* * *
THE rest of the evening with the Big Boss passed in pleasant conversation. Asking for my help with the new French guy hadn’t required a meal, but lately my father had been looking for excuses to spend time with me. Frankly, I enjoyed our time together as much as he did and was grateful for the opportunities to get to know him in a slightly different way. Even though our relationship had always been comfortable and warm, I needed to adjust to the overlay of family.
Afterward, I had a few minutes to kill before leaving to meet the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock, so I took a turn through the casino.
Casino design is a fine art, and the Big Boss had spent a cool million on the plans alone. If the size of the crowd now packing the space was a measure of success, the designer had hit this one out of the park. All shapes and sizes gathered around the tables and occupied the chairs in front of the slots. Drinks in hand, young men trolled, eyeing the ladies as if sizing up heifers at the state fair. The women pretended to be disinterested, but they couldn’t resist casting furtive glances as well. Everyone had apparently gotten the memo that, when in Vegas, tacky attire was de rigueur.
Multicolored canvas looped from the ceiling, evoking an intimate Persian bazaar. Giant potted palms completed the theme. Flames burned at the end of bundles of faux reeds that were mounted on the walls under covered glass. Cocktail waitresses, clad in tiny, off-the-shoulder wraps, their waists cinched with gold braid, worked the crowd.
Occasional shouts arose from the tables. The slots sang out to passers-by, but the clattering of quarters signaling a winner was no more. All the casinos had converted to slots that accepted bills but no coins, then printed a receipt for any winnings, which the patron cashed at the window or at kiosks located strategically throughout the casino. Someone who studied these sorts of things had determined players spent more when stuffing in bills—apparently each quarter they put into the machine served as a visual reminder of how much they were spending. We deferred to the experts, but I missed the clank of metal money cascading through a metal tube. Exciting and exhilarating, the sound defined Vegas, as did the normal haze gathered about the crowd.
People smoked in Vegas as if the whole city had been declared a cancer-free zone.
As I passed the final row of slot machines, a man seated at the far end caught my eye. Lean and lanky, his eyes dark hollows in his angular face, the ubiquitous cigarette dangling from his lips, he stared as if mesmerized by the whirling wheels in front of him. Everything about him appeared normal—except for the pith helmet with a short antenna extending out of the top that adorned his head. I leaned against the machines and watched him for a moment. Without the clang of quarters, it was impossible to tell if he was winning. He didn’t look twitchy or cast glances over his shoulder. Still, he warranted a look.
I grabbed my push-to-talk and keyed Security.
Jerry answered. “Whatcha got?”
“Are you at the monitors?”
Security had a wall of screens displaying live feeds from cameras watching all public areas of the property. “I can be. Give me a sec.”
I waited while Jerry repositioned himself.
“Okay, shoot,” he said when ready.
“You see the guy in the pith helmet in the last row of slots on the west side of the floor?”
“We’ve been watching him for about ten minutes, but we haven’t seen anything weird.”
“You mean beside the antenna?” I let a hint of sarcasm creep into my voice.
“There’s an antenna?” Jerry’s voice took on a hard tone.
“About an inch long—hard to see. He’s probably just talking to aliens, but on the theory that the best place to hide something is in plain sight, why don’t you have a couple of your guys check him out?”
“Are you thinking he might have an electronic transmitter in there?”
“A long shot, but we don’t want him messing with our equipment—it’s bad for the bottom line.”
‘I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks.” I started to rehook my phone in its cradle at my waist, then thought better of it. Instead, as I pushed myself upright and started toward the front of the hotel to retrieve my car from the valet, I hit number two on the speed-dial.
Teddie answered just as I thought his voicemail would pick up. “Hey, beautiful. Are you coming home?” He sounded excited and distracted at the same time—the perpetual emotional state of a composer.
I didn’t have to ask what he was up to. “Jeremy and I have an errand to run, then I’ll head your way. I can’t imagine I’ll be more than a couple of hours.”
“Call me when you two are done, okay?”
“Sure.” I started to ring-off, then remembered. “Hey, would you do me a favor?”
“Anything,” he said, sounding like he meant it.
“Would you TIVO the eleven o’clock news? Mother’s invited the media to her press conference.” I gave the Hi sign to one of the valets, and he bolted into the darkness.
“Press conference? What is she announcing?”
“What? Me tell? And ruin it for you? No, you’ll have to find out for yourself.”
CHAPTER THREE
AUNT Matilda wasn’t really my aunt at all.
And she shot anyone who called her by her given name.
Known far and wide as Darlin’ Delacroix, she was my mother’s best friend (a status that conferred honorary family membership over my objection), and had been a fixture in my life—and a pain in my ass—as far back as I could remember.
My dear aunt was a proud member of the leading family of Ely, Nevada. The Delacroixes had made their fortune in mining—silver, uranium, borax, molybdenum, and other sundry minor minerals. Minor minerals or not, the Delacroix stake was worth major money. When the old man died, Matilda had taken her share, fled to Vegas, changed her name, enlarged her bust, dyed her hair, and bought an off-strip casino. That had been years ago, when I was a little girl.
Now, on the downhill side of seventy, Darlin’ reigned as the doyen of the French Quarter, the most successful local casino. The Quarter’s largest drawing card besides loose slots was a slate of prizefights held every Friday night, which always attracted a huge, rabid crowd.
In an effort to avoid squandering even a single opportunity to separate patrons from their money, the Quarter also boasted a bowling alley, a twelve-screen movie extravaganza, and a kid zone where parents could deposit the scions of the clan while they gambled with the milk money. Darlin’ had added a small theatre a couple of decades ago, which now hosted headliners who had passed their career apex in the 1970s. The ugly stepsister to the glittering Strip properties, the French Quarter made money hand-over-fist, much to the chagrin of the big dogs who had poured billions into their megacasinos.
One look at the jammed parking lot, and I headed for the valet. I pulled in behind a black Hummer. After taking a ticket from an out-of-breath kid, his shirttail hanging out, his hair wild, Jeremy stepped out of the Hummer. Apparently we ran on coordinated internal clocks.
Noise assaulted us as we pushed through the front doors. Dixieland jazz pumped through the sound system at a mind-numbing level. Ropes of cheap Mardi Gras beads circled the necks of most patrons, many of whom clutched tall glasses of hurricanes—the French Quarter’s signature drink. Like too many fish in an aquarium, the jean-clad crowd filled every conceivable space.
An almost nauseating mixture of aromas filled the air—deep-fried beignets, strong Cajun spices, chickory coffee, stale beer, cigarette smoke. For a moment I even thought I could discern the stench of the previous night’s excesses that coated the sidewalks of the real French Quarter. My imagination added the smell of the dirty water of Old Man River as it rolled through Nawlins. At least I hoped it was my imagination.
An eardrum-shattering trumpet blast interrupted the revelry, announcing the aerial show. Every hour, on the hour, floats filled with costumed revelers tossing beaded trinkets into the crowd traversed a track hanging from the ceiling a
s carnival music blared. If a pretty young thing in the crowd flashed her cantaloupes, she was awarded special medallions from the King, who rode in his own regal raft.
What little movement there was within the packed crowd stopped as eyes turned skyward. The crowd whooped and hollered, trying to attract the attention of the bead-tossers. With me in the lead, Jeremy and I ducked down and wormed along. Before facing Matilda, I needed to make a stop at the lobby liquor store.
Aunt Matilda had two vices—handsome young men and cheap gin.
* * *
WITH a bottle of Admirals firmly in hand, Jeremy and I again dove into the crowd and pushed and shoved our way to the elevators. The crowd there was six deep. Four elevators deposited their loads and took on another before we forced our way onto one.
Hands trapped at my side by the crush of people, I shouted, “Top floor, please.” Matilda would be receiving in her parlor. I couldn’t tell if anyone heard or responded. It didn’t matter. Imprisoned, I was along for the ride.
After stopping at almost every intervening level, the elevator spit us out at the top. Jeremy and I walked the long corridor in silence. I know I was girding myself—I assumed Jeremy was also.
The man standing guard at the door nodded and ushered us inside.
With red flocked wallpaper, dainty Queen Anne couches covered in plush purple velvet, skirted end tables boasting lamps with fringed shades, and potted palms weeping in the corners,
Matilda’s parlor had given me nightmares as a child. Now it just gave me the creeps. Especially when you added the bevy of beautiful young men who lounged on the couches as additional decoration and Rod Stewart warbling “I’m in the Mood for Love” from the speakers.
Sitting in the midst of this invitation to debauchery was my Aunt Matilda.
Four foot ten and eighty pounds dripping wet, she commanded attention from her perch on a raised chair, her legs stretched in front of her, her feet resting daintily on a footstool.
For a woman sliding toward eighty, she pushed the fashion envelope. Her hair long and blond, her lips a red slash across her face, she wore fishnet hose on her dancer’s legs and red stilettos. A black Lycra mini, a beaded top, and her standard leather jacket that I knew had an image of Elvis in leather mosaic on the back completed the picture.
Like a black hole, Matilda sucked all the energy out of the room, leaving us to revolve around her like spent planets.
She bounced to her feet when she saw us. “Lucky!”
Hoping my pants had enough give in them, I half-squatted, then bent down to give her a hug—four foot ten is a long way down from my six feet. “Aunt—”
“None of that aunt stuff.” She waggled a finger at me. “You’re supposed to call me Darlin’.”
“I am incapable of calling anyone Darlin’.” I extended the bottle of gin. “But before you write me off as too big a disappointment, I brought you a present.”
“Redeeming,” she said, as she gripped the bottle in her red-tipped claws. “The handsome man doesn’t hurt either.” She flashed a coquettish look at Jeremy. “Good to see you, Aussie-boy.”
“You, too, Darlin’.” A hand under her elbow, he guided her back to her chair. “We’ve come on business.”
With a dismissive wave, Darlin’ cleared the room. She pointed to a couch on the far side of the parlor. “Lucky, make yourself comfortable over there. Jeremy, why don’t you sit right here.” She patted a stool next to her.
Then she turned her attention, capturing me from head to toe in a glance. “Honey, those clothes! You look cheap.”
Some people set my teeth on edge without even trying—Matilda was their Queen. “You have no idea how much I paid to look this cheap.”
“Just because that outfit is expensive doesn’t mean it’s not cheap,” Darlin’ opined, a serious expression on her face.
“Yeah, the cheaper it is, the more it costs,” I agreed, having too much fun to stop now.
Darlin’ stared at me, clearly at a loss for words.
I didn’t know they still sold blue eye shadow.
She blinked, her eyes wide. Lined with two sets of false eyelashes, it was amazing she could blink at all.
Victory was in my grasp.
Jeremy had that semi-amused, caught-in-the-crossfire look. “You two behave. We need her help, Darlin’, so be nice.”
“We do?” Darlin’ asked, her doubt evident.
Matilda never read the papers—she preferred to live in her own world—so I waited while Jeremy filled her in on the recent developments regarding Fishbait Neidermeyer.
“Sounds like she had it coming.” An old-timer, Darlin’ couldn’t understand why society frowned on someone ridding themselves of a menace.
Jeremy started to explain, then quit. I understood his frustration—I had the same conversation with the Big Boss time and time again.
“Darlin’, I brought Lucky here so you could tell her what you told me.” Jeremy put a hand on Darlin’s knee. “I don’t want to violate client confidentiality, so the decision is yours. But I think she can help.”
She eyed me for a moment. “She did save Al’s hotel from that frightful man and his murder scheme.” She gave me an ironic smile. “And she is family.”
I always suspected she knew I didn’t cotton to the idea of us being “related”—now I knew for sure.
“I don’t guess it could hurt,” she said, then she launched in. “My Sports Book manager came to me with a problem a week or so ago. He’d noticed some trends in the betting. Betting is usually fairly random. When trends develop and repeat, they raise suspicions.” Darlin’ clapped her hands and magically a young man appeared with a glass pitcher of gin martinis, dirty, and three glasses.
When Matilda drank, everybody drank.
Cheap gin, dry vermouth, and olive brine—I’d rather sip battery acid—but I took my drink when offered and pretended to be delighted.
“We don’t have any proof, just gut feelings, really.” Darlin’ took a big gulp of martini. “Big money would come in at the last minute, just before betting closed—before we had time to adjust the odds.” She idly stirred two olives skewered on a toothpick around her glass.
“What kinds of bets are we talking about?” I asked.
“Local book only. Mainly our Friday night fight series.”
“Did Numbers Neidermeyer set the odds?”
“On some of them, but not all. Even though she has... had... the reputation, I like to spread my business around.” My aunt looked up from her drink. Her eyes locked with mine. “I’ve seen greed get to the best of them.”
“Who was placing the action?”
“That’s my girl, follow the money.” This time my aunt looked pleased. Was this some kind of test and I’d missed it?
“Following the money, that’s what I was doing.” Jeremy joined the conversation. “Word on the street had it that someone was making private book.”
“Ms. Neidermeyer?” I asked.
“I’d just started turning over rocks, but more than one snake writhed in her direction.” Jeremy stood and started pacing. “I can’t prove anything, of course.”
“So, back to my original question: Nobody knows who places the action?” I asked.
“They don’t send the same guy each time.” Aunt Matilda said, choosing her words carefully. “But my manager thought he recognized Scully Winter as one of the carrier pigeons.”
“Scully?” My eyebrows shot up. “Didn’t he go underground after the State Bar yanked his license to practice law?”
“It appears he might have resurfaced.” Aunt Matilda took a sip of her martini as she eyed me over the top of the glass.
“Did the security cameras get him?”
“If they did, the tapes were erased before we knew to start looking.”
Unsure of what to do with my glass of witch’s brew, I looked around for a resting place. Finally, I scootched the wide crystal flute onto the side table next to the couch and hoped my aunt wouldn’t noti
ce. Needing time to think, I leaned back. Scully! Single-handedly the slime had almost imploded the district attorney’s office. Daniel had been on the brink of homicide when he learned one of his own had been making deals with the scum of the city. The police brought them in, and Scully pled them out and took a nice kickback for it.
After paying his debt to society, Scully had vanished. So why had he chosen now to reappear?
“You got any ideas?” Matilda’s voice brought me back.
“What?” I sat up and looked at the two faces turned in my direction.
Jeremy and Matilda looked like believers waiting for words of wisdom from the Oracle of Delphi.
“I have ideas,” I said. “But I need some time to work all the angles.”
“Sure,” my aunt said, her voice flat, devoid of any intonation that might hint at what she meant. Did she mean, Sure, take the time you need, or, Sure, I don’t think you have anything?
“Lucky, you’re picking me up on Friday, right?” Matilda shifted gears so seamlessly she left me in the dust.
I stared at my aunt, trying to think why I would ever do such a thing. “Friday?”
“For the virginity auction at your mother’s place.” Matilda held out her glass and Jeremy refreshed her drink from the pitcher as he looked at me with wide eyes. “She was supposed to talk to you about it.”
“She’s probably been too busy holding press conferences,” I explained earnestly, then added, lying through my teeth, “I’ll try to get away.” Spending the afternoon with Matilda and Mona at a virginity auction was about as palatable as attending a weenie roast with a tribe of cannibals.
The three of us visited a little longer. When another unsuspecting victim arrived, Jeremy and I seized the opportunity and made our escape.
* * *
RIDING in Jeremy’s Hummer, I could imagine what it felt like to cover ground in the belly of a Sherman Tank. Encased in metal, sitting high off the ground, the vehicle chewed up road with ease. I felt invincible. All we were lacking was a 105 mm howitzer and a turret bristling with machine guns, which would really be useful in traffic. Tonight the traffic was light, so I didn’t really miss the weaponry.
Lucky Stiff (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 2) Page 5
