My mother clung to my arm as we watched the police lead the Big Boss away. Then I got on the horn to his lawyer and motivated him to meet my father at the Detention Center. Then I made a few additional calls. Romeo hadn’t exactly arrested my father, but I felt the noose tightening.
When I’d finished calling out the cavalry, marshaling the troops, and heading the press off at the pass, I joined my mother. Curled into the arm of the couch with the pillows pulled around her, Mona gazed out the window with an unfocused stare. I didn’t have any words of comfort. She probably knew more about all of this mess than I did. But she’d clammed up, keeping her fears and memories to herself.
“Lucky, you need to do something.” Mona’s voice held the hollow ring of fear.
That much I knew. Energy boiled inside me, but I didn’t know what else to do, what rock to turn over in this snake hunt. The Big Boss was up to his ass in alligators and allegations . . . or at least strong suspicions he’d committed murder. And Romeo pulling the we-need-you-down-at-the-station trump card would set tongues wagging, which was one step short of arrest on the rumor meter.
And whispered conjecture created a prison of its own, inescapable and eternal.
I needed to discover the truth . . . fast. Thankfully, Denny Mix had been wrong—hypnotism could stir up repressed memories. He had opened the door to the past, and each day it opened wider. Eventually, the past would become clear—I’d remember whether it was comfortable or not.
Closing my eyes, going back, I summoned memories I wasn’t sure I wanted to see.
I’d been in the bathroom, crouched down in front of the bomb. I squeezed my eyes, concentrating. The smell, the odor of puke and yesterday’s indulgences, filled my nostrils and took me back.
There was a ring . . . no, an earring. I grabbed it. Then my heart jolted as hands grabbed me from behind.
“Lucky! What the hell?” My father’s voice—of course, I hadn’t known he was my father then. With one swoop, he grabbed me. Clutching me to his chest, he turned and ran, bolting out the back door. He covered my head with his free arm. A heartbeat passed, seemingly nothing more, but it must’ve been. We burst out the back of the building. A few steps more, then the building exploded behind us. The concussion hit with the brute force of a tornado. Falling to his knees, he shielded me with his body. Grunting with effort, he put out a hand to break the fall as we fell forward. He covered me in the tuck of his body. Then he staggered to his feet and moved further away. His breath wheezed in my ear.
Taking shelter behind a Dumpster, he lowered me to my feet, then crouched so we were eye to eye. He looked scared, and that scared me. “It’s okay, honey. Don’t be afraid. Are you okay?” His hands smoothed my hair, tested my arms and legs. When he touched my face, I looked at him.
He had a black eye, purple and ugly, turning to rainbow colors. Blood oozed from the split in his lower lip. Yes, blood. There was so much blood. It had splattered and soaked the front of his shirt.
I reached for his hand. His knuckles were raised and raw and sticky with blood.
He grabbed my other hand, still fisted around the earring. “What do you have there?”
I opened my hand for him.
His face closed, anger replacing fear. He said one word, “Eugenia.” He pocketed the earring. Then rising slightly to look over the Dumpster, he glanced around. Ducking back down, he grabbed me, a hand on each shoulder.
I was scared. I couldn’t think. My father shook me slightly. “Honey, pay attention. This is important. Real important.”
The look on his face scared me even more.
“You must forget I was here—don’t tell anyone, okay?” I must not have responded quickly enough. He asked again, “Do you understand? Promise me, Lucky. You won’t tell anyone. Not even your mother. Promise, Lucky. You never saw me. You have to promise.”
“I promise.” My voice didn’t sound like mine.
“Run to your mother, honey. But,” he shook me to get my attention, “they’ll put me in jail, Lucky, if you say anything. They’ll take me away and you’ll never see me again. I won’t be able to take care of you and your mother. You have to forget.”
#
One thing I couldn’t be faulted for: I’d done what he had asked. All these years I’d forgotten everything. Nothing like a little PTSD to brighten one’s day. What else had I forgotten?
Although questions filled my head and dread filled my heart, I hadn’t asked Mona anything else—she was his wife and couldn’t be forced to testify against her husband. I didn’t have that shield. And when I saw my father again, I wouldn’t ask him anything either.
If he’d killed somebody . . . well, there was no statute of limitations on murder.
If this thing went from bad to worse and they actually put him on trial, I didn’t need him confessing to me. If called to the stand, I’d lie. My father knew that. So I wouldn’t ask and he wouldn’t tell.
But I knew who would.
* * *
The Ferrari I’d purloined from the dealership at the Babylon earned an appreciative glance from the valet as I eased to a stop under the overhang at the French Quarter. Unfolding myself from the deep recesses of the car, I grabbed the bottle of Admiral’s on the seat next to me, took a deep breath, and straightened my shoulders—I could look confident even if I didn’t really feel it. I handed the kid a twenty. “Keep it close, would you?”
Money up front got special treatment. Of course at the Quarter, the Ferrari was probably enough, but that wasn’t how I rolled. As the VP of Customer Relations at the Babylon, I had a firsthand knowledge of the difficulties of making it as a lowly valet.
“Yes, ma’am.” The appreciation in the kid’s voice put a smile on my heart—the French Quarter wasn’t a twenty-dollar tip kind of place. As the most profitable off-Strip property, the place was a mecca for locals looking for loose slots, loose women, a good fight card on the cheap, and old crooners willing to take twenty bucks a pop to fill the theater and boost their failing careers and flagging egos.
I pushed through the front doors and stepped into the middle of Mardi Gras on steroids. The place was packed, even at midday. Jazz thumped. High above, on tracks dangling above the crowd, a parade worthy of Bourbon Street snaked along as revelers tossed the King’s beads to the throng below. I ducked and bobbed my way to the elevators, then leapt inside the next available car, sighing as the doors closed with me as the sole passenger. A precious moment of peace. To be honest, the whole Quarter experience was too much stimulation for me—especially with murder on my mind.
Let me be clear, I wasn’t planning someone’s demise. Although Aunt Matilda had been less than cordial when my phone call awakened her at noon, and her sharp tongue had prodded me perilously close to homicide. But I really couldn’t afford to kill her, not yet . . . not when I needed her help.
To solve a murder.
And clear my father.
Yup, just a normal Monday in Vegas.
I paused. Was it Monday? My eyebrows snapped into a frown as I pondered my reflection in the metal in front of me. Blue eyes, a bit red, brown hair that looked a trifle limp as it brushed my shoulders, cheeks pinched with worry and my normally full lips pressed into a thin line, I looked like me . . . sort of . . . but I couldn’t for the life of me be certain what day of the week it was. With a 24/7 job like mine, they all ran together. I didn’t think that was a good thing, but I wasn’t sure.
An all-consuming job was a good place to hide.
But that was a worry for another day. Right now I was wondering whether my life insurance was up to date—my Aunt Matilda, well, she attacked life and all who crossed her path like a rabid poodle. I’d felt her bite more than once.
The first and only female owner of a large casino property in Vegas, she was tough as an old boot and mean as a hungry coyote. But the truth was, although she scared me, I had a great deal of admiration for her. The fight she had waged to leave Matilda behind and resurrect herself as Darlin’ Delacr
oix, her Vegas reincarnation, would’ve buried most women . . . heck, it would’ve put most men six feet under. She’d left herself behind—her history, her family—and had become part of mine by choice. She preferred being called Darlin’, but I just couldn’t.
Which brought me back to my current problem.
The elevator deposited me on the top floor. As I trekked down the long hallway, I strategized. What I needed was a snake charmer . . . or a handsome young man. What I had was a bottle of cheap gin, Matilda’s favorite, and that would have to do.
The door opened before I had even fisted my hand to knock. The young man who greeted me was young and handsome, as expected. If I had brought anyone, they would’ve been redundant, so I excused myself the oversight.
“Lucky O’Toole, to see Ms. Delacroix.”
“She’s waiting for you in the parlor.” He stepped aside motioning me past, then shut the door behind me.
His voice seemed devoid of even a veiled warning, so I took heart. Maybe, for once, Aunt Matilda would make this difficult journey a bit less so. Maybe Matilda would be less of a horror than normal, but her parlor still gave me the willies. The place was like a Hollywood whorehouse on crack, with red, flocked wallpaper, dainty Queen Anne couches covered in plush purple velvet, skirted end tables boasting lamps with fringed shades, and potted palms weeping in the corners. Normally the place would’ve been populated by a bevy of beautiful young men to lounge on the couches as additional decoration, but they were conspicuously absent, as was the usual sexy music.
Aunt Matilda, normally ensconced in a raised chair to offset her diminutive height—barely four feet ten on a positive day—sat cocooned in the curve of a plush sofa, cradling a mug of coffee. A terry cloth robe swallowed her. She’d rolled the sleeves several times, making her look small and fragile—only one of which was true. Even though she was sliding toward eighty, there wasn’t anything fragile about Aunt Matilda . . . at least I hadn’t thought so until today. Without her carefully made face, her ubiquitous leather jacket with the likeness of Elvis pieced out of dyed-leather swatches on the back, her fishnets and Lycra mini, and her impossibly high heels, she looked frail and almost human.
“There you are.” She smiled at me. “Would you like some coffee?”
My morning had been jolted into hyperdrive by the whole murder thing, so I was still about a quart low. “Yes, please.”
At her nod, the footman, who had come to attention at her side after escorting me into the parlor, disappeared through a swinging door.
Matilda patted the cushion next to her. Still a little caught off guard by this nicer version of my aunt, I ignored her invitation, choosing instead to pull a wingback chair closer.
As I took my seat, she gave me a wan smile. “You’re here about your father.” It was a statement, not a question. She stared over my shoulder, looking into the past. “I knew this day would come. I’d told Albert nothing good could come from what he did.”
Chapter Six
Las Vegas
1982
STILL several blocks away, Eugenia Campos felt the explosion before she saw it. The reverberations buffeted the car, shaking it as if the earth itself had moved. Then a huge fireball burst skyward, exploding over the buildings in front of her. She eased the car to a stop at the corner and craned to see down the street toward Jimmy’s. Buildings blocked her view, but a few gawkers huddled across the street.
Smoke billowed, darkening the sky. Sirens sounded in the distance.
“Oh my God!” She whispered the words, afraid to say them out loud. Boogie had lied. That wasn’t meant to scare somebody . . . no, he’d meant to kill. How could she have been so stupid? You lie with snakes, you’d better learn to crawl on your belly, she thought to herself. How many times had her grandmother admonished her with those very words? A few thousand, she figured.
With a shaking hand, she patted her hair, pressing the loose tendrils back into place as she tried to think. What was she going to do? What if someone had been killed?
Fear gripped her as she glanced in the rearview, sure someone would be following her, looking for her. Irrational, she knew that. No one could tie her to the bomb. How could they? But what if they did? Sure as shootin’, Boogie would squeal—he was stupid that way. A loose cannon as well as a loose end.
Taking the alleyway that ran behind Jimmy’s, she eased the car as close as she could, then angled it in next to a couple of Dumpsters. She’d go the rest of the way on foot.
Albert Rothstein barreled around the corner, darn near knocking her over and startling both of them. He grabbed her by the shoulders, steadying her. “Eugenia? What the fuck?” Bloodied, breathing hard, with fury in his eyes, he hardened his voice as he glowered at her. “Checking your handiwork?”
Eugenia’s eyes shifted toward the building, now consumed by the inferno, then back. “Me? My handiwork?” Her voice sounded choked. She coughed and her eyes teared when the wind swirled smoke around them.
Albert didn’t give any ground. He reached into his pocket, then extended his open palm. “Looking for this?”
One of her earrings! Surprised, she reached for her earlobe. Her heart stopped. Her ear was bare. “Albert, I swear . . . ”
“Save it.”
“Just tell me, was anybody hurt? Did anybody die?” Eugenia could barely get the words out as fear squeezed her throat.
He glanced back at the building. “We’ve gotta get outta here.” He grabbed her roughly by the arm, then pulled her with him as he put some distance between them and the fire. “My ride is just around the corner.”
July 2012
Las Vegas
Matilda looked uncomfortable as her eyes refocused, then caught mine and held them. “It was a different time. You understand that, don’t you, Lucky?”
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me.” Although I disagreed, I wasn’t going to argue. What would make all of this go away? As much as I complained about my lot in life, I was quite content with the issues I had.
At least those didn’t come with jail time.
“We had to solve our own problems.” She paused, waiting while her footman brought my mug of coffee. Actually, it was a tankard—my aunt knew me better than I’d thought.
“Milk?” the young man asked.
“Please.” I glanced into the depths as he poured. “Lighten it up pretty good.” After a moment I said, “That’s good.”
“Sugar?”
I shook my head, and he disappeared through the swinging doors, leaving me once again alone with my aunt.
She worried with the fringe on her shawl as she started in again. “I don’t really know everything that went down. Albert didn’t tell me all of it.”
“Why would he tell you any of it?”
“I was his secretary.”
I choked on the sip of coffee. As I hacked and wheezed, Matilda searched for a tissue, which she dangled toward me. I snatched it, covering my mouth with it. Finally, when I could breath again, I managed to fill my lungs with enough air to ask, “His secretary?”
A sour look pinched her features, making her look elfin. “We all have a history, girl. And history has a way of catching up, no matter how hard we work to put it far behind us.”
History. Nothing like the past to mess up the present and compromise the future. “The past … the only thing we can’t change, huh?” Even Matilda knew a rhetorical question when she heard one. She stayed quiet while I fought with my demons. “Okay, you worked for the Big Boss.”
“That’s how I got drawn into this mess.” Her face got that faraway look again. “The day of the explosion.”
“The first one at Jimmy G’s?”
She nodded once. “You’ll need to let me finish, girl. That’s the only way I can do this.” She straightened her shawl and pulled it tighter around her. Then she drew her feet up under her until she almost disappeared in the cushions and pillows. “Something happened a day or two before the explosion. I can’t remember how much time
passed, but not much.” She looked at me through red-rimmed eyes. “I’m getting old. Perhaps I don’t want to remember.”
“What happened?” I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on my knees and cupping my coffee mug in both hands.
“I’m not sure, but it was something bad. Your father was furious . . . and scared. I’d never seen him like that.”
“I got a feeling I know.” I stopped. I didn’t want to say it out loud. That would make it real—at least if all those people who say ideas become reality were right—and I didn’t want to tempt fate. When I did, it usually turned out badly.
“You can tell me.” Matilda looked like she had her own suspicions.
“I think I know what happened to Eugenia Campos.”
Matilda’s head snapped to attention, then her expression closed down. “Really? What?”
“Before I go there, let me ask what you thought happened that day at Jimmy G’s. And be straight with me. My father has a huge problem.”
“Tell me what you know. I promise I’ll help if I can.”
I took her at her word and brought her up to speed. When I finished, she leaned back, a distant look in her eyes. “A skeleton in the foundation of the Lucky Aces? Anybody could’ve put it there, and your father would never have been so stupid as to leave a ring with his initials on it behind.”
“Believe it or not, but I got that far on my own.” I gave her a grumpy look, which didn’t seem to faze her. “When Detective Romeo hauled my father down to the station for questioning, he was aware of all of this, but he did it anyway.”
“The station?” Matilda snapped back to the present.
I nodded. “On orders from Daniel Lovato.”
“Lovato.” Although she recovered quickly, Matilda failed to hide her recognition and surprise fully.
“Does that name mean something to you?”
Las Vegas
1982
“You have one hell of a nerve showing up here,” Albert Rothstein growled as he eased the nose of his car out of the alley just far enough so he could see in both directions. The wail of sirens split the air. They were close . . . too close. As they rounded the corner, he accelerated into the street, turning away from Jimmy’s.
Lucky Now and Then (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure) Page 8