“It’s all about theater. You’re a rich guy being led around by the nose by a dumb sexy little bimbo who has attached herself to his wallet. Bet they’ve seen that around here before.”
Okay, now I believed she was thirty-one. A girl that age can sound seventeen, but a girl of seventeen can’t sound thirty-one.
She flopped down on the bed and hugged herself, smiling. “This is great. I’ve had more fun today than all last year.”
“And I’ve come closer to having a heart attack today than all last year, Sugar Plum. And it was a pretty bad year, all in all.”
She sat up. “Have a little faith, Daddy.”
“Had enough ‘Daddy’ and ‘Sugar Plum’ yet?”
“For now. Just don’t forget who we are.” She got up and looked out a window. “Hey, this is nice. Just wait’ll the sun goes down and the lights really come on.”
We’d given the bellhop a hundred dollars for bringing up our luggage, such as it was, and sent him on his way. Once we were alone in the room, the wig, moustache, and cowboy hat were on a bed where I’d flung them. The place was huge, impressive, and free. Bedroom with two king beds, furniture in glossy golden oak, indirect lighting, windows that sloped inward due to the building’s pyramid shape. Big sitting room with a purple couch, overstuffed chairs, floor lamps. A kitchen with a stainless-steel refrigerator, microwave, blender, coffeemaker, juicer, good-sized toaster oven. Sixty-inch televisions in the bedroom and sitting room, forty-inch in the bathroom. I stood at the entrance to the bathroom, checking out a Jacuzzi the size of a small swimming pool. Vegas was in a state of perpetual drought; now I knew why.
Lucy walked over. “I like this dress. It’s a hot little number, but real tight on top—which of course it’s supposed to be.” She turned her back to me, looked over her shoulder. “Unzip me?”
Right away I had a choice—unzip or don’t unzip. But in truth I didn’t have a choice. I was the only unzipper in the room. And I’d finally accepted the fact that she wasn’t seventeen or even twenty-five, so I ran the zipper down, exposing a very nice bare back and a tiny waist; a taut, slender flare of hips.
She turned and stepped out of the dress.
“No bra?” I said, trying unsuccessfully not to stare.
She gave me a look like I was from Mars. “In this dress? You kidding? Anyway, it lifts like a bra. Which, of course, is the whole point. Makes the boobies pop out the top a little.”
She rubbed said boobies, then put on her tank top, no shorts. She had on black lace bikini panties. And long legs.
“I’m starving,” she said. “Let’s eat.”
“The room’s gotta face east? Where’d that come from?”
She laughed. “Got any idea how much casinos like flakes?”
“I do now.”
“So . . . food? Bein’ that lucky is hard work.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LUCY HAD A tabbouleh lettuce wrap—garbanzo beans, roasted tomato, and walnuts with a pomegranate vinaigrette dipping sauce. I had the Australian lobster tail and a small steak. Good stuff. Mine, anyway.
She ate cross-legged on one of the beds in her panties and tank top, flipping through a menu on the TV that advertised the various attractions offered by the Luxor. I sat on a chair, eating off a folding walnut tray worth a hundred bucks.
“We could go see Fantasy,” Lucy said, pointing with her wrap at the screen where a video clip of the Luxor’s “best-on-the-Strip” Showgirl Review was playing. “Topless women, Mort.”
“Got that covered already.”
She laughed merrily. “It’s got guys dancing around in like little jock straps, too. I don’t have that.”
“Nor will you.”
“Maybe not dancing, but—”
“Don’t think so, kiddo.”
Lucy worked the remote a while longer. “There’s Aurora. Nice quiet-lookin’ bar downstairs. We could go on down, get ourselves loose, maybe a little bit sozzled.”
“Sozzled, huh?”
“Hey, I went to college, picked up a few things. Got that good nineteen-forties vocabulary. Anyway, you might want to unwind after a hard day gambling and riding around with a gabby topless chick seventeen years old.”
I gave her a look. “You sure as hell better not be.”
“What? Gabby?”
“Seventeen. Gabby is now a given.”
“So how ’bout it? Aurora? We’re not gettin’ anywhere with this Jo-X investigation, and I don’t think we’re going to find out anything more about him here tonight if we wanted to.”
True enough. I wasn’t sure we were going to learn anything about Jo-X if we kicked around Vegas for a month.
“You’ve got that red dress. Got anything else to wear in a place like that?” I asked, nodding at the television.
She smiled. “Turns out, maybe I do.”
She did, sort of. Of course, this was Vegas, so it didn’t much matter what she wore as long as it covered the critical parts, or at least pretended to. We rode the elevator down, Lucy in clothes she’d bought in the first shop she’d gone into that afternoon—tight white hip-hugger pants that ended four inches above her ankles, waistline a few inches below her navel, and the absolute pièce de résistance, a white crochet cotton halter top with a bit of kite string around her neck, another around her back. The thing was peek-a-boo mesh with eighth-inch holes throughout. It gave no support, but none was needed. It looked airy and cool, and might have weighed a fifth of an ounce. A two-inch fringe on the bottom swayed as she walked. She wore her silver heels and the ankle chain. The outfit left eight inches of flat belly exposed. It might’ve been legal on the streets in Vegas, but not something I would’ve wanted to push in Muscogee.
I, of course, was in the white idiot wig and all the rest of it.
We found an empty booth and she ordered a strawberry daiquiri that came in a glass the size of a birdbath. I had a Mojito made with Pyrat rum, best the place had to offer, even better since it was on the house. A bottle of that stuff would cost nearly three hundred dollars.
Lucy looked terrific across the table from me in lighting that shaded from hot pink to deep blues and purples. She looked good sipping from a little red straw with pursed lips, too.
Was this a “date”?
I didn’t know what it was. I’d started off that morning with no expectations about anything, including Jo-X’s murder, but ever since Tonopah, the day had been over the top. Not even my recent year of gumshoe training had prepared me for someone like Lucy.
“Tell me what happened in that basement,” she said, looking at me as she took another sip of daiquiri.
“What basement?”
“Where those two women kept you last year. You were tied up. What was that like?”
“We could talk about something else.”
“We could, but why?”
“It wasn’t a good time for me.”
She looked at me from the tops of her eyes as she took another sip. “They said you were naked the entire time.”
“That’s excellence in journalism for you. Report all the facts. Don’t leave out anything that might sell Jeeps or beer.”
“That mean it was true?”
“Yes.”
“Well, hell. Now I feel deprived.” Her eyes smiled at me.
“We could talk about something else.”
“Déjà vu.”
“So . . . why art history if you weren’t that much into art?”
“I thought mathematics or physics would be a lot of work. Especially since I barely got Ds in algebra in high school. I’m smart, but not like that.”
“You could’ve been an English major.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t ever want to have to read James Joyce’s Ulysses, or, God forbid, anything by Montaigne. And I don’t like writing essays, which I ended up getting plenty of in art history. Didn’t know that would happen. I should’ve majored in Phys. Ed.”
“Did you look for a job? After graduating?”
&nbs
p; “I tried. Museums want PhDs, and then there’s a waiting list six miles long, or would be if there were six miles of people dumb enough to get doctorates in art history. Bachelor degree in art history and a subway token will get you a ride uptown and then you have to walk back. The first job I got was arranging and decorating mannequins in a store window, if you can believe that. Like in that place in the casino here where I bought the dress. That was at Macy’s in Frisco. Lasted all of a week. Then I was a receptionist for a dentist for a year and a half in Reno. Then I was in Seattle for two years, working for a florist, arranging flowers. Best job I ever had. Finally I got tired of rain so I went down to Phoenix, got a job answering the phone and taking orders for a fat guy who rented out party equipment, amplifiers and speakers, fold-up stages, laser lights. He would do this DJ thing, too, play music on a monster computer console that stored like twenty thousand songs. Then he started hitting on me, tryin’ to anyway. Third time that happened, I was at my desk the next morning and I happened to look up. There was a scorpion on the ceiling. A scorpion. On the ceiling. Just standing there, if that’s what you call it when things are upside down. Who knew they could do that? It could’ve dropped on my head. So I got the hell out. As it turns out, I’m not into poisonous bugs on ceilings or chubby guys hitting on me.”
“Just old guys,” I said.
She pummeled me with a look. “Hey! You’re not that old. You might have a few years on me—not that many, actually—but you look good. And you haven’t hit on me, but it would be okay if you did. And—bein’ here with you—for me there’s a bonus.”
“What’s that?”
“Two things, actually. First—you’re a private investigator. It’s not like I have anything like a career going. So maybe I could stay with you, learn how to investigate stuff.”
“Stay with me?”
“Well, stick with you, then. Run around with you. Help out, which I totally know I could do if you give me a chance. And . . . whatever. Learn things.”
“That would be a decision you might live to regret.”
“Doubt it. And, you’re kinda sexy—well, more than kinda—so running around with you would be that kind of nice, which is the other bonus.”
I stifled a laugh. Me, more than kinda sexy? Ri-i-i-ght.
She smiled. She had a fresh, innocent face. The alcohol had put a little color in her cheeks. “You don’t think so?” she said.
“Nope.”
“Maybe it’s those facial scars. Gives you a nice piratey look. Better even than Depp since his are fake.”
“Piratey. I don’t think that’s a word.”
“It is if I shay it is.”
“Shay?”
She stared at her drink for five seconds. “I think a shay is like a carriage or a surrey. Not sure why I said it though.” She looked up at me. “Truth is, I’m not a big drinker. This thing’s got a pretty good kick to it. Sneaks up on you.”
“We could go take in that show—Fantasy. Drink plain Cokes. You could watch guys leap around in jock straps.”
“And you could check out a bunch of topless women.” Her eyes locked on mine. “But—”
“But?”
She tilted her head. “Too much of a good thing . . . ?”
“Right. I might’ve reached my limit for the day. Or week.”
“It sure better not be for a week.”
“Sounds like you’ve got ideas cookin’ in that head of yours.”
She toyed with her drink. Took another small sip. Gazed down at the slush. When she looked up, her voice had changed. “This . . . this thing we’re doing. I don’t want you to think we have to keep doing it.”
Uh-oh. Serious talk. Didn’t see that coming. I thought I had a handle on this girl, but maybe not.
“This wasn’t your idea,” she said. “At all. I get that. I pretty much bulled my way into your life, Mort. Back in Tonopah.”
“It’s been a trip and a half, Luce.”
She gazed into her drink again. “You should know—I’m not going to sleep with you tonight.”
I blinked. “I didn’t think you would.”
“That right? No expectations at all after everything we’ve done today? After what I did in the car on the way here?”
I thought about that. “I will acknowledge that the possibility crossed my mind, but it never rose to the level of an expectation. And I wondered what I would do if things looked like they were headed that way. I still think you’re too young. At least you look too young.”
She smiled. “I’m not too young. At all. But you’re a really nice guy, like you’ve got no hard edges. And I will acknowledge that the thought crossed my mind, too. About a dozen times today, actually, especially in the car. But I don’t want to do that, and I don’t want to lead you on. This is our first day of . . . of whatever this is. I mean, maybe it’s nothing, even though I’d marry you right now if you ask. But it could end up as a kind of partnership or an employer-employee-trainee sort of thing. Anyway, this is just the first day of whatever it is and no way am I ready to sleep with you—if, as you say, it starts to head in that direction.”
“I’m glad. Relieved, actually.”
“Although.” She smiled, reached over, and took my hand. “I can be kind of a tease. It’s not like I’m oblivious. I know guys like to look at undressed women and it can get them wound up.”
“Hey, it’s still a trip and a half.”
“Well, good. But the thing is, it sort of heats me up, too, if you want to know. Guess that’s one reason why I do it. I was going a little bit in the car today, even if you didn’t know it.”
“Going.”
“Yep. Little bit. Anyway, I needed to say all this, and I think this drink has made it easier—but I’m not really a huge, evil tease, like I would just tease you until the end of time. I’m not a virgin, Mort. Not even close.”
I was about to say something, not sure what, though I think it was going to be something to do with Holiday and being impervious to being teased, which might or might not be true, but she held up a hand and stopped me, which was probably a good thing. “Gotta say one more thing here, Mort.”
“Okay, shoot. I’ll shove a word in edgewise later.”
She smiled at that. “If . . . if you want to get rid of me, I’ll go. No big scene. Not even a little scene. But if you do, it would be nice if I got, I don’t know, maybe a third of what we won? That wouldn’t be too awful of me, would it? Like maybe ten or twelve thousand for being lucky. You keep the rest since you put up the money.”
“If that’s what you want, sure.”
Her eyes flashed. “No!” Her voice got softer. “That’s not what I said. I just don’t want to be . . . in the way, like baggage you don’t want. That’s the last thing I’d ever want to be.”
“You’re anything but baggage, Lucy.”
She smiled hopefully. “Does that mean you’re gonna keep me around a while? Like I might be useful and I’m sort of fun to be with?”
“More than sort of. It’s been a terrific day. All of it—the topless show, the conversation, the gambling, the outfit you’re wearing right now.”
Her smile blazed in the dim room. “Good.” She pushed her drink away. “Enough of this. What I’m really in the mood for is that Jacuzzi upstairs. With company, if you can stand it.”
“If I can stand it, huh?”
“Well . . . yeah. Knowing it won’t lead to anything later. Not tonight anyway. That hasn’t changed just ’cause we had this talk.”
“Hey, I’m tough. I can take it.”
Tough. That’s me.
And then . . .
“Hey, look,” Lucy called to me from the bathroom. “Bubble bath. Really good stuff, too.”
I came into the room. She had a towel around her waist as hot water filled the tub. I had the towel’s twin around my waist. Lucy took a look at me and straightened up. “Whoa.”
“Whoa?”
“You . . . uh, you’re kinda, wow, Mort.”
/> “Went off your Prozac again, huh? That’s what happens.”
“I’m serious. I mean, you’re not like Schwarzenegger, which is actually a good thing, but you . . . you’re buffed. Totally.”
“It’s the Borroloola workout.”
“Borroloola? What’s that? Is it anything like Pilates?”
“Probably not. Tell you later.”
“Got a lot of stuff to tell me later. Gifting, Borroloola workout. You might tell me about that girl who told me not to hurt you, too. Sarah, Holiday, whatever her name is.”
“All in good time.”
She looked great, standing there topless in that towel as hot water poured into the Jacuzzi and the room filled with steam. She’d put on soft music, easy listening stuff sans lyrics.
She crumbled a bar of Rose Jam Bubbleroon under the faucet as the tub filled, and the air took on a humid rose scent.
“Tough guys don’t take bubble baths, Sugar Plum.”
“Too late, tough guy.” Bubbles multiplied like hell, piling up in the tub. Bubbles, for Christ’s sake. I had a sudden vision of my ex, Dallas, in a similar tub last year. I had a second vision—that of my hard-won tough-guy image flying off into yesteryear never to return. Rambo never took a bubble bath. Too busy killing bad guys and stopping his own bleeding.
“Hop in,” Lucy said. “Don’t worry, I won’t peek.”
I dropped the towel and got in. Lucy unwound her towel and tested the water with a foot. Man, she was something. Slender and tight, with a short, neat triangle trim, not a Brazilian. And, like she said, not a tattoo anywhere.
“You didn’t jump right in, Sally Rand,” I said.
Her grin took on a Cheshire look. She struck a little pose.
“You look . . . strong,” I said.
“That’d be gymnastics. Five days a week from age five until I was sixteen. I was pretty good on the balance beam. I keep up with some of it. Want to see me stand on my hands, arch my back, and touch the soles of both feet to the top of my head? I can still do that.”
“Sure. Since no one can do that.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Right now? That’d be a hell of a sight.”
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