Lucky Now and Then (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure)

by Deborah Coonts

  Barely beyond childhood herself, Mona never dreamed that being a mother could’ve been the one thing to save her. “What, honey?”

  “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  Mona reached down and brushed a strand of dark hair out of her daughter’s eyes, securing it behind her ear. Lucky had her father’s eyes, blue as the summer sky just before sundown, which made Mona smile. “Go ahead then.”

  Lucky sidled off the stool and galloped toward the back of the bar. Usually Mona would go with her, but this was Jimmy G’s place; nothing bad would happen here, at least not at this time of day—still a bit early for the real rowdies. A glance around confirmed her assessment; the only people in the place were the local drunks, and they’d probably been there all day. Mona felt sure they were past caring about a little girl, or if not, too drunk to do much about it.

  Mona reached into her fanny pack tethered around her waist, extracting the small, hinged box. Cradling it in both hands, she thumbed open the top. Nestled in silk rested a ring—a man’s ring, with two initials, an ‘A’ and an ‘R,’ framed in gold and filled with pavé diamonds. She’d been saving for months. This was to be her present to Albert to commemorate Lucky Aces.

  He’d worked so hard, had come so far.

  “Whatcha got there?” Jimmy angled into the bar opposite her, wiping a beer mug with a rag that looked a bit dirty by Mona’s way of thinking, but she didn’t say anything. “You want a refill?”

  “It’s a surprise.” Mona showed it to him, then smiled at his appreciative whistle.

  “Quite a bauble.”

  “I’ve been saving forever.” Mona snapped the lid shut and set the box on the bar. Albert would be here soon. She eyed her empty mug. “Yeah, I’ll take another hit. Thanks.”

  “Better go easy on that fizzy water, the bubbles can go right to your head.” Jimmy winked at her as he refilled her ginger ale. A short man, he had the wiry build of a boxer coupled with a ready smile and easy manner

  Probably not a bad combination for a bar owner, thought Mona as she watched him top off the mug, then reholster the soda gun.

  “Your man is late. That’s not like him.” Jimmy wiped his hands on his rag and gave her a wink. “He’s usually pacing back and forth waiting for you two.”

  A frisson of fear flashed through Mona as she took a sip of her drink, but she dismissed it. “He’ll be along. Just like every Thursday. That’s our day, you know.”

  Jimmy smiled, then excused himself with a nod to attend to a new customer.

  Mona chewed on her lip as she glanced at the front door. It wasn’t like Albert to be late. Every Tuesday she drove in from Pahrump, and Albert would meet them at Jimmy G’s. Then they’d go off on an adventure. It was their day. Albert would be there. But she wondered what could be keeping him.

  “Mom.” Lucky’s voice, serious and low, pulled Mona back.

  The girl was standing next to her. Mona hadn’t heard her return. She brushed down the child’s hair. “What is it, honey?”

  “There’s something wrong… in the bathroom.” Lucky didn’t scare easily; growing up in a whorehouse, she was used to the unusual—a realization that worried Mona, but she pushed it aside. She had no choice. Life was what it was, and she was making the best of it.

  Mona eased off her stool and grabbed Lucky’s hand. “Show me.”

  On all fours, mother and daughter peered behind the toilet in the last stall. Mona tried not to grimace; the floor was filthy.

  “There.” Lucky pointed, her eyes large and round, her expression serious. “See it?”

  Mona bent her elbows, leaning her head to the side. Her heart stopped.

  The device was small: two sticks of dynamite, a battery, a clock, a few wires. Although she’d not seen one before, Mona knew what it was instantly.

  As she scrambled backward out of the stall, she grabbed Lucky’s arm, tugging the girl with her. “Hurry.”

  They ran into the bar. Mona pushed her daughter toward the front door. “Run, baby. I’ll be right behind you.” She took a moment to watch Lucky bang through the door and be swallowed by the sunlight. “Jimmy.” Mona raised her voice to get everyone’s attention. “Get everyone out of here. Hurry.”

  Jimmy shot her a look, then did as she ordered.

  Mona raced after her daughter. Once outside, the assault of the sun brought tears to her eyes. She blinked furiously trying to adjust. Squinting, she searched the gathering crowd for her daughter. There she was, separating herself from the throng. Mona’s heart stopped when she realized what the girl was doing.

  “Lucky, no! Don’t! Come back. Oh my God!”

  Chapter Four

  Summer 2012

  Las Vegas

  THE Lucky Aces called to me. Time to say goodbye. I felt a song coming on and smiled at the odd associations my mind made when under stress. At least this goodbye wouldn’t be accompanied by the too-often-played Andrea Bocelli track. At least I didn’t think it would be, knowing the Big Boss as I did. Besides, the Bellagio ran that track to death with the whole fountain thing.

  To be honest, I sucked at goodbyes, and I’d resisted this one as long as I could. The cab dropped me a couple of blocks away so I could stroll down Fremont Street. The canopy of programmed dome lights high above, known as the Fremont Street Experience, sheltered the crowd from the midday sun. Still, the air hung heavy, sultry—stagnant with the putrid smell of stale beer and the rotting remnants of last night’s 4th of July citywide picnic. It fit my mood.

  Easing into the crowd, I let the flow of people propel me along as I rode the current of memories; memories that would soon be buried under a pile of rubble, then swept away as if they’d never existed.

  Vegas, the city of reinvention.

  Most days I liked the bright, clean, shiny-penny land of opportunity. But not today. This was my history—my heritage—that would be reduced to rubble, then extinguished, banished to the history books.

  As I rounded the corner at Main Street, reality sucker punched me. The Lucky Aces, all signs of brightness and life removed, sat hunkered down, a tired, old hulk, stained, dated . . . abandoned. Tattered curtains—faded strips of cloth—waved in surrender from broken windows. Wires dangled from holes in the concrete, reminding me of snakes writhing to escape death. Clean spots on the now-dirty gray concrete marked the locations of signs that had blinked their come-ons in multicolored neon for as long as I could remember. I guessed they’d gone to the Neon Boneyard, a museum housing famous landmarks, bits of Glitter Gulch magic. I didn’t want to think about paying a fee to see signs that no longer beckoned anyone. That was too sad to think about.

  A chain-link fence cordoned off the property. Signs announced the demolition and the danger, warning everyone away. In the wee hours before tomorrow’s dawn, like a death row executioner, someone would pull the switch and extinguish the Lucky Aces. But truth be told, her heart had stopped beating years ago.

  One lone figure, his hands above his head, his fingers laced through the fence, his forehead resting on his entwined hands, stood staring at the old hotel.

  The Big Boss.

  He glanced at me as I stepped in beside him. He didn’t look surprised.

  “A trip down memory lane?” I asked, because I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t have the words.

  “A lifetime of hopes and dreams . . . ” He trailed off as his voice caught. Apparently words failed him as well. “A lot of secrets inside those walls.”

  His words surprised me. Secrets? I shot him a grin. “A few skeletons in those closets?”

  He didn’t smile.

  1982

  Las Vegas

  If the definition of arrogance was “confidence with no foundation,” then Boogie Fleischman was an arrogant man. Small, wiry, not particularly bright, he had one skill: he could blow stuff up. Loyal to the highest bidder, he made a living out of playing both sides of the fence—a particular lack of character he shared with Eugenia Campos. Somewhere deep inside resonated the
knowledge he was overreaching with her—she had her sights set on bigger fish—but he couldn’t help whom his heart picked. And he was patient. For now, he’d take the crumbs she offered him, but one day . . . yes, one day she’d come around. He’d make sure of it.

  Eugenia’s apartment building was classy—all thick carpet, marble floors and staff that bowed and scraped. He wasn’t sure who was toting the load on the lease—God knew Eugenia didn’t have that kind of smack—but it must be somebody important. Boogie didn’t belong there, he knew that, but he tried to act like it didn’t matter.

  The security guy, a mountain of a man with a scar on his chin and arrogance in his eye, nodded to Boogie as he passed. Boogie didn’t nod back. That was how the rich did it. He fidgeted as the elevator lifted him toward the top floor. Of course, Eugenia had the penthouse—only the best for her.

  She answered before he had time to knock; she must’ve been waiting. His heart skipped a beat.

  “Oh.” Her face fell when she saw him, then she turned her back and walked away. “What are you doing here?” She threw the words over her shoulder like morsels for a stray. “I’m expecting someone, so you can’t stay.”

  In front of the window, she turned to face him.

  Her beauty took his breath but not too much—Boogie knew it didn’t run deep. “Fine.” His tone was brusque to hide the hurt. “How’d it go down with Rothstein?”

  “He bought it. He should be waiting at Mama Farino’s.” Eugenia frowned.

  Boogie might’ve misinterpreted it as a flash of conscience, but he knew better. He also knew that she had it bad for Rothstein. “You know the rule . . . ”

  “Never fall for the mark, I know.” Eugenia worried with her pearl choker. “But you’re not going to hurt him, right? Just scare him.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “I don’t want nothing bad to happen to him,” Eugenia said, letting her veneer slip a little.

  Boogie gave her a smirk. “Not even to the bitch and her kid?”

  A flicker of doubt flashed across her face as her mouth curled slightly at the corners.

  “That’s what I thought.” If he understood anything, he understood creating competitive advantages—his stock-in-trade.

  Eugenia turned her back in dismissal and stepped to the window. “You gotta go. I’m expecting somebody.”

  Boogie stepped to the small table next to the couch and picked up the phone, holding the receiver to his ear. “Gotta make a call, then I’ll be out of your way.” After he checked to make sure she wasn’t paying attention, he palmed the single gold earring sitting next to the phone and pocketed it.

  Summer 2012

  Las Vegas

  After I left my father alone with his thoughts, I drowned my worries in the sea of problems swirling at the Babylon. The amount of mischief three thousand guests could find at any moment in time never ceased to amaze me. Seeing Matilda was on my list of things to do, but she never agreed to see anyone, even extended family, before midnight at the earliest. So I had some time to kill. And some courage to find. A visit to see Matilda required extra fortification—and a bottle of cheap gin.

  My staff and I scurried through the rest of the day, all of the evening and into the night handling a variety of complaints ranging from a very drunk man attempting to jump from his balcony into the pool, to several couples wanting to get married, to two high-end call girls working the tables, to . . . well, it was a pretty normal night, but like everything in Vegas, far from ordinary.

  About an hour into the new day, the energy waned just enough for Miss P and me to sag onto stools in Delilah’s. Our fancy watering hole in the middle of the casino, Delilah’s sat on a raised platform surrounded by trellises of winding bougainvillea, giving it sort of a secret grotto kind of feel—if you could ignore the music and merriment filtering in from the casino. Water cascaded down the rough rock facing behind the bar. I ignored the white baby grand sitting untended at the far end of the bar. Sometimes, about this time of night when our days were drifting toward home and sleep, Teddie would sit and play a few tunes. I’d join him, enjoying the way his fingers danced over the keys, the sound of his voice, the warmth where his shoulder pressed to mine. The memories wound around my chest, squeezing. Fighting the constriction, I took a deep, ragged breath, but it caught in my throat.

  Miss P placed a hand on my arm and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “Not to make things worse, but . . . ” She lifted her chin toward the television that hung high above the bar. “It’s about time for the implosion.”

  “You ladies look like you need some joy juice.” Sean, our head bartender stopped in front of me, his grin sparkling in his eyes. Spiky hair, a receding hairline and an easy, comfortable manner, he was one of Babylon’s best assets, providing a willing ear, a shoulder to cry on, a glass of courage or anything else a patron—or co-worker—might need. Following our gazes, he glanced over his shoulder. When he turned back to us, he’d dialed down the wattage. “I hate it when they take down one of the old places. So much history there.” He shrugged. “I know, making way for progress and all, but when we quit remembering where we’re from, we lose our bearings. Know what I mean?”

  “All too well,” I said, thinking that for years, I hadn’t known where I’d come from at all. Still a bit sketchy on any family details beyond the immediate, I continued to feel a bit untethered. Maybe that’s why this implosion bothered me so much—the Lucky Aces was a part of my history that was already as thin as well-worn cotton.

  Dragging my eyes from the pictures on the screen—thankfully someone had muted the sound—I turned my attention to the various medicinal waters lining the shelves on either side of the water feature, from countertop to higher than I could reach. The fancy stuff was way up on top. A bottle of Louis the XIII in its distinct Baccarat bottle was the most recognizable. At several hundred dollars a shot, it was a curiosity for me, nothing more. Personally, I wanted a bit more bang for my buck.

  “Ah, Sean, it’s a Wild Turkey kind of night.” I shot Miss P a look, and she nodded. “Make it two.”

  “101?” he asked, as if he didn’t know the answer. “Water or soda?”

  “A sacrilege,” I scoffed, bringing back the wattage to his grin.

  As he scurried off to do my bidding, my attention once again drifted to the television. Numbers in the lower-right corner counted down—just a minute left.

  I barely noticed when Sean set the tumblers of amber liquid in front of us. The first sip got my attention, burning a path of fire from my mouth to my stomach where it exploded in a ball of comforting warmth. Miss P choked a bit, which made me smile. “Grade A firewater.”

  Her face flushed; she dabbed at tears. “Stout,” she managed to choke out. Then she took another sip. Yup, she was a gamer, and this job would make a serious drinker out of her yet. “Aren’t you going to go see your Aunt Matilda?”

  Unable to look away from the scene unfolding on the screen, I didn’t look at her. “In theory, but it’s not like the world is hanging in the balance. It’s just a fishing expedition. And really, I just don’t feel up to tackling her bit of crazy right now.”

  I watched as the numbers hit zero. Time seemed to stop. Then the Lucky Aces folded in on itself in a cloud of dust, until it was no more.

  Las Vegas

  1982

  Davis Lovato had worked up quite a lather by the time he rapped sharply on Eugenia Campos’s door. He heard her heels clacking on the marble floor, then the door swung open. Eugenia filled the doorway. Keeping the door next to her, she ran her hand up it slowly, giving him a provocative smile. She really was stunning—dark hair, full red lips, almond-shaped eyes and a figure that wouldn’t quit. Today a tight-bodiced dress scooped low across her chest highlighting her assets.

  Davis pushed her out of the way, then stepped around her. “Don’t leave me standing out in the hall. What if someone saw us?”

  If his rudeness bothered her, Eugenia didn’t show it. Instead, she glanced up and down
the hallway. The man with the camera stepped out from his hiding place and gave her a nod. She smiled before closing the door. Composing herself, she turned and followed her guest into her parlor.

  Davis helped himself at the bar, pouring a tumbler of single malt. He liked that Eugenia always remembered to have his favorite brand on hand—his wife couldn’t be bothered. Eugenia pressed herself to his back, snaking her arms around his waist. With one hand, he pulled one of her arms away and shrugged out of her embrace, putting distance between them. He couldn’t trust himself when she was that close—just her perfume alone was enough to erode his willpower.

  “Honey, what’s the matter?” Eugenia had taken his not-so-subtle cue and now parked herself on the arm of the couch, her long legs daintily crossed where he could see them.

  Davis took a slug of his drink and swallowed. Tearing his eyes away from her legs, he tried to focus on what he had come to say. “Honey, you’ve been great, you really have. But we’ve got to quit this.”

  “I don’t understand.” She looked caught off guard, hurt flashing in her eyes. “You told me you loved me.”

  For a moment, Davis felt like a creep, but the feeling passed. “Honey, you’ve been around the block a time or two. Hell, we both have. You knew from the beginning this was just for kicks.” He tried to keep the tone light.

  Her eyes narrowed, and her expression hardened just a bit. “For kicks? That’s what this was?”

  He snorted and shot her a you-can’t-be-serious look as he took another sip of scotch. “I’m the attorney general. Taking up with you publicly would totally torpedo my career. I know you don’t want that.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure.” Eugenia’s voice held a threat.

  Davis had been prepared for histrionics—for crying and pleading—but he hadn’t been prepared for the cold calculation he saw in Eugenia’s face. “Eugenia, I’m putting together a team to float the possibility of a run at the governorship. This will bring much more intense scrutiny to my personal life. I can’t have them finding out about us.”