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

by Deborah Coonts

  Closest to the entrance was a large portal. Arched and ornate, it beckoned everyone to partake of the riches on display in our high-end shopping arena called the Bazaar. There, for a mere king’s ransom, one could obtain brilliant jewels fit for a sultan’s first four wives, designer fashions, Italian automobiles and gourmet hamburgers, among other gastronomic indulgences. One could also be pampered at Samson’s, our beauty salon and spa, or get married at the Temple of Love. All you needed was a credit card with no limit.

  Vegas, where perceived value reaped retail gold.

  Flash had said she’d meet me in Delilah’s. The bar sat on a raised platform in the middle of the casino—like a queen on her throne, or an altar for offerings to the gambling gods. Feeling fresher than I thought I should, I took the few stairs two at a time, arriving at the top a bit winded. My lack of fitness was sobering to say the least.

  And it called for a drink.

  I claimed a club chair at a small, knee-high, round table in the corner overlooking the casino, as far away as possible from the white baby grand next to the bar. Sometimes at the end of a long day, Teddie would wait for me there, playing for the customers. I could see him, his blond hair spiked up, the planes of his face, his broad shoulders, tight ass . . . all that and a Julliard-trained tenor that could melt hearts, including mine. When we’d first met, he was working at a small showroom at the Flamingo as a female impersonator. I hired him, moving him up in the world. He’d flourished and made the whole impersonator thing his own. To be honest, at first it was odd dating someone who not only stole my clothes, but looked better in them than I did. I got over it. But now I wondered, would I ever get over him?

  “Girlfriend, don’t go there.” Flash plopped herself into the chair next to mine. Barely five feet, buxom, with riotous red hair, a quick smile and an even quicker wit, Flash was my best friend and the ace investigative reporter for the local rag, the Review-Journal. Today she sported her ubiquitous painted-on jeans, tight-to-the-edge-of-decency tee shirt, and hot-pink stilettoes. The diamond-encrusted J-12 on her wrist and the sparkly hoops at her ears lent just a bit of class to her trashy. Not nearly enough, but at least she’d made an attempt to upgrade.

  “Go where?”

  “Honey, you spend so much time looking in the rearview, you’re gonna drive yourself right into a head-on.”

  “Sometimes the past can offer some enlightenment.”

  Flash made a rude noise. “Don’t you know when you stop thinking about them, that’s when they show up again?”

  “Ahhh, so that’s how it works.”

  “Pretty sure.” Flash flagged down a cocktail server who headed in our direction. “What are you having? I’ve got a real hard-on over this Rosè Champagne that’s popping up everywhere.” Flash’s lack of personal refinement clearly hadn’t degraded her palate.

  “Prime stuff. I’m in. We just got in a very nice Domain Carneros.” At Flash’s nod, I nodded to the waitress and she charged off.

  “You know, you guys really should spring for some actual clothing for those girls.”

  “What? You think two dish towels and some braided rope isn’t enough?”

  Flashed watched the waitress as she punched our order into the register. “They just look . . . cold. And underfed.”

  “Proving once again you can’t please everyone.” I let it go at that and waited, letting my gaze drift over Flash’s head to the casino and its action beyond. I didn’t want to dive into the meat of the conversation only to be interrupted by the waitress returning with our libation.

  She didn’t disappoint, returning quickly. Flash and I watched as the waitress busied herself with all the Champagne show. Pouring a taste into my flute, she cradled the bottle and waited. I took a sip, savoring the bubbles. A bit on the dry side, just as I liked. I nodded, then she filled our flutes, nestled the bottle in ice, placing the silver ice bucket next to the table, and took her leave.

  Flash took a big swig, swishing it around her mouth, then swallowing. “Primo juice.”

  “I’m plying you with rare elixirs so you will do my bidding.” I leaned forward, setting my now half-empty flute on the table. “I need you to do some digging.”

  “Righteous.”

  The fact that she said that word with a perfectly straight face had me worried. “I don’t know who you’ve been hanging out with, but the experience has completely decimated your vocabulary.”

  “Sorry.” She threw back the rest of her Champagne, then reached for the bottle and poured a new dose of the pink bubbles for herself. “Been doing the exposé on the underground music industry. Where do you want me to dig?”

  “I need the skinny on Davis Lovato—all the dirt, everything you can find.”

  “You mean Daniel Lovato,” Flash said referring to our current district attorney.

  “Not the son. The father.”

  Pausing mid gulp, Flash raised her eyebrows as she looked at me over the top of her flute. She lowered it to the table next to mine, then pulled a from her hip pocket. I waited while she rooted in her extraordinary cleavage for the pencil she always kept there.

  When her pencil was poised above the paper and her attention shifted back to me, I continued. “Davis Lovato was the attorney general back when I was about four.”

  “So, to be clear. Davis Lovato was Daniel Lovato’s father?”

  “Yes, somehow my family’s history seems inexorably tied with the Lovatos’.” Daniel and I were grudging friends. Let’s just say we had a history . . . and I kept close some of his secrets. First the fathers, now the offspring.

  Flash shook her head as she made a few more notes. “This place is so fucking inbred.” Her head shot up when realization dawned. “Sorry. I wasn’t referring to you.”

  “If the shoe fits.” I smiled at my cliché—for some odd reason I just loved those trite turns of phrase. They held all this meaning you didn’t have to say.

  “You say he was in office around the time you were four?” Her expression turned serious as she shifted to reporter mode. “You know where he is now?”

  “Haven’t a clue—he was a bit before my time.” I refilled my flute—bubbles just made life better somehow. “Funny thing is, I don’t remember anyone ever talking about him.”

  “Some of those guys being bigger than life, that is odd.” Interest flared in her eyes. The girl knew a Pulitzer-worthy story when she saw it. “Does this have anything to do with the bombing at Jimmy G’s?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just turning over rocks, trying to make connections.”

  And I shuddered at the possibilities.

  Las Vegas

  1982

  Albert followed Crider as he pushed through the crowd of gawkers. No one said much; he firefighters had things pretty much under control now.

  Catching sight of Mona, he got Crider’s attention by grabbing his arm. A quick shrug in the direction of his family. Crider nodded in understanding, then kept pushing forward. Albert lost sight of him as he waved his badge and was ushered inside the perimeter the police had erected around the site.

  Soot smudging her face, Mona stood facing the fire, her chin lifted in a defiant tilt. Lucky, her back to her mother’s legs and held there by her mother’s hands on her shoulders, had the same look on her face, that same unmoving swagger, if that was possible. As if she sensed his presence, Mona turned in Albert’s direction, scanning the crowd.

  He could see the trail of tears through the soot on her face. When she saw him, she didn’t move, yet relief eased through her posture.

  He grabbed her, looping one arm around her shoulders. “Everyone’s safe,” he murmured against her hair as she sagged against him. With his other hand, he found Lucky’s shoulder and squeezed. As he held his family, he struggled with emotions that threatened to boil over.

  This was about him. A warning, for sure ,or the worst kind of promise, but he didn’t know by whom or for what. He’d damn well find out, though. Fear, anger, hate, dread . . . they all coalesc
ed into a certainty: he’d kill whoever did this.

  July 2012

  Las Vegas

  Cocooned in the sounds of the casino at full-bore that swirled around me, I refilled my once-again empty flute with Champagne and settled back, relishing the momentary lull. With a mission at hand, Flash had launched into action, leaving me alone. Patrons filtered into Delilah’s looking for a bit of high-octane fuel to power their evening. I could relate.

  “Drinking on the job?” Mona eased into the club chair next to me, the one Flash had vacated. Her stomach seemed to expand as I watched.

  “Drinking to survive the job.” Mother never came looking for me unless the end of the world was imminent, so I sipped my bubbles and tried not to panic. To be honest, she looked the worse for wear, but valuing my life, I didn’t say so.

  Mona eyed my Champagne with thinly disguised lust. She’d been on the wagon since getting knocked up. I felt for her—giving up go-juice was too high a price to pay for the privilege of bringing a new life into this world, but that’s just me . . . a die-hard hedonist addicted to my pleasures.

  With two fingers, I scooted the glass over to her. “One sip won’t hurt. And if it lowers your blood pressure, then that would be a net gain, I’m willing to bet.”

  Her indecision lasted a nanosecond. She gently grasped the thin stem of the glass between her forefinger and thumb. Reverentially, she lifted the glass to the light. Then, eyes closed, she took a sip and groaned.

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  She opened her eyes and grinned at me—not her normal wattage, but it was start. “You have no idea.”

  “And I don’t want to.”

  “Lucky, it’s a gift.”

  “It scares me.”

  “It scares everybody.”

  For some reason that admission surprised me. I thought everybody knew how to be an adult, a parent, other than me. “Really?”

  Mona pushed my glass back, then grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. “Honey, we all make it up as we go. Just follow your heart, that’s the best you can do.” She gave a little laugh, like she was laughing at a private joke. “It’s all any of us can do.”

  “I don’t think that’s why you tracked me down, is it?”

  Her face sobered. “Your detective didn’t just want to question your father today, he wanted to arrest him.”

  Although that infuriated me, it didn’t shock me. Surprised me, maybe . . . but shock? No. “Well, Romeo may be just a kid, but he’s wise enough to know if you take on the Big Boss, you better have serious ammunition. But right now, unless there’s something I don’t know,” I paused and gave my mother a pointed look, which she ignored, “he’s long on supposition, short on proof.”

  Mother didn’t respond right away. I sat back, leaving her to wrangle with her thoughts. If I knew anything about my mother, it was that she was a woman on a mission . . . always. The mission might vary, but she rarely wavered from her purpose. Tonight I’d drawn the short straw and ended up in her crosshairs. I couldn’t wait to hear why.

  As luck would have it, I didn’t have to wait long. Mona leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I need your help . . . we need your help.”

  Although she emphasized the ‘we,’ I doubted the Big Boss knew she was here talking to me. “What’s up?”

  “The last time I saw that ring was the day the bomb exploded at Jimmy G’s all those years ago . . . and now it turns up next to a body in the foundation of the Lucky Aces? Don’t you think it’s odd?”

  “Very odd indeed.” I bolted the last of the Champagne. “Tell me about that ring.”

  Las Vegas

  1982

  Creighton Crider sifted through the remains of Jimmy G’s place. What the bomb hadn’t leveled, the fire had taken care of, reducing the thriving restaurant to a pile of ashes. A few steel girders and I-beams remained, charred, twisted sentinels, guarding only memories. Smoke drifted upward as the embers smoldered. Crider moved the ashes around with a long stick—the coroner had told him to be careful . . . if there were any remains, he shouldn’t disturb them. Crider didn’t often do as he was told.

  That Rothstein guy had presented an interesting opportunity. Crider didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Oh, he’d heard of the guy. He was supposed to be on the up-and-up. But this was Vegas, and folks weren’t always what they seemed. Take himself, for example. A good kid from Kansas, he’d taken one bribe, done one fairly innocent “favor,” and look where it had got him. The whole thing had snowballed. He wore a sheriff’s department uniform and badge, but he was far from one of the good guys. It all had gone so wrong.

  Pretending to be focused on his search, he worked his way to what would’ve been the rear of the building. An arch of steel, scarred and twisted from the fire, marked the entrance he looked for: the entrance to the kitchen. Stepping through, he feigned a professional disinterest. A couple of techs were working in an area where broken pipe protruded from the ashes, presumably the bathrooms. Intent on their job, they didn’t even give him a glance, but their presence worried him. If they knew what he was going to do . . .

  One of the techs looked up. “You there, be careful.”

  Crider fought the anger. Why’d they always think he was stupid or something? “Yeah, I got it.”

  “The fire originated back here, so look extra hard.” The guy paused, giving Crider a hard look. “You do know how to process a fire, right?”

  “I took the course. Why do you think I’m here?” Crider almost laughed. He really had taken the course. He wasn’t used to being legit.

  The tech appeared satisfied and returned his attention to whatever he was looking at. Crider didn’t know and didn’t care. If Rothstein was right, it wasn’t what he had come to find.

  From the outline of the foundation that remained, he calculated his position, then marked off a few paces toward the center of the room. He knew what he was looking for.

  Rothstein had told him where to look.

  July 2012

  Las Vegas

  Once again I eased my Champagne toward my mother. This whole thing called for serious alcohol to settle my nerves, so I had replenished. A new bottle of Rosé bubbly nestled in the now-watery ice, which was perfect for holding the ideal cooldown temp. It probably should scare me that I knew something like that, but I was too worried to worry. My flute was full. “One more sip won’t hurt.” I felt sort of bad leading her astray and all. But I really did believe her elevated blood pressure was more of a health hazard than a bit of Champagne to bring it down.

  As Mona took a sip, I searched for signs of self-loathing at her weakness. Not even a hint showed in her face, which remained passive although pinched with concern. That’s one trait—probably the only trait—my mother possessed I wished had trickled down through the gene tree: her total acceptance of her decisions. No self-recriminations. No second-guessing. Just dealing, and moving on.

  “What do you remember about the ring?”

  When she went for another sip, I took the glass gently from her grasp. She didn’t put up a fight. Instead, she graced me with a thankful smile, a small one, but it was there. Curious. I could get used to this hormone-moderated mother. “I was so excited to give it to your father. I’d been saving for practically forever. He’d worked so hard. I wanted him to have something nice, something to celebrate the Lucky Aces.”

  I patted her hand on the table but kept my bubbly out of her reach. “Did you ever give it to him?”

  “No. I’d showed it to Jimmy . . . you’d gone to the bathroom. Then I set the box on the counter.”

  “Did anybody else know about the ring? Had you shown it to anybody?”

  “No one. I even had it made out of town . . . no one could’ve known.” She flagged the cocktail server down. “Some water, please.” She waited until she had it in hand and had gulped most of it before continuing. “After I showed Jimmy, you came back full of excitement about the bomb and dragged me off to see. After that . . . ” She lo
oked at me with haunted eyes, remembering. Then they cleared. “I always assumed it had been lost in the fire.”

  Las Vegas

  1982

  Fuckin’ A, Crider thought. Rothstein had been right. Maybe they really could pull this off. Huge stakes. A big gamble. But if it worked . . .

  Moving the ash carefully, as he’d been trained to do, Crider squinted his eyes and concentrated. They’d said fire would make a difference. Gently poking, prodding, he finally saw it.

  Keeping his back to the techs, he kneeled. Pulling the plastic bag from his pocket, he sifted, collecting the pieces. There were more than he expected, and he had to be careful. The gloves made it difficult to get the smaller ones. Those he obscured into the ash.

  Sweat dripped into his eyes. He swiped it away with the back of his forearm and focused on his task. He had to get it all.

  “You there!”

  Crider jumped at the voice. His heart hammered. What if someone saw? What would he say? Glancing over his shoulder, he feigned irritation.

  The coroner gave him a stare. “What did you find?”

  “I don’t know.” Crider shrugged. “I’m bagging it for you.”

  “Mark it and its location before you give it to the techs.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know what to do.”

  The coroner disappeared as quickly as he’d come. Crider’s heart rate didn’t settle down quite as quickly, but he hurried now. Too much time had passed. Someone was going to take a keener interest.

  Tucking the bag into his shirt, careful not to mash the contents, he resumed his search. Jimmy G’s. Focused, yet nonchalant, Crider rose, trying to blend in—even though he’d found what he was looking for, he still needed to appear to be doing a job. No one paid any attention to him. Leaving the kitchen, he worked a grid that would bring him closer and closer to the opening that had been the front door.