We’ll get through this. Your father and Shady Slim…”
“I know. Two horses cut from the same herd.”
Chapter Seven
Delivering bad news always tied me in knots. Delivering bad news to my father made me feel sick, like the condemned, blindfolded, back against the wall, the acrid taste of my last cigarette lining my mouth like cotton. Of course, smoking was probably the world’s only vice I had managed to escape, but I was pleased with the analogy, so I went with it.
Even with Mona providing for-once-silent support, dread coalesced into a cold ball in the pit of my stomach. Sweat trickled down my sides. A case of serious brain freeze paralyzed my thoughts as words left me. After all this time, I should be used to it—as the chief problem-solver at the Babylon, bad news was a big part of my vocabulary. And the Big Boss handled it better than most—at least, up to this point he’d resisted shooting the messenger. Even still, I’m pretty much of a happy-ending kind of gal.
As the elevator slowed, I straightened then smoothed my slacks and retucked my shirt. I buttoned one more button at the top, I don’t really know why.
As the doors opened, I took a deep breath, which wasn’t as steadying as I’d hoped. Motioning for Mona to precede me, I let her step out to take the first bullet. Through the years I’d gotten used to stepping out of the elevator right into the middle of my father’s great room. Three thousand square feet of luxury, the space felt warm and inviting despite its high ceilings and walls of windows. Leather upholstered walls and rich mahogany floors lent a richness further enhanced by brass sconces casting diffused light. Richly hued Persian rugs, hand knotted in the finest tradition, each with a cluster of furniture fashioned from exotic woods and covered with hides from successful safaris, provided cozy entertainment areas—assuming one could get over the fact that some poor beast paid the ultimate sacrifice so your butt could be coddled, something I could never do. I preferred the overstuffed couch by the window. Paintings, lesser works by the great masters from the Big Boss’s handpicked collection, dotted the walls, each perfectly lit.
“Albert,” Mona called. When no one answered, she headed toward the hallway leading to their private wing. “Let me check our room. Make yourself at home, honey. Of course, I don’t need to tell you that.”
Bright sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows that defined the room on two sides. Lured by the view, and comforted by the fact the room appeared empty, I wandered to the windows. The Las Vegas Strip stretched at my feet and angled toward the horizon. To the west, the Spring Mountains hunkered down, a ragged scratch defining the horizon. Carol Lombard had lost her life in a plane crash in those mountains. Clark Gable had never recovered from the loss. Ever the romantic, I thought about the tragedy more than I would admit to.
My stomach told me it was long past feeding time but I wasn’t certain. My stomach often led me astray. The bagel had done nothing but stoke the fire in the hunger machine. Clearly, I needed food, but I also needed to find my father.
Preoccupied and in desperate need of a moment of peac
e, I stared at my city, its lights now dimmed in deference to the sun. Daytime wasn’t Vegas’s best time. Sunlight doused the neon magic and made everything appear…normal, mundane even, as if the city turned in on itself, regenerating, restoring, awaiting the rebirth of nightfall.
Shutting my eyes, I took a deep, quieting breath.
My mother returned, shaking her head. “I don’t know where he is.” She settled on the couch. Patting the cushion next to her she said, “Come sit. You look exhausted. Rest for a minute. Your father usually comes to check on me about this time of day, after his lunch meetings.”
Her suggestion was a good one. I settled into the couch’s soft embrace. Leaning my head back, I closed my eyes. We fell into a thoughtful silence.
Somewhere I had heard about a relaxation technique where you concentrated on relaxing one muscle at a time. They may have kicked me out of yoga class, but I wasn’t above trying some of the stuff on my own. First my neck. I rolled my shoulders and turned my head slowly from side to side. The tension eased. Only a bit, but I’d take it. Now my breathing. I slowed the rhythm, willing my body to relax. In. Out. The world retreated.
The sound of the elevator whirring to life penetrated my consciousness, hitting me like a Taser. My father. Shady Slim Grady.
When the doors to the elevator opened, I was standing in front of them. My father looked up, surprise on his face. Before he could say anything I stuck out my hand. “Your wallet?”
“What?” He gave me a half laugh as if he thought I was joking.
“Can I have your wallet, please?”
He reached into his hip pocket with two fingers, a sardonic grin, and no questions. After extracting the worn leather billfold, he handed it to me.
I opened it, plucked out a hundred dollar bill, and handed both back to him. “Make me something.”
He kept the bill in his hand as he stuffed the wallet back into his pocket. The amusement in his eyes disappeared as he looked at me. “That bad, huh?”
I nodded as I took his arm, leading him over to the couch. Mona patted the spot where her feet had been. “Sit by me, Albert.”
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