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

by Deborah Coonts

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Eugenia Campos paused as she buckled the seatbelt around her waist.

  “You have no goddamn idea what I’m thinking.” His hands fisted around the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white from the effort. “Lucky damn near died grabbing that bit of gold you left behind.”

  “She wasn’t?” Eugenia whispered. Her hand fluttered to her chest, then clenched as if squeezing her heart.

  Albert shook his head.

  “Thank God.” Eugenia was quiet for a moment. She worried one of her rings, rolling it around and around her finger. “This was my fault. I should’ve stopped him.”

  Albert shot her an appraising glance. He was pretty good at recognizing bullshit when he heard it. “Stopped who?”

  “Boogie.”

  Albert snorted. “Boogie? That little pip-squeak? He doesn’t have the balls.” But when he said the words, he knew they weren’t true. Lately, Boogie had been full of surprises. “Why should I believe you?”

  Eugenia found a bit of backbone and straightened. Fire flashed in her eyes. “Why shouldn’t you? You and me, we go back a long way. You pulled me out of the gutter, and for that I’m grateful. You know that. Why would I plant a bomb in Jimmy’s? It makes no sense.” She wasn’t going to tell him about the pictures, not yet. Those were her trump card, and she didn’t know how this game was going to play out.

  “Maybe you want Mona and Lucky out of the way.” It was weak; he knew it. He and Eugenia had been hot and heavy, but that had been a long time ago. He’d broke it off. She hadn’t taken it well, but they’d worked their way back to friendship—at least he was pretty sure they had.

  “So, that is what you think of me? I’d risk killing others in a fit of jealousy?” She rolled her eyes. “I can be pretty dumb, but stupid? Not no more. And really, if I wanted them out of the way, they’d’ve been gone a long time ago.” Of course, she hadn’t been above trying to scare them off, but she wasn’t about to mention that. Albert would jump to all the wrong conclusions—he was black and white that way, he could afford to be. But she didn’t have that luxury.

  “Okay. But what beef did Boogie have?”

  “I don’t know all of it, but it had to do with the union and Jimmy bein’ a scab.”

  Now that rang true for sure . . . and it jibed with the whole incident in the desert. The timing was a bit off, but it stood to reason that if Boogie was working for the old boss, he could’ve made a deal with the new guy. Albert knew there was something missing, though. A connection? He wasn’t sure, but he intended to find out. “There’s more to it than that.”

  “That’s all I know. I swear.”

  When Eugenia looked at him, he could see the truth in her eyes, hear it in her voice. “I’d sure like to know how many angles Boogie is playing . . . and why.”

  July 2012

  Las Vegas

  Matilda and I sat, each of us lost in our own thoughts, as the footman brought me a fresh mug of steaming coffee.

  Nothing like caffeine to settle my nerves.

  I took a tentative sip. Scalding—just right. I looked at my aunt over the top of the mug as I tried to sip without taking off the top layer of my tongue. I was marginally successful. When it became clear Matilda wasn’t going to offer up what she knew without some goading, I decided a bit of gentle cross-examination was in order. “So … Lovato. Was that who called my father when he was heading out the door to meet me and my mother the day of the bombing?”

  Matilda seemed to have grown smaller under the weight of the conversation. “What?” Her voice was a whisper.

  I felt badly, but I had to know. “Who called him? Lovato?”

  She shook her head once. “Eugenia Campos.”

  My heart skipped a beat, or half a dozen, I wasn’t sure. Regardless, I felt a bit lightheaded and sick to my stomach. “What’d she want?”

  Matilda filled me in on the nice little triangle of Davis Lovato, Eugenia Campos and my father.

  “What were the three of them cooking up?”

  Matilda squirmed deeper into the cushions, as if willing herself to disappear. “Honey, if we had any suspicions, we were smart enough to keep our yaps shut. But I do know that the attorney general didn’t show that day.”

  “Lovato didn’t show?” I raised my eyebrows and sipped my coffee as I tried to lasso my thoughts, but they kept racing around like a herd of wild mustangs, until a cloud of dust obscured everything. “Somebody wanted my father not to be at Jimmy G’s?”

  “Plausible.”

  “That begs a question: who?” I had too many questions with no answers. I felt like we were circling the wagons, but I didn’t know who our enemy was. “Was Eugenia Campos the go-between?”

  “Always.”

  I leaned back into the embrace of my chair, the wingback forming a cradle of sorts—I liked the analogy, but it didn’t work. Comfort proved elusive. “Anything else?” I asked the question not really expecting an answer.

  “Well . . . ” Matilda’s tone focused my attention.

  “Now is not the time to hold anything back.”

  Her eyes, filled with resolve and fear, met mine. I swallowed hard.

  “I helped him cover up a murder.”

  #

  Las Vegas: 1982

  Matilda manned her desk in the vestibule when Albert Rothstein burst through his office door, towing Eugenia Campos with him. Stopping, he pulled Eugenia in front, propelling her into his office. “In there. I need to think.” He watched until she did what he’d asked, then reaching for the buttons on his shirt, he turned to his secretary. “Matilda, I need you to do something for me, no questions asked.” He stopped and gave her a knowing look. “Can you do that?”

  Matilda’s eyes widened when he shrugged out of his shirt and handed it to her.

  “Get rid of this. I don’t want anybody finding it, you hear? And you never saw it.” He followed Matilda’s eyes as they flicked toward his office. “Don’t worry about her. She’s got more at stake than I do.”

  She reached for the shirt, then wadded it up and stuffed it in her purse, closing the clasp with an audible click.

  Albert reached across the desk and squeezed her shoulder. “I’m sorry to draw you into this. I’ll make it up to you.”

  Matilda shrugged and shot him a smile. She’d done worse . . . but he didn’t have to know that.

  Eugenia sank onto the couch. Instead of joining her there, Albert grabbed a clean shirt from the closet and bent over the sink to wash up. He needed to get rid of every drop of blood. Looking down, he realized a clean pair of pants might be in order as well. Eugenia worried the strap on her purse, quiet and pensive and obviously nervous, she waited for him to finish.

  Albert gave himself a careful once-over. Satisfied that he’d removed the blood— he couldn’t do anything about the bruises and the split lip—he stepped over to the window. For some reason, looking out at life going on helped him organize his thoughts, put everything into perspective. The crew hustled through the Lucky Aces building site, creating his dream one beam, one load of concrete at a time. He crossed his arms behind his back. “Any theories on how your earring ended up next to the bomb?”

  “When I called you earlier, I took it off and put it by the phone. You know how I do?”

  Albert could picture her. She always plucked one off her lobe before pressing the receiver to her ear. She’d said it was more comfortable.

  “Just as I finished with our call, the doorbell rang. I went to put the earring back on, but I’d lost the other one somewhere. It must be in the apartment, but I didn’t have time to look for it.”

  “Who showed up?”

  “Boogie, that little creep . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

  “What?”

  “Nuthin’. I just thought he was someone else, that’s all.”

  Albert shot her a disapproving look. “Don’t tell me you are still seeing Davis Lovato.”

  Guilt colored her features as she averted he
r eyes. “Why do you think he agreed to help you with your gaming license application?” When she looked up, anger snapped in her eyes. “What, you think he puts his ass on the line for nuthin’?”

  Albert seemed appalled. “When I asked for your help, I didn’t think you would sleep with him to get it.”

  “What else do you think a girl like me’s got to trade?”

  Albert let his breath out in one long sigh as he turned back to the view out the window. “I guess I didn’t think.” He stared at his hotel rising from the hole in the ground. “Sometimes you want something so bad, you put blinders on.”

  “Tell me about it,” Eugenia whispered, but the meaning hidden in her words was lost on Albert.

  Albert moved to sit beside her. Taking both of her hands in his, he didn’t know what to say. “Oh God, Geenie, I’m so sorry. I would never . . . ”

  She gave him a smile that held a lifetime of world-weariness. “I know. It’s really not your fault. I was in love with the guy already.”

  “Really?”

  Eugenia gave a snort in self-deprecation. “Head over heels. Can I pick ’em, or what?”

  July 2012

  Las Vegas

  More than a little shell-shocked, I staggered into my office and collapsed into a chair against the wall of windows that overlooked the lobby below. Miss P’s desk was empty. I stretched my legs out in front of me, then leaned my head back and closed my eyes. I needed to think, but that was proving to be more difficult than normal. Matilda had scared the hell out of me. Helped my father cover up a murder? Christ.

  And she hadn’t known who, or where, or really what his part had been.

  “Where the hell you been, bitch?” Newton, my foul-mouthed Macaw clearly was happy to see me.

  I snorted but didn’t open my eyes. “Shut up, bird.”

  “Asshole,” he sang out with conviction—it was his best word.

  That got a smile out me.

  “Really, talking with a bird. What will people think?” Miss P sailed into the vestibule from my old office, which was now hers.

  I jumped at the intrusion—I still hadn’t gotten used to the new office arrangements. “I thought we were alone. I’m not used to you being the old me.”

  “The old you?” She looked at me over the top of her cheaters—zebra-print today, which matched her animal-print silk blouse and loose white slacks. With spiky blond hair, large, kind eyes and just the right amount of curves to get the right attention, she was the picture of cool, feminine competence.

  “You have the office that belonged to the old me.” Next to her I felt frazzled. “If you could bottle that whole thing you got going on, I’d buy a lifetime supply.”

  “Food. Food. Food,” Newton demanded as he scurried from one side of his perch to the other, bobbing his head in excitement.

  Miss P took a seat behind her old desk and started rummaging through the drawers. “He’s your bird. I suggest you do as he asks.”

  After levering myself to my feet, I did as the bird ordered. Picking up a piece of browned apple from the dish beside his cage, I stuck it through the bars. As he lunged for the morsel, I let go—I’d sacrificed a chunk of flesh more than once when I had been a fraction of a second too slow. Today, my timing was perfect. I took it as a good sign.

  “You’re looking a bit shell-shocked today, if I may say so.” Having apparently found what she was looking for, Miss P punched the button on the phone to play the messages.

  The first one was from Teddie. It was becoming a daily ritual. I shot Miss P a dirty look as I sailed past her and into my old office, looking for a mirror and a chance to pull myself together. Stepping into the small bathroom, I closed the door, shutting out the world . . . and Teddie.

  At six feet, I had to duck a bit to see myself in the mirror. I blew at a lock of soft brown hair that had fallen into my eyes and surveyed the damage. Not too bad, all things considered. I still looked a bit owl eyed—my blue eyes a bit wider and perhaps ringed with a bit more red than normal. My cheekbones seemed sharper, the skin pulled a bit tighter.

  Stress and worry—taking years off, both figuratively and literally.

  Of course, a broken heart didn’t help. Yes, that was Teddie’s parting gift. My first and only love, he’d left a few months ago to chase international rock stardom, leaving a hole where my heart used to be. Time wasn’t healing this wound. Still raw and tender, my heart needed a time-out. Of course, what it needed and what it got were usually two different things.

  Pulling out a drawer filled with curious cosmetics I still didn’t quite know how to use effectively, I pawed through the lot. Selecting the basics, I set about refreshing my tired face. Then I chose a fresh outfit from the closet: white jeans, gold sandals and a loose royal-blue top—light and breezy, it set off my eyes . . . or so I’d been told. And frankly, today I was looking for any leg up I could find.

  Rejoining Miss P in the outer office, I parked a cheek on the corner of the desk and grabbed the stack of messages in my in-box. Plucking out the multiples from Teddie, I waded them up and dropped them into the trash.

  “He’s really sorry,” Miss P started, then stopped when she ran into my scowl. “Doesn’t that song count for anything? It’s so romantic.”

  She was referring to a song Teddie had written for me entitled, Lucky for Me. Honestly, it was a beautiful song, but he’d floated it out on the airwaves in an attempt to get my attention. Sort of understandable, since I’d been ignoring him and all. But I wasn’t in the mood to cut him any slack. And he should’ve had enough respect to give me some space, some time. But no, he had to press the point by hitting every talk show known to man. Now our story was fodder for the masses and the song was flying up the charts.

  “He knows that’s just the sort of public display I hate.” I pulled a couple of messages out of the stack: one from Romeo and another from my mother. The rest I put back in my box.

  “Desperate measures for desperate times.” Miss P had a platitude for every occasion.

  “Divided loyalty?” I stood and brushed down my pants.

  “I didn’t know this was a war.”

  “Not a war, an effort in self-preservation. Once trust is broken, how do you ever repair it?”

  Miss P shrugged. Apparently she didn’t have an answer. Neither did I. What I did have was a murder to solve, a father to keep out of jail, and a day that was galloping off without me.

  I needed some help.

  Chapter Seven

  Las Vegas

  1982

  SMOKE billowed from what was left of Jimmy G’s when Albert Rothstein returned to the scene. Soot drifted on the wind, fueled by the inferno as it fed on any available oxygen. There wouldn’t be anything left, which Albert was grateful for. Sometimes people got what was coming to them. Jimmy didn’t deserve it, of course—he was just a pawn in a power play, an example . . . or a convenient cover.

  As he maneuvered his car between the police cars at the scene, he tried to gather his thoughts. Eugenia’s story was filled with loose threads, interesting angles. Life had presented him a rare opportunity. How could he take advantage of it?

  If what Eugenia had said was true . . . well, he had several scores to settle and things were lining up. But could he believe her? Notoriously capricious, Eugenia had always been straight with him . . . and they went back a long way. He’d saved her bacon so many times he’d lost count. And she’d called in more than a few markers to help him. They were sort of a mutual benefit society operating in the gray areas between bad and worse. Vegas was still that kind of place. Well-placed friends with a questionable moral code could mean the difference between sitting on top of the mountain, or being buried six feet under. But Albert wasn’t a fool—loyalty often went to the highest bidder. He wondered if he had the winning number.

  One of the cops motioned for him to pull the car into an alleyway.

  Albert rolled down his window. As he eased to a stop, he smiled—it wasn’t a friendly smile. “Cride
r. We meet again.”

  The cop’s eyes were cold, black holes in a dead face. Recognition flashed in his eyes, but that was his only reaction. “Just park over there and stay out of the way.” He pointed down the alley.

  Albert did as he said, then he wandered back and pulled the cop aside. “We got a rare opportunity here, Crider.”

  July 2012

  Las Vegas

  The crowd in the lobby swelled with the passing of the hours as day stretched its last tentacles across the western sky. Through the sets of double glass doors creating the front entrance to the Babylon, I caught a glimpse of the brilliant oranges and pinks in the clear, turquoise desert sky. With no humidity to speak of, the brilliant colors of the Vegas sunset often put on a better display than 4th of July fireworks.

  Gauging from the throngs packing the lobby, cocktail hour was fast approaching. Of course, alcohol was an all-day beverage in Vegas, so the marking of the hour was simply an affectation us working stiffs still clung to . . . even though our days often stretched toward endless as well.

  As one of the Seven Wonders of Vegas, the lobby of the Babylon attracted a crowd regardless of the hour. White marble floors, with brightly hued, inlaid mosaics and rich multicolored fabric tented above the reception area along one wall, added inviting splashes of color, as did the thousands of Chihuly blown-glass hummingbirds and butterflies arcing across the ceiling high above.

  A languid stream, our version of the Euphrates, meandered, separating the lobby area from the casino. Bordered by various reeds, rushes, and flowering plants, and arched at convenient intervals by wooden footbridges, the waterway was home to various fish and fowl.

  The wall opposite registration was made entirely of clear Lucite and created a border between the lobby and an indoor ski slope made of honest-to-goodness snow. Skiers still populated the slope; schussing or snowplowing, they were all smiles . . . and optimism in their shorts. I cringed at the thought of bare flesh meeting the icy slopes—man-made snow wasn’t nearly as skin-friendly as nature-made. But running on 80 proof, few would feel much pain . . . until tomorrow.