Vegas, where two is a date and three is . . . an even better date.
Carefully, I shifted the boy on my back. Once again Christophe’s head had sagged onto my shoulder, his eyes fluttering, then remaining shut. The ability to sleep anywhere—if only I could bottle some of that.
Thanksgiving was three days away—an eternity in my world. The holidays were supposed to bring families together, to let bygones be bygones, giving us a chance to relax in the presence of folks who—short of homicide—couldn’t get rid of us.
I wasn’t feeling the magic.
Apparently I was the lone lump of coal floating in a sea of the milk of human kindness—or I was the only sober one in a sea of well-oiled humanity. Excited voices swirled around me as I turned and strode through the lobby. As they waited for the next check-in clerk, travelers in their Bermuda shorts, sundresses, sandals, and goose bumps rubbed their bare arms, some cuddled against the chill. Most swilled the free champagne passed by cocktail waitresses in their barely there togas with gold braid belts, strappy Gladiator footwear with five-inch heels, pearly smiles, and other Vegas assets properly displayed.
Vegas’s location in the middle of the Mojave Desert fooled most folks into thinking summer was a year-round season. Not true. Winter could be windy and chilly. Today was a perfect example—a cool breeze wafted in each time someone pushed through one of the multiple sets of double-glass doors forming the Babylon’s grand entry, letting in a taste of the out-of-doors. To be honest, I welcomed the change in the weather—while my life kept me teetering on the brink of insanity, twelve months of hundred-degree days would shove me right over.
For a moment I let myself absorb some of the crowd’s energy and enthusiasm. Glancing at the ceiling, I smiled at the Chihuly blown-glass hummingbirds and butterflies arcing in flight. A dozen skiers bombed down the indoor ski slope sheltered behind a wall of Lucite on the far side of the lobby. Multicolored cloth tented above reception. Equally colorful mosaics decorated the white marble walls and floors hinting at the Babylon’s Persian motif. Unfortunately I couldn’t find a problem to solve—everything hummed with precision. Darn.
Guess I had to deal with Mona and her turkeys.
Then a dead woman and a smoking gun, which sounded like the perfect recipe for a migraine.
I eased Christophe to one hip as he slumbered, freeing a hand. With a practiced motion, I grabbed my phone from its holster and flipped it open. My thumb found Mona’s button. After the fifth ring, I started to ring off when she answered, her voice breathless.
“Lucky, honey. This isn’t a good time. Your father and I . . .”
“TMI, Mother.” I stifled a shiver of revulsion. No matter how old I got, how worldly I became, there was just something so . . . disturbing about picturing my parents inter-coitus. “And, come to think about it,” I grimaced at the unintentional pun as I once again shifted the boy who clung to my back like a monkey, “are you supposed to be having S-E-X in your condition?”
“S-E-X? Why are you spelling? And what are you talking about? We’re hanging pictures.” She stifled a giggle.
“Right.” I shifted the phone to my other ear, holding it with my shoulder, then put a hand on my hip, nearly taking out a cute Marine as he dodged around me.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said as he shot me a grin.
Even though the “ma’am” thing rankled, I allowed myself a moment to admire his ass as he hurried on. “Mother, Jerry needs you downstairs. Basement Level Two.”
“Honey,” her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “can’t it wait?”
I tried to picture Jerry, his well-armed staff, and a thousand turkeys. “No, I don’t think so. Jerry needs your help with the turkeys you ordered.”
Mona’s voice turned brusque. “Oh, well, I already had the staff clear enough room in several of the walk-ins. I don’t see what he needs me for.”
“I think he wants to blindfold you and stand you against a wall.” I started laughing; I couldn’t help it. “Seriously, Mother. I know your heart’s in the right place. But couldn’t you at least have ordered the turkeys already dressed?”
“But Chef Omer said he would make the dressing.”
The sea of humanity in the lobby flowed around me as I let my head drop forward. My emotions, ragged and somewhat irrational, burbled up. I didn’t fight them. Instead, I relinquished myself and laughed until I cried. It was the only non-self-destructive antidote to Mona and a day that, with Teddie’s sudden reappearance and Romeo’s little bombshell, had taken a hard turn toward abysmal. And to think, it had started so well. Warmth suffused me as I pictured my chef in his shorts and a smile. “Mother,” I managed to squeeze the words out with what little air was left in my lungs. “‘Dressed’ means plucked, gutted, and ready to stuff.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, which gave me time to compose myself somewhat. I wiped my tears on the shoulder of my blouse—I never did like the color of this one anyway—then I bit my lip as I fought down another burble of laughter.
“You mean they’re . . . alive?” Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Mona apparently still had a bit of an edge.
“Mmmmm.” That was the only sound I trusted myself to make.
“Oh, my!”
I took a deep breath. “Mother, at your behest, the press is coming tomorrow. And you’ve given the go-ahead to Crazy Carl to invite all of his fellow storm drain dwellers for the big feast on Thursday. The staff is ready to go, but I feel pretty sure they’ll mutiny if you expect them to behead, gut, and pluck a thousand turkeys.”
“But what should I do?” Her voice sounded small, imploring . . . like a child’s.
Wise to her game, I refused to play. “You need to get down there ASAP. After that, I haven’t a clue. You wanted to campaign for an appointment to the Paradise Town Council. You wanted to ‘change the world one homeless person at a time,’ which I believe were your exact words. You wanted to run this show. Well, run it.”
“Lucky, you’re not being very helpful,” she harrumphed.
“I know.” As I terminated the call, I couldn’t wipe the gloat off my face.
Also by Deborah Coonts
Also by Deborah Coonts
Lucky Now and Then
Wanna Get Lucky?
"Paints a dead-on portrait of Las Vegas that is somehow dark, outrageous, and hilarious at the same time. Lucky O’Toole is wise, witty, and brimming with cheery cynicism. Wanna Get Lucky? goes down faster than an ice-cold Bombay martini—very dry, of course, and with a twist." --Douglas Preston, New York Times bestselling author of Blasphemy
Lucky Stiff
Amid the chaos of fight weekend, the hiring of an eccentric new French chef, and her madam mother's intentions to auction off a young woman’s virginity, Lucky is drawn into a deadly game where no one is what they seem, a game that will end only when she discovers who made fish-food out of Numbers Neidermeyer.
Lucky O’Toole and Fabulous Las Vegas—life doesn’t get any better.
So Damn Lucky
"Lucky’s latest lark brims with the over-the-top ridiculousness that I love about Vegas. Fans of the series will fall in love all over again, and new readers will look forward to her next escapade."
--Publishers Weekly on So Damn Lucky
Lucky Bastard
Lucky O’Toole, the newly promoted vice president of Customer Relations for the Babylon, Las Vegas's primo Strip property, has never met a problem she couldn't handle. But when a young woman is found dead, sprawled across the hood of a new, bright red Ferrari California in the Babylon's on-site dealership, a Jimmy Choo stiletto stuck in her carotid, Lucky's skills are maxed out.
NOVELLAS
Lucky in Love
Lucky O’Toole, the vice president of Customer Relations for the Babylon, one of Las Vegas’s most over-the-top strip properties, is seriously regretting booking a reality television show, The Forever Game, in the hotel’s small theater.
Lucky Bang
M
issing dynamite, an old grudge, and whispers from the past, force Lucky to delve into dark secrets best left alone. And when her father disappears, things become personal.
About the Author
My mother tells me I was born a very long time ago, but I’m not so sure—my mother can’t be trusted. These things I do know: I was raised in Texas on barbeque, Mexican food and beer. I currently reside in Las Vegas, where my friends assure me I cannot get into too much trouble. Silly people. I am the author of WANNA GET LUCKY? (A NY Times Notable Crime Novel for 2010 and double RITA™ Finalist), LUCKY STIFF, SO DAMN LUCKY (a national bestseller), LUCKY BASTARD and four digital novellas, LUCKY IN LOVE, LUCKY BANG and LUCKY NOW AND THEN, Parts One and Two. The fifth novel in the series, LUCKY CATCH, is coming in July. I can usually be found at the bar, but also at www.deborahcoonts.com.
Copyright
LUCKY BASTARD
http://coolgus.com
Copyright © 2013, 2014 Deborah Coonts
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance of fictional characters to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author and publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Books may be purchased for educational, business, or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Jennifer Talty at Cool Gus Publishing 585-703-5969 or contact us at www.coolgus.com.
First published by Forge
Lucky Bastard Page 37
