Lucky Stiff (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 2)

by Deborah Coonts

  “I think this hotel has a real hooker problem.”

  I started to laugh, but he sounded serious. “How so?”

  He swept his arm in an arc. “Just look. I’ll bet you most of these females are charging for it.”

  “You can pick out the hookers by just looking?”

  He made a rude noise, and rolled those incredible emerald eyes. “Who couldn’t?”

  “Okay, show me one.”

  We both cast our eyes around the lobby, which was full of tall, thin, surgically enhanced women, dressed to show their assets to the best advantage.

  “There.” Dane pointed. “See the blond woman standing with the other two?”

  I followed his finger, then stifled a grin. “You have just pointed out the wife of a prominent casino executive. The woman on her left is her sister. I don’t know the other one, but I really should go over and say hello. That would be nice, don’t you think?”

  Dane narrowed his eyes at me. “Seriously?”

  “I can introduce you if you’d like.” I was telling the truth, even if he had a hard time believing me. “Give me another.”

  Again, we scanned the lobby.

  “See that old guy with the dolly on his arm. Bet she’s hooking.”

  “I don’t know her, and you may be right. What do you want me to do? Should I stop him and say, Sir, that gorgeous young thing couldn’t possibly be with you, unless money was involved?”

  Dane laughed. “Sarcasm becomes you.”

  “You are the only one who thinks so, but I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  A bright red Ferrari eased to the curb out front, and a valet stepped out and motioned to me. Borrowing a ride from our in-house Ferrari dealer was one of the perks of my job.

  “I like a lady who rides in style,” Dane said, his admiration for the car evident.

  “Want to come with me? To be honest I could use your help.” I pushed through the front doors, with Dane close behind.

  “You want my help? And I thought it was my sparkling personality.”

  “That, too.” I thanked the valet and paused, looking back at Dane. “Ever since someone tried to run me over this morning, I’ve been a little jumpy. And now, I’ve got to go see a guy at a rock quarry. Somehow, going by myself is losing its luster. Want to ride shotgun?”

  “Being a knight in shining armor is my best thing.” Dane folded himself into the passenger seat. “Get a move on, woman. What are you waiting for? Show me what this thing can do.”

  * * *

  ACCORDING to Jimmy G, Scully Winter was the day foreman at a quarry on the west side of town.

  The top down, the cool afternoon breeze tempering the warmth of the sun, Dane and I rode in silence, satisfied grins on our faces, as we savored the dwindling day, the fast car, a returning ease between us. Feeling no need to hurry, I took the long way around to the west side. With rush hour imminent, traffic was building, but it thinned as we merged from the 95 onto Summerlin Parkway. Quickly working through the top gears, I let the Ferrari’s horses run a bit.

  Speed distilled the senses and outran conscious thought, leaving only the visceral punch of the world ripping past. If only life were that elemental, that simple.

  Dane’s fingers brushing the back of my hand startled me back to real time. “I hope you’re paying more attention to driving than you appear to be.” He didn’t move his hand.

  “Not really. Sorry.” His skin on mine felt warm, nice. That’s the trouble with picking a partner in the dance of love—you turn your back on all the other possibilities.

  “Teddie on your mind?”

  I shot him a sideways glance.

  “I saw the paper.” Dane’s eyes shone with an intensity absent from his voice. “You okay?”

  “Never better.” I really wished he’d take his hand off of mine, but I didn’t move either.

  “Liar.”

  At the 215, I turned left, heading south, then hit the gas. The increased Gs pressed me back into the seat.

  “You can’t outrun this, Lucky. Not Teddie. And not me.”

  “I can’t deal with this now.” Easing the Ferrari down, I shifted my hand from under Dane’s. “I trust Teddie—I’ve entrusted him with all I’ve got.”

  “I understand, but I’m not quitting the game, not until there’s a ring on your finger and you’ve pled your troth in front of God and country.” He stuck his arms up through the open top into the air streaming past.

  I couldn’t deny there was definitely something appealing about a guy who wanted me. I had no idea what to do about that... or about him. “You say you read Norm Clarke’s column today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t you want to ask me what Jordan Marsh is like in bed?”

  “That part was so ludicrous it made me laugh.”

  For some reason his pronouncement frosted me a little. “What, you don’t think I can land a guy like that?” Downshifting, I whipped the car onto the off-ramp at Flamingo and braked to a stop at the red light.

  Dane shifted in his seat, angling to look at me. “On the contrary, if he had any sense he’d be pressing you as hard as he could, but you’re not the type to move a guy in through the back door as one is leaving through the front.”

  The guy was earning points hand over fist. If I didn’t get him out of the car fast, I was going to back myself into a corner. I reminded myself over and over—I’m a simple girl, I don’t want complications.

  And then there was that whole “trust is a two-way street” thing.

  Dane fell silent as I eased the car through the residential streets.

  A frontier town in both mind and spirit, Las Vegas had grown in size and number before anyone really knew it had happened. Like mud flowing along, engulfing everything in its path, the city limits had crawled across the valley floor, incorporating tiny hamlets, spring-fed watering holes, and a rock quarry. Once so far from civilization that visitors swore they needed to pack provisions to get there, a very deep and very active quarry was now surrounded by neighborhoods of single-family homes and sidewalks filled with kids on bicycles.

  The miners and the residents kept a fragile peace, which I found amazing since Ralph Nader strong-armed Congress into mandating that commercial vehicles all be equipped with shrill beepers that signaled when the truck was put into reverse. At a quarry, trucks in reverse happened regularly. At this particular quarry it happened around the clock. Incessant beeping was not exactly the lullaby I would like to hear at four in the morning.

  The guard stepped out of a small shack at the entrance—a gravel road cut through the chain-link perimeter fence—and gave the car an admiring glance.

  Nothing like being shown up by my wheels.

  “You guys slumming today?”

  “Scully Winter?” I asked, a hint of frost in my voice.

  The guard shrugged in the direction of a single-wide that looked as if it had ridden through a couple of tornado seasons in Texas, then had been unceremoniously dropped where it sat.

  Out of habit, I angled the Ferrari across several loosely drawn spaces in front of a sign that read Peterson quarry—rock around the clock. Let’s hope Scully shared his employer’s sense of humor.

  As always, Jimmy G’s info was golden. Through a grimy window, I could see the bullet-shaped head of Scully Winter bent over papers spread on a table in front of him.

  The door, rusty and dented, with a padlock dangling open from the lock, didn’t look like it would be much of an impediment to anyone bent on getting in. Maybe that was the point.

  I didn’t knock.

  Scully didn’t look up when we entered. “Whaddya want?”

  “A moment of your time.” Our presence may not have generated any interest, but my voice sure did.

  Scully’s head snapped up; his eyes narrowed. “What do you want?” His voice was a low growl. “How’d you find me?”

  “Despite its size, Vegas is still a small town.”

  Dane shut the door behind him th
en leaned back against it, his arms crossed, his expression flat.

  Scully glanced at Dane, a smile lifting a corner of his mouth. “You brought muscle. This must be good.”

  Scully Winter had fallen a long way since his days as the heir apparent in the district attorney’s office, and it showed. Dirty jeans, work boots, and a white tee shirt with yellow stains circling under each arm had replaced the tailored wool suit, silk tie, and starched cotton shirt. Resignation bowed his shoulders, which were once broad and strong with promise. Suspicion had replaced confidence. Soft rolls of fat hid a body that had once been carved with pride. But the mean slash of his mouth and the flat, emotionless eyes of a predator? Those were the same.

  “I want you to tell me about Numbers Neidermeyer, her private bookmaking operation, and your buddy Daniel Lovato.” Since there was nowhere to sit, I remained standing. I preferred it that way—I’d found my height could be intimidating to shorter men, and I wasn’t above using that advantage.

  Scully laughed. “You got some guts, traipsing in here, asking questions. ‘Course you always did have more balls than sense.”

  Dane stirred behind me.

  I shook my head.

  “How sweet, he likes you,” Scully leered. “I heard you were hooking up with the queer boy in the dresses. That surprised me—Cowboy here seems more your type. I always had you pegged as a gal who liked it rough.’’

  The fact that Scully Winter had ever considered my sexual preferences chased a chill down my spine. “You gonna tell me what I want to know?”

  “Why should I?” Scully let his eyes travel lazily down my body, pausing at points of interest.

  “I have you on tape placing action at the French Quarter.” I lied.

  Those flat eyes found mine. “So.”

  “Well, there’s that pesky little probation problem. I don’t think your probation officer would be thrilled to know you’d jumped back into the game in violation of your parole.”

  Scully thought that over for a moment. Despite his outward appearance, he still had the calculating mind of a shyster lawyer—to the extent those two words were not synonymous. “What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know how Daniel Lovato was involved in the whole thing.”

  Sully cocked his head and squinted one eye at me. “He wasn’t.”

  “I heard he was into Numbers big time—five hundred grand or so.”

  “Not him. Her.”

  “Her?”

  “Mrs. Lovato. Glinda,” he said with a distasteful sneer, as if he’d gotten a mouthful of something vile.

  “Glinda?” Well, well, another brick in the wall.

  “Yeah, I don’t know what the Neidermeyer broad and that bitch had goin’, if you get my drift. You women have weird relationships, you know?” He tapped a pencil on the table while he talked. “Anyway, the Neidermeyer broad had some axe to grind with our fearless district attorney. She used Glinda, got her to place the bets and make it look like Daniel did it. Funny thing was, Neidermeyer was screwing the DA behind his wife’s back all along. Always liked a gal who could ride both sides of the fence.”

  “Did Glinda ever get wise to it?”

  Scully whistled. “I’ll say. That little stink bomb exploded a couple of days before Numbers got fed to the sharks.”

  * * *

  DANE and I made the return trip to the Babylon in silence—we seemed to be making a habit of that. I turned the car back over to the valet and ambled into the hotel, lost in thought. In the lobby, I turned to Dane, who was looking at me with an unreadable expression. “That was a wee bit too easy, don’t you think?” I asked, voicing my reservations.

  “Either that or you’re very lucky,” Dane answered, his face a blank canvas.

  “Cute.” I turned to go. “Thanks for being my muscle.”

  His hand on my arm stopped me. “Dinner?”

  “I can’t. I’m having cocktails with the Big Boss, then I’ve been invited to a hamburger tasting.”

  For a moment he looked at me. “I’m not even going to ask.” With that, he turned and walked away.

  I watched until he disappeared into the crowd.

  * * *

  ROMEO jumped from his perch on the edge of Brandy’s desk when I returned to the office, his face reddening when his eyes met mine. He and my young assistant were alone.

  “I’m assuming Miss Patterson left?”

  “She took Jeremy home—both of them were totally wrung-out,” Brandy said. “She said if you needed anything, just send up a flare.”

  “Romeo, are you here on business or pleasure?” I stuck my head into my office, took a glance around, then flipped off the light.

  “A bit of both. We got a positive ID on Numbers Neidermeyer. You were right.”

  “What do you know, I finally got an answer instead of more questions.” I shouldered my Birkin. “Why don’t you two knock off for the day? Brandy, forward the phones to my cell. I’ll handle it from here.”

  “I can stay.” Brandy offered, but she didn’t look too enthusiastic as she cast furtive glances at Romeo.

  “Go on. Turn out the lights and lock the door. I’ll be having drinks with the Big Boss in the Garden Bar.”

  * * *

  IN creating a special experience for the Babylon’s sun-worshipers, the Big Boss attempted to duplicate the hanging gardens of ancient Babylon—one of the seven wonders of the ancient world—and he’d outdone himself. Huge tropical trees draped over three separate pools that were connected by a river with grottos and caves. Roses, gardenias, and other flowering plants grew in riotous abandon on both sides of meandering paths that widened occasionally into larger areas for lounging. Trailing vegetation dripped from the balconies of the overlooking rooms. Water burbled over rock formations on its way to the pools.

  Curiously enough, the Garden Bar actually overlooked the gardens. And, in my opinion, it was misnamed. A series of platforms suspended above one end of our pool area, the bar was more reminiscent of the Swiss Family Robinson than ancient Babylon.

  But in Vegas most folks overlook a little creative license.

  Rope bridges connected the platforms to each other, and a larger, more stable bridge connected the bar to the hotel’s mezzanine floor. Sometimes, very early in the morning, I enjoyed watching the heavy drinkers attempting to traverse the bridges.

  Like the king overlooking his kingdom, the Big Boss waited at a table at the edge of the highest platform. He’d ordered us both bourbon, neat, and sat staring off into space. As his eyes surveyed the activity below, his fingers were busy with what I knew to be a hundred dollar bill. Following a remembered pattern, he worked the paper bill, folding, rotating, folding again.

  I slipped into the chair next to his. “You thinking about something in particular or everything in general?”

  His eyes flicked to me then returned to stare into the distance. “I was thinking about your mother’s little fracas.”

  “She’s made quite a splash.”

  “You have a flair for the sarcastic understatement.” This time, when his eyes shifted to mine, they stayed.

  “This is news?” I took a sip of the strong brew then took a deep breath, relishing the warmth spreading through me. Every now and then the thought that I might like bourbon more than I should tried to get my attention, but I pushed it away. Distilled spirits and fine wine were two of life’s pleasures and I had no intention of depriving myself of either. Besides, the word should was not part of my vocabulary.

  “I’m finding the media attention your mother is garnering fairly disconcerting.” My father glanced at me and shrugged sheepishly. “I don’t think she appreciates how squeaky-clean my image has to be.” He finished the tiny origami figure and set it on the table for my inspection.

  I smiled at the tiny work of art—an elephant, its trunk raised. For as long as I’d known him, the Big Boss had turned to origami when his stress level rose.

  “Mother doesn’t understand the shadow her profession ca
sts, or, if she does, she chooses to ignore it.”

  “The Gaming Commission takes a dim view of it, I can tell you that—and they won’t look the other way. Even a hint of scandal, and they’ll review my gaming license. Without it, I’m done.”

  “Does Mother know that?”

  “I’m not sure she’s thought about it.” My father looked out over the hanging gardens, his eyes troubled. “To be honest, I haven’t wanted to mention it, but this little auction of hers may have forced my hand.”

  “What are you going to say?” My heart leapt into my throat. Just once, couldn’t these two people I loved have everything they wanted?

  “If the Gaming Commission holds my feet to the fire . . .” He shrugged. “One of us is going to have to choose.”

  “Choose?”

  “Between who we are and who we want to be with.”

  “Are you sure that’s the only way out?” Boy, talk about the cards of life going cold. First life forced Jordan Marsh to finally fold his hand. Were my parents next?

  “I don’t see any peas-and-carrots kind of ending here. That’s been the problem all along.” As he lifted his glass to his lips, ice clinking in his glass betrayed his shaking hand.

  I grasped his hand, squeezing hard.

  “I do love her so,” he whispered, shooting an arrow of pain through my heart.

  Life was nothing more than a series of choices, some easy, some difficult... some impossible. And love complicated everything. This day, already depressing enough, had taken a turn straight toward abysmal.

  The Big Boss drained his drink, then motioned for another. “Do you think we can get her to understand the concept of subtlety?”

  “Ah, the sweep-it-under-the-rug-and-maybe-nobody-will-notice approach. That’s like trying to lasso a shooting star.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.” He took his fresh drink from the waiter as he handed him the empty.

  Each of us lost in our own thoughts, we sat for a few moments soaking in the last warm rays of a brilliant day. A hummingbird darted among the flowers, undeterred by the crowd gathering in the bar. Birds winged high above, waiting for the bugs to come out as the day faded to dusk.