Lucky Bastard

by Deborah Coonts

“God, no.” Romeo sounded offended, and slightly horrified. “Sir, I would never…She’s old enough…” Glancing at me, he ground to a halt.

  On any other day I probably would have been amused. “Thank you.” My voice could’ve cut glass. Turning to my father, I said. “I fought a losing battle with a can of Coke.”

  “Fine, you can tell me about it over dinner—that and why you are limping around like a retired tight end. Detective, you come, too. Say, twenty minutes at Tigris.”

  “I’d like a tight end, but I don’t want to be one.” I groused as my father disappeared out the door.

  Romeo’s eyes widened. “Tigris?” A grin lifted the corner of his mouth as he nodded at me. Tigris, our five-star eatery, was the toughest table in town.

  My father poked his head back in through the door. “And Lucky, why don’t you bring your chef? Your mother and I would love the chance to get to know him better.”

  My chef. My father. Still new concepts.

  “You think you have enough stroke to get us a table?” I teased. My father had discovered Chef Omer, the Executive Chef at Tigris, slaving away in the bowels of some obscure Turkish eatery and made him the toast of Vegas.

  A table wouldn’t be too much to ask.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Opinions differed as to which location in a restaurant was the most coveted. Some thought that a table tucked away in the back room, far from prying eyes, shouted your importance to the world. Others considered being parked out front, sort of like the Ferrari by the door, meant you had climbed to the top rung of the social ladder. In this see-and-be-seen world, I ascribed to the latter theory. Apparently so did the Big Boss.

  Romeo and I were the first to arrive. Somehow, I’d managed to squirm into the outfit Miss P had found for me—my ankle, still twice its normal size and hot to the touch, was practically immobile. No matter how I tried to walk, I still came out lumbering like Igor with his hump. Romeo was pressed-and-polished as well…sort of. I’d helped him with some quick freshening—somehow we’d managed to tame his cowlick with a serious application of hairspray. I’d even found a tie and a pressed sports coat that fit him, sort of. And it really didn’t matter as long as he felt presentable. That was the key, wasn’t it?

  Accustomed to the slick elegance and pretention of most top-of-the-line troughs, Romeo was a bit taken aback when we stepped through the double bronze doors. “Wow,” he managed to splutter.

  I knew how he felt. Tigris was so unexpected, yet so perfect. Loops of brightly dyed silks hung from the ceiling. Flame under glass imbued the intimate space with warmth. Date palms grew from patches of soil. Tightly woven mats covered a mahogany floor burnished to a rich, dark sheen. The tabletops of intricate inlaid mosaics were cloth-free. The glassware was sturdy and blue—hand-blown and proud of its imperfections. Somewhere, hanging from one of the pillars, was a very early Greek reproduction of the Code of Hammurabi, but I didn’t see it as I pointed Romeo in the right direction, then followed him. My father would have the best table—the one in the middle of the action—and the attention of the best of the stellar staff.

  As I predicted, Roham, one of my very favorite people and the head of the waitstaff at Tigris, waited by a round table set for six in the center of the room, his hands crossed in front of him. Two bottles were already chilling in a silver stand at his elbow.

  A shit-eating grin split his face when he saw me. “Lucky! Why are you walking like a lame camel?”

  “To get attention.”

  “You are okay, then?” He held a chair for me then helped push it in. I always found that whole thing a bit awkward, never knowing how to time my scootch with his push, but Roham handled it with a flourish.

  “Okay about covers it.”

  Roham eyed Romeo making him blush. “Every time a different man! This one, such a handsome young man.” He emphasized the young. “I’m impressed. Where should the young mister sit?” Again a misplaced emphasis.

  Romeo’s eyes hardened.

  I winked at the kid. “Don’t mind him,” I said to Romeo, not bothering to lower my voice. “He’s just jealous.” Then I turned my grin to the waiter. “Roham, let me introduce you to Detective Romeo with the Metropolitan Police Department. And he can sit here next to me.”

  Apparently that took enough wind out of the waiter’s sails to satisfy Romeo as he grabbed the chair and sat.

  Roham looked suitably impressed as he pulled the napkins from our wineglasses, shook them out with a flourish, then laid them across our laps. “I meant no offense, Detective. Lucky and I are good friends.”

  “None taken and I can see you two share some interesting traits.”

  “Perhaps a beverage while you wait?” Roham asked Romeo, while he wrapped a white cloth around a bottle as he pulled it from the ice. He filled a crystal flute in front of me with Champagne. Bubbles and alcohol, an imperfect Mona vaccine—it wouldn’t keep her away, but it did make her easier to take. Roham got the medicine and the dosage just right, as usual.

  “Ketel One martini, straight up with a twist,” the detective announced after a moment of thought. I’m not sure I would have pegged Romeo as a martini drinker, but I couldn’t argue with his taste.

  Before he escaped, I stopped Roham with a hand on his arm. “Mother sits over there.” I pointed to the opposite side of the table. “And remember…”

  “No sharp knives,” my friend finished with a grin.

  “You know she can’t be trusted.”

  “I was thinking no knives for you.” He skittered away before I could react.

  “I like him.” Romeo worried with one of the knives as he watched Roham’s retreat. “He’s from someplace dark and swarthy, but where, exactly? I’m pretty sure he isn’t from here.”

  “Please, nobody’s from Vegas.” I arranged my napkin in my lap. “This is a town of transients, which is part of the reason we have such trouble with our schools and all the other infrastructure. Nobody’s invested in this city.”

  “Another one of your soapboxes, huh?” Romeo looked uncomfortable. “Sorry I asked,” he groused. “And, for the record, we are from Vegas.”

  “Yeah, nobodies, from Vegas.” My Champagne warmed as we waited, but I refused to drink alone—a girl had to have her standards. “Roham is Persian, from Iran, but his parents left the country when the Shah fell. He was raised in Arizona, but don’t tell anyone. Roham likes to keep his image as a true Persian alive and well. He says it works wonders with the women.”

  “Really? Maybe that’s what I need—a story.” Romeo relinquished the knife and fork and placed his hands in his lap as if he wasn’t sure what to do with all the forks and knives in front of him.

  “You’re a detective, how much more cool factor do you need?” I made a show of smoothing my napkin in my lap, then picking an invisible piece of lint from it.

  “Maybe.” He didn’t look convinced. “Why are there six places?”

  “Even numbers are best, don’t you think?”

  “If you say so.” He ran a finger between his collar and his neck as if loosening a noose. “I don’t normally frequent these toffee-nose establishments.”

  “Not any different than eating at the Omelet House, just more expensive and attracts a higher class of riffraff.”

  “A few more forks and stuff, too.” Tension pulled his voice tight, like the string on a bow, until it almost twanged.

  “All show, meant to make those who care feel important. Just work from the outside in.”

  The young detective started to relax. “Emily Post Cliffs Notes?”

  “That’s all I know. Remember, I learned my manners in a whorehouse.” I squeezed his arm. “Enjoy yourself. Eat with your fingers if it suits you. No one will give a hoot.”

  Over his shoulder I caught sight of the Big Boss and Mona working their way toward us. “Showtime.”

  Mona had clearly recovered her mojo and was flexing her power-behind-the-throne position. Dressed in a flowing silk caftan and cocktail pants,
both infused with threads of silver, flat silver sandals, and, curiously for her, an understated number of diamonds (although the carat-weight was still sufficient to attract attention from the larcenous to the envious), she carried herself with regal bearing as she worked her way through the tables. If she noticed eyes shifting to her and the hushed whispers behind raised hands as she passed by, she didn’t let on. Although fashionably disguised, her baby bump was clearly visible. I was no expert, but from the size of it, that kid was on serious grow-juice.

  My father, one hand touching the small of his wife’s back, followed closely behind. He’d changed uniforms since I last saw him. Now he was pressed and polished in a white collarless shirt open at the neck, a double-breasted blue blazer that accentuated his trim physique—Dunhill if I wagered a guess—and perfectly tailored steel-gray slacks. Broken-in loafers and no socks completed the ensemble. As a couple, my parents looked ready to attend a movie premiere at Cannes. Studied elegance—clearly a gene that had skipped the next generation—although I didn’t feel too shabby in the new peach outfit Miss P had chosen.

  After hurriedly setting down Romeo’s drink, Roham rushed around the table to hold mother’s chair. “Mrs. Rothstein, you look radiant.”

  With my father holding one arm, Mother smiled as she lowered herself into the chair. Radiant, yes, but something else. Back straight, eyes alert, she reminded me of a mountain lion waiting to pounce on an unwary rodent. But then again, there had always been something feline about Mona.

  Romeo and I had risen when my parents approached. I now retrieved my napkin from my chair then let my father help me into it. He took the chair next to his wife, leaving an empty one between us.

  “Mother, you know Detective Romeo.”

  Romeo nodded as he raised his filled-to-the-brim glass and took a tentative sip of his martini. Somehow he managed not to spill a drop, which was better than I could’ve done.

  “Of course. So glad you could take a break from all your dead bodies.” Mona tossed off the line as if she were trading small talk at a tea party, but I noticed she studiously avoided my glare as she arranged her napkin across her shrinking lap.

  “No worries,” Romeo adopted the same casual tone as Mona’s, “they’ll just cool it until I get back.”

  Leaning back, I grinned and raised my glass to Romeo.

  Mona leaned forward, her eyes big. “I’ve never been to the morgue. Do they really just lay them out naked and all?”

  “Mother!”

  “What?” She feigned innocence as her eyes finally met mine. “I’m just making small talk.”

  “Cold, stiff, blue, with a toe tag and nothing else,” Romeo said, adding fuel to the fire.

  “Imagine.” Mona leaned back, a faraway look in her eyes. “Stiff…”

  She let the word dangle and frankly, I didn’t want to know what she was imagining. I gulped a bit of Champagne and slammed my mind shut to the visuals…all of them.

  Gives a whole new take on the term cold-cocked, doesn’t it? The words rushed from my brain toward my mouth, threatening to bypass good taste altogether. I threw back another slug of Champagne and choked, bringing tears to my eyes. One good thing—if I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t talk.

  My father narrowed his eyes at me. Yup, the whole world most definitely was reading me far too well.

  “Well, if I’m ever in your refrigerated unit,” Mona said, her eyes fixed on the young detective, “and you lay me out like that, I’ll come back and haunt you.”

  My father sat back, out of the fray, with a semi-amused, semi-confused look on his face.

  I knew the feeling. “Murder might well be in your future if you keep badgering the detective, Mother.”

  “I am not…” Mona stopped at the look on Romeo’s face.

  Staring over Mona’s shoulder, Romeo caught sight of something that made him blanch and smile at the same time.

  Mother swiveled around, then, once she caught sight of Brandy, she slowly turned back and graced me with a warm smile. Boy, first my father, now Mona, I was racking up serious daughter-of-the-year points. But with Mona it felt a bit like being seduced by the Dark Side.

  Romeo jumped to his feet, his napkin falling to the floor. As I bent to retrieve it, I caught his questioning glance.

  I handed him his napkin and I waggled my eyebrows. “Like I said, even numbers are the best for a nice dinner party, don’t you agree?”

  The look on his face was more reward than I deserved.

  Brandy, stunning in one of those skin-tight things that only twenty-one–year-olds can get away with, and balancing on impossibly high heels, greeted everyone warmly, reserving a kiss for Romeo, which made him blush. She took the chair between her detective and Mother.

  After making sure everyone knew each other, I leaned back and watched as my family and friends settled into comfortable conversation. Champagne bubbles tickled my nose as I took another sip, this time more carefully, suffused with the warmth of a full life. Thoughts of murderers and liars and slimy little bastards retreated until I found the old me again.

  “I just love young love, don’t you?” Mona asked, bringing me into the conversation as she watched Romeo and Brandy nuzzle.

  The Big Boss reached around his wife, pulling her close. Whispering something in her ear, he made her blush. With pink cheeks, she looked almost demure, virginal, which was a huge stretch. Huge. The Game of Life had clearly gone on tilt.

  One seat still sat empty. Odd numbers—I’d been right about that much. As the fifth wheel, I was warming the bench. While the game of love was interesting as a spectator, it was far more fun to be a participant. At least that’s what I’d been told, but recently history had left me bloodied and bruised, standing awkwardly on the sidelines.

  Jean-Charles appeared in the doorway then paused, sweeping his gaze over the tables until his eyes met mine. A smile, warm and full of promise, split his face, summoning me into the game. Like the Grinch hearing the songs of Whoville, I smiled as my heart grew two sizes, at least.

  Dodging tables, he worked his way closer. I could see his golden brown blazer, made of fine cashmere, had tiny pinstripes of blue—robin’s-egg blue that matched his eyes. And those Italian slacks—formfitting, leaving just enough to the imagination. A silk scarf, also blue, knotted at his neck—a look that would appear calculated and insincere on anyone else—completed the perfection. Taking a deep breath, then letting it out slowly, I was very thankful I resisted drooling.

  Instead of taking the open seat next to me, and before he greeted anyone else, Jean-Charles, his eyes never leaving mine, extended a hand. Taking mine, he urged me to stand in front of him. The table fell silent as he eased the crystal flute from my hand and set it down. Wrapping one arm around my waist, he pulled me to him. Merriment danced in his eyes, and something serious, too—I didn’t know what.

  “Bonsoir, my love,” he whispered. His thumb brushed lightly over my lips as he eased his hand behind my neck. Pulling me to him, his mouth captured mine. Slow and sensual, his lips assaulted mine, leaving me weak kneed and needing air. Where our skin touched, fire burned through me. A jolt. A sizzle. Heat. A long-burning blaze. Out of the frying pan into the fire. Resistance was futile.

  Nobody died from a broken heart, right?

  When he released me, I blinked a few times trying to get my bearings. Way too difficult with him this close. My legs went all wobbly so I let him ease me back into my chair, then he took the one to my left, between my father and me. He captured my hand in his, squeezing. When he turned to greet my parents, he didn’t let go. Romeo, his face red, glanced away when my eyes caught his. Everyone else looked at me with bemused expressions.

  My father raised his flute of Champagne. “To love.”

  “And mind-blowing sex,” Mona added as she raised her glass of soda water.

  My father shook his head and chuckled, “That, too, my dear.”

  We all clinked glasses.

  ***

  As usual, my f
ather let Omer and Roham make the selections for the evening, with one caveat—the salad must be my favorite. Who knew goat cheese, pine nuts, pears, and avocado, all nestled on a bed of baby spinach and drizzled with balsamic vinaigrette, could be so decadent?

  Conversation flowed freely, almost as freely as the Champagne and wine as the courses came and went. Even Jean-Charles seemed impressed as Roham and his staff removed the last of the plates. “Superb,” he said to my father. “My compliments to the chef. And to you, sir.”

  “I have very little to do with what transpires here at the Babylon. Lucky’s a big part of that, as are others. We have a good team,” my father said as he reached for another bottle of wine. Leaning, he refilled Jean-Charles’s glass. At my father’s questioning look, I shook my head. Roham took the bottle from him and took care of the youngsters—Mona’s delicate condition kept her on the wagon. I was impressed. “But,” the Big Boss continued, “we are only as good as the members of our corporate family.”

  “Employees,” I whispered in Jean-Charles’s ear in translation.

  He nodded and squeezed my knee. I don’t think he’d stopped touching me since he arrived, not that I was complaining. “The longer a team is together, the more fluidly it works.”

  “Precisely.” My father raised his glass in salute.

  “This is why I bring my own staff for the restaurants here,” Jean-Charles said.

  “They are family.” My father and Jean-Charles said in unison. Then both of them laughed.

  “And I understand you are preparing for a competition soon?” Mona directed her question at Jean-Charles.

  “Yes, there will be much publicity. I hope to represent the Babylon well.”

  “I’m sure our reputation is in good hands.” Mona smoothed her napkin on the table, sounding for all the world like a co-owner of the hotel. “But where will you prepare your dishes? I’m sure the grill at the Burger Palais is insufficient and your new kitchen is far from ready, or so Lucky tells me.” She cast a quick glance my direction, burying the knife in my back with a sweet smile.