Lucky the Hard Way

by Deborah Coonts

  The light in the large room came from the low glow of dimmed spots trained on the various works of lesser masters that dotted the upholstered leather walls and the kaleidoscope of neon flashing through the wall of windows at the far end that painted the walls with its dizzying display. That view of the Strip mesmerized, drawing everyone who entered the room like moths to a flame. I was no exception.

  Mona had rearranged the furniture, couches and chairs made from hides of various former animals and exotic woods. Personally, I didn’t like the whole skins of dead animals thing, but I still wore leather shoes and ate meat, so making a distinction seemed a bit hypocritical.

  My father hadn’t answered, but I knew where to find him—the couch in front of that window, looking at Vegas preening, even as the dawn muted its vibrancy. On my way, I stopped at the bar to add a splash of Chambord to a flute of Champagne that waited for me.

  A Kir Royale cured most of the world’s ills—well, Champagne in general was a universal panacea. Most days I drank too much, to the point of worrying about it. I used to be a Wild Turkey 101 gal, but I’d switched to bubbles and felt virtuous in that bit of self-delusion.

  Quite simply, life was better with bubbles. Unlike Hemingway, I didn’t drink to make people more interesting. I drank to make them less terrifying. Or perhaps to cast a rose-colored hue on the starkness of a sometimes-harsh reality.

  Not good—a line item in the syllabus of my self-improvement plan. Hadn’t gotten that far.

  I plopped down next to my father, who acknowledged me with a pat on my knee. “Where’re your keepers?” I asked, surprised to see not one nubile young thing in attendance. Of course, Mona had a chilling effect on the amount of pulchritude orbiting my father, so the lack of youngsters in attendance was not surprising. However, finding him alone was. “They made me promise you would keep nurses around the clock for a few days. That’s how we sprung you from the hospital. The surgeon—I forget his name—he was apoplectic. Made me swear on all my future children.”

  “Pretty safe bet,” my father groused, ignoring my irritation.

  “You don’t need me to procreate to leave your legacy. You’re doing just fine adding to the family line as it is. You sent the nurses away, didn’t you?”

  “I have your mother.”

  “To take care of you? I’m not even going to dignify that bit of ridiculousness with an argument. But you also have the nannies, which seems appropriate.”

  He gave me a huff, which served as a slight chuckle. Pale, thinner than normal, his face showing his struggle, my father shifted as if rearranging the pain. He gave me a wan version of his victory grin. To the casual observer, he looked like himself. His chin still stuck out, as if begging to be hit. As usual, his salt-and-pepper hair was cut short and styled—a power cut, he called it. Whatever it was, it suited him. His face was clean-shaven—a nick on his chin dotted with dried blood, his cheekbones sharp enough to have been carved of granite. Today they accentuated the hollowness of his cheeks. His shoulders broad, his arms thick, he cut an imposing figure despite his short stature—even today, just barely back from the brink. Today, as every other, his shirt was starched, his slacks were creased, his feet bare inside a polished pair of Ferragamo loafers. His open collar was the only nod to the earliness of the hour and the fragility of his health. The tape of his bandage barely visible in the V of his collar was a stark reminder of how close Death had lingered.

  Still, he wouldn’t look at me.

  “Any news on Minnie?” I asked.

  “Holding her own. Millimeters they said.”

  Millimeters. That’s what the doctors had said about him. “A fine line between life and death.”

  He shot me a quick glance but wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Please don’t tell me that as you get older you’re going to turn into one of those pundits always spewing profundities they’ve overheard or read somewhere?”

  “What do you mean ‘turn into’?” I tried for indignation. I thought I achieved it. “I’m there and I own it.”

  Always good for a laugh, this time I only scored a tight smile from the Big Boss. Whatever I’d been summoned to hear, it was weighing heavily on him.

  He tried for a positive spin. “It’s actually good timing that you are going to Macau now.”

  “Good timing?” My voice rose on a wave of anger. “I’m opening a hotel in less than a week.”

  “Yes, of course.” He let the silence stretch uncomfortably between us. He knew I could rarely resist jumping into the abyss.

  I fought a losing battle with myself. Which seemed an impossibility—if I won, how could I lose? But the losing me didn’t disappoint my father. “Okay, what makes you think the timing is good?”

  “The priceless watch exhibit opens tomorrow.”

  I knew that, but it had fallen way down on my priority list. An exhibit of amazing timepieces, each of them valued at over five million each, with the top one, an extremely rare Patek Phillipe, worth at least four times that. The Chinese, caught up in Western commercialism, loved collectibles, the rarer the better. Showing one’s success in a somewhat understated way was a favorite pastime the Chinese elevated to great sport. And timepieces were perfect—only those in the know would be impressed.

  “It’ll be good that a representative of the hotel is there.”

  I angled my body so I could look at him squarely from the side. “I don’t think I’ll have much time to glad-hand.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, of course.”

  What part of all of this was he pretending didn’t exist? And why?

  “Sometimes it’s best to let things go,” he said, apropos of nothing. Finally, he turned and looked at me. “Let Cho go.”

  “No.” I put my hand on his arm. “Cho’s got you in a headlock. You can’t keep that kind of secret from me—I can read you like a book.” Okay, not that well, but I had a pretty good bead on him. “I need to know exactly what he has on you. I’m a Rothstein. And…” I raised an eyebrow, urging him to finish the unofficial family motto.

  “No one fucks with my family.” He still didn’t look convinced. “You could get killed.”

  “Any time, anywhere.” I decided to lighten the tone while he mulled over the options he thought he had. In reality, he only had one—to tell me—but pushing would only be met with stonewalling.

  My mother’s breast pump sat on the side table. Diapers, thankfully clean, were stuffed in the crevices of the couch. I leaned to the side, raising one cheek, then reached under and pulled out a plastic rattle, which I put next to the pump. “I love what mother’s done to the place.”

  That got the crack of a smile from my father—still avoiding my gaze as he sipped amber liquid from a cut crystal Steuben tumbler.

  “Is that the Fifteen or the Twenty-Five?”

  He hand jerked, rattling the lone ice-cube. “The Twenty-Five.”

  Oh, so not good. He only broke out the expensive stuff when faced with matters of life and death.

  I braced for what was coming, whatever it was, and for a moment I was a little girl wishing I was anywhere else but here.

  Before he had a chance to tell me what exactly threatened life as I knew it, my mother shuffled from the hallway leading from the private areas.

  “Oh, Lucky. I’m so glad you’re here.” Her tone didn’t match her words. Glad didn’t exactly ring true.

  I didn’t take it personally. With Mona, it rarely was. “Merry Christmas, Mother.” I rose and gave her a hug, then returned to my spot next to my father. I didn’t let her greeting get me all excited. When it came to me, my mother was an emotional porcupine. Best not to let my guard down.

  Her perfect face and flawless skin crumpled into a frown. “Christmas?” She pretended to be confused—a ruse men found absolutely fascinating, much to my consternation. “Is it really Christmas?”

  A new sparkler on a gold chain flashed at her neckline—she knew full well it was Christmas.

  She pushed at her disheve
led hair as if embarrassed by her un-pulled-together state. In fact, by Mona’s standards, she had let herself go. Still whippet thin and maintained to within pinching an inch of perfection, she looked like my younger sister. Even messy she inspired envy...and insecurity. Wisps of brown hair curled next to her face as she cocked her head to one side and she gave me the once-over. “Is that a new outfit?”

  “Of course.”

  She looked at me as if she’d forgotten that her firstborn, her only-born until a short time ago, had nearly been immolated. “Have you gained weight?” she asked.

  Mona, both a boon and the bane of my existence. At least she was consistent.

  Another sip of Champagne helped me absorb the blow. “Mother, have you forgotten? We have a holiday moratorium on insults.” She loved me; I knew that. After all, I was always the one she called when she’d gotten her ass in a crack, which happened with alarming regularity. Giving me an opportunity to save her was an expression of love in my mother’s convoluted way of thinking. Frankly, I could do with a little less motherly love.

  “The truth can’t be an insult,” Mona said with surety as she waded into quicksand.

  I’d discovered that, with my mother, the more confident she sounded, the less sure she really was. Dazzle them with bullshit would be a fitting epitaph.

  “From where I’m sitting, it sure sounds like one.” I sipped my drink and drank in the Strip. “I believe you’re mixing legal theories with reality. Truth is an absolute defense should someone decide to sue you for libel or slander—but truth is not a defense to intentional infliction of emotional distress.”

  My father raised an eyebrow.

  I was shoveling as fast as I could. “My job puts me in contact with far too many lawyers. They breed like rabbits and they all have a beef with me…sorta like Mother.”

  Mona blinked several times, obviously trying to figure out a counter. “There’s a moratorium?” A dodge rather than a counter—so like her. “I wasn’t insulting you. I just asked a simple question.” She mustered the energy for a moment of indignation, then gave it up.

  “I’m not in the mood to parse words with you, Mother.” I didn’t need Mona right now. Not with her perfect ass, her perfect ankles, her perfect nose, and her perfect ability to punch every button I had by simply walking into the room. Mothers and daughters—and now she had two more. I took special delight in that. “Go back to sleep. We can cross swords again later today,” I offered with the illusion of fair play. Funny how promises could sound exactly like lies. I’d be half a world away by the time she’d regained her strength.

  “Oh, Lucky, I’m so tired.” She motioned me to move over so she could squeeze in next to me on the couch. It was a tight fit. “See, if you’d just maybe try that cleanse that all my friends swear by.” She wasn’t giving it up…even in the afterglow of Christmas.

  “Mother, water, lemon juice, maple syrup, and cayenne would not ever constitute a meal. An alternative to waterboarding, maybe. But a meal? Never.” I felt my father’s shoulders start to shake, but he kept his expression impassive, his eyes straight ahead.

  Mona looked at me with a clear lack of understanding. “Well, I still can’t fathom how you can eat bread.”

  She made it sound like a mortal sin or something. “It’s okay. I say three Hail Marys and one Our Father, and all is forgiven.” Turning my attention to the light show outside, I retreated from the fray.

  She put a dainty hand on my knee and went all sanctimonious. “It’s okay. I accept you for who and what you are.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “If that were true, then you wouldn’t keep pointing out how I can improve.”

  “But then I wouldn’t be your mother.”

  “Truer words were never spoken.”

  She seemed pleased. She didn’t get it.

  Mona adjusted her robe, arranging the folds to cover her legs. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

  A flank attack, and just when I’d been feeling so smug. I braced myself for impact. “Great timing, since you’ve softened me up by being so nice and all.”

  She ducked, letting that salvo sail right by. “With you leaving town this week, someone needs to be managing the last-minute preparations at Cielo.”

  Panic gripped my heart and squeezed. “Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.” I shook my head and gripped my father’s knee. “Mother, a lot of someones are doing just that.” I tried to shut her down with a cold tone. It never worked, but I had to try.

  “Well, I know.”

  She pouted. I didn’t even have to look; I could hear it in her voice. Besides, this was a classic Mona gambit.

  “Mother. You are not to do anything at Cielo.” I turned to face her so she could get the full force of my sentiment. “Nothing. Not. One. Thing.”

  “Aren’t you being a little harsh?” She used her tiny voice now.

  Against all I knew to be sacred, I weakened. “Mother, please, I know you’re trying to help, but I’ve got this. Everything is in place. My team is well trained; my staff knows what to do. Besides, Jean-Charles will be at the restaurant. And I’ll be in constant contact.”

  The forlorn look on her face made me feel bad. Being trapped all day with two tiny babies had to be one of Dante’s Circles of Hell—I didn’t know which one, but probably the closest to the Pit of Despair, if he had one of those. Or was that The Princess Bride?

  Teddie and I used to have movie nights. He brought the popcorn…

  Mother and I were at an impasse when I was saved by a wail. One baby, either Thing One or Thing Two, as I dubbed them, let loose a piercing shriek, followed closely behind by her sibling. If Mona didn’t name them soon, the Thing names would stick, which would be karmic justice, all things considered, although the girls would pay the price, which wouldn’t be fair. Having Mona as a mother was burden enough.

  She cast a weary look at me, then an imploring one at her husband.

  “I need to speak with Lucky,” the Big Boss said in his kindest voice that rode on an, “I’m sorry.” He reached across me and squeezed her hand. “Then I’ll come help. We won’t be long.”

  “You two always have something to talk about. Can’t I help?”

  The babies wailed in stereo.

  Mona shot a worried glance in the general direction of the cries. Even I had to admit there was a primal reaction to a baby’s cry.

  “Perhaps now is not the best time,” my father said, kindness and love infusing his voice with warmth.

  “Maybe not.” Mona rose. She paused, wringing her hands—caught between two worlds. “But you’ll let me help sometime?”

  Neither my father nor I had an answer to that. She seemed to accept that, which made me sad. Mona would have to find her own spot. I had. My father had. And she had, too, but she’d given that up for him. Would she think the price worth it? Women were expected to do so much, give so much, while men were praised to the moon for changing one diaper.

  We both watched Mona shuffle back the way she’d come, disappearing into the hallway tunnel. “I want to tell her she had it coming, but she looks so pathetic I can’t even muster one good gloat.”

  “She’s so cute.” My father sounded like a lovesick teenager.

  “Cute wasn’t the adjective I was searching for.” I squeezed my father’s leg, hard. “You can’t let her do anything at Cielo.”

  He shrugged. “You know your mother.”

  “I do. That’s why you have to promise you’ll keep her away.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  That meant he might try, but if she was determined, he wasn’t going to throw himself in front of the Mona bus. “Coward.”

  He didn’t disagree, evidence of the true depths of his cuckoldry.

  The wails diminished, and, after a few minutes, silence once again reigned. To be honest, looking at my father’s face, his hard eyes, his clenched jaw, I figured I might have a better chance of survival with the twins.

  Knowing that my father would get to
his point, his way, and in his own time, I sipped my dainty drink and hoped life wasn’t about to implode.

  “I know the timing on this whole thing is bad,” he started, his voice lacking its normal force.

  “Understatement.” Sorry that I hadn’t opted for something higher-octane, I took another slug of my Kir but couldn’t find the anesthetizing warmth.

  “Unavoidable.” He shot a glance at me as he threw back the last of his drink, then put the empty glass on the floor by his feet. Then he pulled his wallet from his back pocket, extracting a hundred-dollar bill. By rote, he started working the paper, folding, creasing, unfolding—ingrained steps that would turn the bill into a tiny piece of origami art. “It’s worse than you know.”

  From the first three folds, I knew this one would be a crane. The Chinese symbol for peace and longevity.

  I waited, and I knew that moment of terror experienced by jumpers once they’d left the bridge but before they hit the water.

  “You read our financials, right?” my father started again, his focus on the small figure taking shape in his hands.

  “I help the auditors prepare them.” I softened my voice. He’d been through so much, fought so hard, built so much not only for himself but for all of us and our several thousand employees. The years, the battles, had to have taken a toll.

  Not to mention Sam Cho’s bullet.

  He pulled in a deep breath, wincing against the pain. “Right. Then you know in recent years our Macau operation has been more important to our bottom line, to our financial health, than our Vegas properties.”

  It was no secret the economics of Vegas were changing, gaming revenues diminishing, and club and entertainment revenues gaining, but falling short of covering the shortfall. “Of course.”

  “The Chinese Government is cracking down on money laundering in Macau. Most of the diplomats are on the take, but the government won’t do anything about that.”

  I finished the story. “The bribes flow out of China into Macau, are laundered through the casinos, then invested overseas.”