Wanna Get Lucky?

by Deborah Coonts

  I took a few moments to formulate my reply. “My job puts me in that position, as does yours. No way around that.” I squeezed the phone so hard I thought I would break it. “Teddie, you have to trust the one you hand your heart to.”

  “I know. And I’d trust you with my life and my heart—it wasn’t that.”

  “What then?”

  “It’s a guy thing, all that primal chest-beating and ownership stuff.”

  My death grip on the phone loosened a bit. “So we’re still good?”

  “Honey, we are perfect,” Teddie said with a chuckle. “It was me who needed fixing.”

  “And are you fixed?”

  This time Teddie laughed. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Glad to hear it.” His laugh melted my tension. “Listen, if you’ll be around in about an hour, I need to bring the Porsche home, and in addition to having something to say to you, I have something to thank you for, and a favor to ask—actually two favors to ask.”

  “Sounds interesting. Do you want me to cook breakfast?”

  “Only if you’re hungry—I stuffed myself on Trudi’s bacon.”

  “How was your mother, by the way?”

  “Different.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  I laughed and didn’t feel the need to explain. At some point, I’d get around to telling him about Mother and my father, but not now. “I’ll see you in about an hour.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  THE drive passed with me trying not to think about Teddie. Sounding like an in-control adult, and not an addlepated schoolgirl, took all of my energy as I made and fielded calls. Somehow the workday had started without my presence.

  My office was functioning. I held Flash off until tonight when, hopefully, I would have more of the story. A good friend of mine on the investigative staff of the Gaming Control Board was looking into Paxton Dane’s story. Detective Romeo wanted to talk to me—we settled on a late lunch. Other than that, Miss Patterson and Brandy seemed to be keeping the lid on. They were doing so well, in fact, I was feeling a bit superfluous by the time I pulled into the garage at the Presidio and parked the Porsche in its normal spot.

  My heart beat a rapid rhythm as I rode the elevator from the garage straight to the top. Almost losing my nerve, I stepped out into the vast cavern of Teddie’s apartment.

  He met me halfway across the large room. Unfortunately his attire—shorts and nothing else—did little to help me keep my composure. One look at him, and my carefully planned speech went out the window. Instead, I closed the distance between us with a few measured strides.

  He watched with a bemused expression as I took his coffee mug from his hand and placed it, very carefully, on the side table to the sofa.

  My hands found his bare chest. I let them roam with a freedom I hadn’t indulged in before.

  “Lucky . . .”

  My finger on his lips silenced him.

  Stepping into him, my body pressed to his, I savored the feel of him. His skin smooth beneath my fingers—his body hard and hot. Teddie’s arms circled my waist, crushing me to him.

  I saw my future in his eyes as his mouth found mine.

  He deepened his kiss and time stopped.

  I have no idea how long we stood there like that, and I didn’t care. The whole world could have imploded, and I wouldn’t have missed a beat. My skin on his, his mouth on mine—that was enough—almost.

  His voice was rough when he finally spoke. “We take this much further, I won’t be able to stop.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  A ragged breath escaped him, as if he were fighting with himself for control. “I want your passion, Lucky, but it’s not enough. I want more—I want the whole fairy tale.”

  I stepped back—just a few inches, but it gave me a moment of clarity. “Tell me what you want.”

  Somehow his hands found my skin under my shirt. His fingers traced my spine making it almost impossible to think.

  “I want to be your best friend and your lover,” he began. “I want to make love to you so slowly you beg for it. I want to watch Sunday night football with you—debating whether John and Al are truly the best who ever called a game. I want to ride through Tuscany on a motorbike, your arms around my waist, your voice in my ear. I want to hold your hand and weep through wonderful love stories while we live our own for real. I want you to be the last one I talk to at night and the first one I see in the morning. And when our journey is done, when I travel from this world into the next, I want to be holding your hand. In short, I want it all.”

  Like the blow from a hammer, each word, laden with emotion, assaulted the wall around my heart. And when he was done, all that remained of that barrier was a pile of rubble.

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” I meant every word.

  With a big grin, he swooped down and picked me up, then started toward the bedroom.

  “Put me down. You’ll herniate yourself.” Was that me giggling?

  At that precise moment, my phone rang.

  Teddie paused.

  “Ignore it. I’m good, but the Babylon will not stop functioning without me.”

  After two rings, it stopped. “See?”

  I waited, one heartbeat, two heartbeats, then three. Just when I thought we’d made a clean getaway, Miss Patterson’s voice came over the walkie-talkie. “Lucky, pick up. I know it’s a bad time for an interruption, but it’s important.”

  Teddie eased my feet to the floor, but he kept his arm around my waist, holding me to him. I closed my eyes and just for a brief flash of time, savored that moment—the one with Teddie next to me, neither of us having a care in the world. That moment just before I discovered the calamity so serious that Miss Patterson felt compelled to call—even when she knew where I was and probably what I was doing.

  I unclipped the Nextel and pushed-to-talk. “How bad is it?”

  “It’s The Big Boss. They’ve airlifted him to UMC. He lost consciousness—Delores found him when she came to clean. His heartbeat is irregular—they don’t know if he’s had a heart attack or not.”

  The news knocked the breath from me. The Big Boss? Heart attack? That couldn’t be right. The guy was a horse.

  Just when I felt I’d lost my center, I felt Teddie’s arm around my waist—strong, comforting.

  “Lucky?” Miss Patterson’s voice sounded as taut and as tight as the shortest string on a finely tuned piano.

  For some odd reason I found myself wondering what key that would be—it’s funny what your mind turns to when overloaded. “I’m here. When did they take him?”

  “Just now. He called from the helicopter, if you can believe that.”

  “I can believe it.”

  “He wants you there.”

  My brain cleared, life came back into focus—I always was a crisis performer. The Big Boss used to say that if he ever was in an airplane that had lost all its engines and was on fire, he would want me at the controls. The Big Boss . . .

  Focus, O’Toole. “I’m on my way, but first get a pencil and paper and let me know when you are ready.”

  I heard her shuffling around, then her voice came back. This time more in control, calmer. “Ready.”

  “Call Detective Romeo. Tell him lunch is off, don’t tell him why—we need to keep The Big Boss’s situation under wraps. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Tell Romeo to meet me at that address in Spanish Trail—the one I gave you yesterday—at seven o’clock tonight. Tell him to bring wires for four and whatever the device is that will let me listen and talk to whoever is wired.”

  “Okay.”

  “Call the Most Reverend Peterson J. Peabody. Tell him my list of party attendees is final—he’ll know what to do.”

  “Got it.”

  “Call Flash. Tell her to wait for my call tonight. Don’t give her any more information than that. A
nd call Dane, give him the Spanish Trail address. Tell him to meet me there at eight o’clock. No, make it seven thirty. When he bitches, tell him I said to just do it—I’ll make it worth his while.”

  “I think I will enjoy that.”

  “Did The Big Boss say anything about the paperwork for the board of director’s meeting tomorrow?”

  “He has it with him.”

  I shook my head. “He would.” Nothing was more important than his hotel. “Can you prepare a proxy for him to sign allowing me to vote for him tomorrow?”

  “Already done.”

  “Have Brandy bring it to UMC. Have her wait in the ladies’ room on the fifth floor. Call me when she arrives—I’ll meet her.” I stopped for a moment. Had I thought of everything? Probably not, but it would have to do. “See if you can find Mr. Fujikara. Have him call me on my cell.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Pray.” I rang off.

  Teddie turned me to face him, then kissed me gently. “It’ll be okay,” he murmured as he held me close.

  “One way or the other.” I let him hold me. “I’m not ready to lose him.”

  “We never are.”

  Allowing myself a moment of weakness, I gathered strength from Teddie as I rested my head on his shoulder. A moment was all I had. I pushed myself upright and stepped away. “I need to ask you a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  UMC, the University Medical Center, didn’t look like much from the street. In fact, it looked like the last place a person with a serious medical condition would want to end up. Nothing could be further from the truth. State of the art and staffed with the best doctors money could buy, UMC took care of most of Vegas’ old guard.

  A nurse waited for me as I burst through the doors. “Ms. O’Toole?” she verified.

  I nodded.

  “This way.” She whisked me through a labyrinth of hallways, keeping me out of sight—half the cub reporters in town hung out at UMC looking for a juicy tidbit when news was sparse. “We have Mr. Rothstein in a private suite. Everyone is under strict instructions to keep it quiet.”

  “Is he okay?” I asked as we wound our way through the corridors.

  “He has some fairly major heart problems, but he’s stable. The doctors can give you more details.”

  The private suite wasn’t much. Still industrial with its laminated floors and stark white walls, it was private and had a few touches of hominess—a sitting area, plants softening the corners, and something passing for art on the walls. But nobody had done anything about the smell. Reeking of ammonia, medicine, and sickness, the odor was alternately depressing and horrifying. I fought the urge to turn tail and run.

  I hated hospitals. And I hated that The Big Boss was stuck in one.

  Still wearing his business shirt, slacks, and a frown, he sat upright in a hospital bed parked against the far wall and angled so its occupant could get a glimpse out the window—if one felt inclined to look across and into another patient’s room in the wing opposite. A pallor lurked under the angry flush on his face as he clutched his left arm. His shirt open, leads attached to his chest tethered him to a machine that beeped in time with his heartbeat.

  Dr. Knapp, his personal physician, stood next to the bed and, with the patience earned through years of practice, he explained The Big Boss’s situation to him. “Al, you’ve known for years your heart is enlarged—this day was coming. You’ve put the surgery off too long. The specialist is on his way from the Mayo Clinic. When he gets here in a few hours, we’ll know for sure what we’re dealing with.”

  “Bloody hell. I’m fine.”

  “Sure. That’s why you’re having trouble breathing, you’re sweating even though it’s cold in here, your left arm hurts like hell, and your cleaning lady found you out cold on the floor.”

  The Big Boss stopped clutching his arm, lowered his eyebrows and glared at Dr. Knapp.

  “The surgery is touchy, but it is a complete solution to your problem. You should have a full recovery. It needs to be taken care of, Al.” Dr. Knapp put his hand on The Big Boss’s shoulder. “For now, I’m in charge and you’re to do as I tell you. I don’t want to lose you, my friend.”

  “Me either.” I moved from the doorway where I had been eavesdropping, into the room to stand beside Dr. Knapp at The Big Boss’s bedside. So it wasn’t that serious! An operation and he’d be fine. I felt the tension ease a bit, my shoulders dropped from somewhere around my ears to their normal position.

  Dr. Knapp spoke first. “Lucky, thank God. I’m going to need your help corralling this bull.”

  “Looks like you’re doing okay so far.”

  Emotions chased across The Big Boss’s face—anger, pain, finally fear. “ ’Bout time you showed up,” he groused at me as he slapped the frown back in place.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “No, I’m not okay! What does it look like?”

  Even I could recognize a rhetorical question when I heard one, so I said nothing and waited.

  Finally, The Big Boss sighed. The fight left him, a look of determined resignation replacing his scowl. “Doc, can you leave us a minute?” Dr. Knapp started to say something, but The Big Boss held up his hand, stopping him. “Let me talk with Lucky, then you can have your way with me.”

  Mollified for the moment, the doctor left.

  “Close the door, will you?” The Big Boss asked. “We’ve got some things to talk about. That board meeting tomorrow—you’re going to have to handle it.”

  Chapter

  NINETEEN

  Catering trucks ringed the cul-de-sac in front of Phil Stewart’s house when I arrived. From the looks of it, the Trendmakers expected a large turnout. I angled the Ferrari, which I had once again borrowed, between a truck from a local Mexican food restaurant and an RV that served as the home to the Traveling Fellatio Sisters—apparently the entertainment for the partygoers—when they weren’t creating their own. Oh goody.

  Not many things in Vegas reached the status of over-the-top, but I had a feeling, if the Fellatio Sisters lived down to their name, they came perilously close. That was one of the problems with Sin City—once you stepped out on that slippery slope, it was all downhill—and nobody knew where to draw the line or when they’d crossed it.

  However, the lack of a taste arbiter in Vegas was the least of my worries as I tossed the keys to the startled valet. “Put it out of sight in the garage or something? Okay?”

  “You’re early. The party doesn’t start for another hour or so.” The kid stared at the car, practically drooling with delight. “I’ll have to move Mr. Stewart’s cars around.”

  “Fine.”

  It was déjà vu all over again as I hiked up the drive, now lined with luminarias, and paused in front of the door with the lewd etchings on it. Mr. Stewart must’ve paid a ton of money to get that approved by the architectural committee. I added good taste—right after love—to my list of things that couldn’t be bought.

  Half bracing myself to see the Weasel’s blood still on the white marble floor of the foyer, I turned the knob, eased the door open and took a peek. I needn’t have worried, the floor was spotless, the house and grounds beyond had been transformed. Walking through the house toward the backyard—the main focus of tonight’s festivities—I took in all of the changes. Somebody, or a whole army of somebodies, had been busy.

  A Mexican village had replaced the former studied Southern California charm. Colorful serapes and sombreros hung from the banisters. Brightly colored lanterns dangled from wires draped across the wide expanse of the den and the yard beyond. They danced in the early evening breeze, throwing splashes of colored light. Frozen margarita machines churned in strategic locations. Donkeys and goats nibbled hay in pens in the grassy area between the main house and the cabana, and chickens pecked at corn strewn on the cool deck surrounding the hot tub—which had room for at least twenty.

  Any party that combined swingers and farm animals had me worried. I tried not to think a
bout the possibilities.

  Under the overhang to the cabana, the Naked Mariachis—thankfully still clothed—set up their sound equipment and tested their mikes. I wondered if the Mariachis and the Fellatio Sisters came as a package—a sort of two-for-one deal—but some things are better left unknown. In fact a good many things about tonight would probably be better left to the imagination. Although, with that whole visual thing I had going on, I’m not sure that would be any better for me.

  Pausing at the edge of the patio, I tried to focus—a task that was easier said than done as I watched a man on a ladder stuffing a huge piñata—shaped like a large pair of breasts—with small, square cellophane packets, which I recognized from the box of them I had won last night. Another man was stuffing the same pink-jacketed condoms into another piñata, this one shaped like a large derriere. Briefly I wondered what the partygoers would use to break open the papier-mâché body parts, then decided I was better off left in the dark.

  A lot rode on these next few hours. If we snagged Felicia Reilly, maybe we would get Irv Gittings. Then The Big Boss would keep his hotel without a fight, and I would keep my job.

  A man with hair so black it looked like a bad toupee (assuming there was any other kind), an artificially whitened smile, and skin tanned until it was the color of shoe leather waved at me from across the yard and shouted, “Ms. O’Toole?”

  I waited until he arrived in front of me to respond. “Yes.”

  “I’m Phil. Welcome to my home.” Placing his hand on my elbow, he steered me back inside. “Why don’t I show you around, then you can tell me exactly what you need?”

  My skin crawled at his touch. “The most important thing is a position on the second floor, overlooking the pool—preferably a room that can be locked so we will be undisturbed and unnoticed.”

  “Let me give you the whole layout, then I’ll show you a couple of places that should work.”

  Phil’s house was huge, easily twelve thousand square feet with another five thousand in the cabana by the pool. The Mexican theme extended throughout. We strolled down corridors, past numerous bedrooms, all individually numbered and sporting wicker baskets filled with condoms and tidy wipes on the nightstands. Each bathroom, also numbered, stood at the ready with piles of brightly colored towels and washcloths.