So Damn Lucky (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 3)

by Deborah Coonts

  “Thanks for the setup.” I shot him an irritated glance, but he didn’t seem too upset about it.

  The computer dude turned his machine around to face the rest of the group, who quieted.

  “What are those two doing with the computer?” I whispered out of the side of my mouth.

  “They’re trying to tap into the radio feed of The Bart Griffin Show,” Zoom-Zoom said.

  “Who?”

  “A talk-show host,” Dr. Jenkins added. “His nightly show covers unexplained phenomena, from UFOs to alien abductions to ancient astronauts—the whole gamut. He takes call-ins, which can be quite amusing.”

  “Let me get this straight. You guys are sitting in a bar in the entertainment capital of the universe, and you’re going to stop everything to listen to a radio show?”

  “It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” Junior jumped in. “The guy has gone commando.”

  “He’s not wearing any underwear?” I asked, rhetorically. “That’s not so interesting—people do it all the time in Vegas.”

  “Not that kind of commando.” Junior gave me a disgusted look.

  “This week Bart Griffin is broadcasting from various hidden locations around Area 51,” Zoom-Zoom explained. “He moves every hour to keep the cammo guys off his trail.”

  “The Air Force will shoot him if he blunders too far inside,” I warned, probably unnecessarily. Junior had personal experience with the business end of an M-16 thanks to the Cammo guys, a faulty map, and two six-packs of beer.

  “Cool, huh?” Junior said, his eyes alight. “But there’s more. Rumor has been swirling all day that he’s going to make some sort of announcement about your vanishing magician.”

  “Dimitri Fortunoff?” Now they had my attention. Who knew his disappearance had been classified as an “unexplained phenomenon?” Although it fit.

  “That’s the one,” Dr. Jenkins confirmed.

  “Turn up the sound,” I instructed. “I’m all ears.” The possibility that the commando radio host would have any meaningful insight into the magician’s demise was remote, but waiting to hear him out couldn’t hurt.

  “This is it.” The computer guy turned up the volume.

  “For all you people in Vegas worrying about Dimitri Fortunoff, I have a word from him to you,” said the disembodied voice, a deep masculine rumble. “The word tonight is actually a phrase. It is ‘pray be quick’.”

  Then he signed off and our group fell silent.

  “ ‘Pray be quick’? That’s it?” I asked my tablemates. “And how could it be from Dimitri, when he’s dead?”

  Blank faces stared back at me.

  “People have been known to make contact from the Great Beyond,” Zoom-Zoom Zewicki said quietly, his face a mask.

  I thought about arguing with him, but trying to change the mind of someone who had already tossed reason out the window was like trying to throw a large loop with a short rope. “If he’s trying to tell us something, what is it?”

  “It’s a clue,” computer dude Number One said.

  Clearly he shared my flair for the obvious. “I know it’s a clue, but to what?”

  Again, blank faces stared at me. For a group big on theories, they were strangely quiet.

  I rose to go. “Gentlemen, it’s been interesting… and confounding. Perhaps a new day will bring enlightenment.”

  “There’s supposed to be another word tomorrow night,” Zoom-Zoom added. “Maybe it will add clarity.”

  I had my doubts.

  ***

  In contrast to last night, quiet reigned as I strolled up the drive to the front entrance to the Presidio. Forrest manned his post in the lobby.

  “Hey, Ms. Lucky. Long day?”

  “Normal day. How about you?”

  “Same, except I heard the weirdest thing.” Forrest’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know the cat burglar?”

  I nodded, my interest piqued. “How much did he get away with?”

  “I don’t know, my friend didn’t see the list the Daniels made.” Forrest’s eyes were wide with wonder. “The weird thing was, he left something.”

  “You mean like a calling card?”

  “Yeah,” Forrest said. “Like on TV.”

  “What was it?”

  “Something like a note.”

  “What did the note say?”

  The big man shrugged. “That’s all my friend would tell me. He was one of the cops on the scene; he probably shouldn’t have opened his big flapper as it was.”

  “Would you let me know if you hear more?”

  “Sure thing. All I can say is, it sure was good nobody was home. The guy’s a Cracker Jack for sure.”

  Great, not only did we have a cat burglar, we had one who wanted to rub the victim’s nose in it. The sick SOB.

  And it was a sad day when our security guard’s sources were better than mine.

  Romeo and I needed to have a chat.

  ***

  Home—my former refuge, now my prison—holding me hostage with distant echoes of happiness, fading memories of a love gone missing. Clearly I needed a change of scenery, another place to lay my head for a while. I tossed my bag and jacket on the couch, kicked off my shoes, and headed for the kitchen to check on Newton. At least I knew where I stood with him—as long as I provided food and a warm place to live, he loved me.

  And they say you can’t buy love.

  Whoever said that had clearly never been to Vegas.

  Newton’s cage was buttoned up for the night, so I didn’t disturb him. Instead, I headed for my bedroom, dropping clothes as I went. A long soak in the tub would do wonders.

  In designing the build-out of my condo, I had insisted on two things: walls of glass and a bathroom that would find a place on the list of top-ten best bathrooms of the world—assuming I was inclined to allow a television crew into my boudoir, which I wasn’t. A space larger than my first apartment, carpeted with thick pile, with a jetted tub that could fit me and several of my friends comfortably under a wall of glass looking south toward the airport, a shower for two with multiple nozzles, a double vanity, and a water closet with a television and no cell service, my every wish had been fulfilled.

  A set of slatted double French doors opened into a walk-in closet so large it had a chaise, enough shoe racks to have delighted Imelda Marcos, and closet space sufficient to hold my lifetime collection of vintage designer clothing—my one major vice—and Teddie’s hand-me-downs. If he took a powder, I hoped he wouldn’t take back his collection of Oscar de la Renta and Chanel gowns—remnants from his highly successful days as Las Vegas’s reigning female impersonator. Of course, if he left, I’m not sure I could wear his clothes.

  I opened the tap on the tub to a preset temperature and let the deep basin fill while I removed my makeup and the rest of my clothing. Just before submerging myself, I checked my cell. No missed calls. No text messages. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

  Teddie had gone AWOL.

  Chapter Six

  TODAY was a perfect day to shoot someone.

  I shielded my eyes against the glare of the morning sun. Happy that I had grabbed a jacket as I headed out the door, I zipped it against the morning chill. Breathing in the cool, fresh air, I felt myself relaxing… a bit. Sleep had been elusive. Tossing and turning, thoughts and worries steamrolling through my brain, I’d finally taken refuge in a large wingback chair with a steaming mug of java, and watched the sun bring life to the new day.

  In the early morning, with the lights of the Strip extinguished, the sidewalks empty of tourists, and commuters populating the streets, Vegas resembled a normal American city.

  I nodded to a young woman clutching the hand of a child dressed in a school uniform as they walked by.

  After years of going to bed as the hurricane of excess and excitement raged, then waking up to… a place suspiciously like Southern California, I no longer thought the two faces of Vegas odd. In fact, I thought each was essential—the normality offset the crazine
ss so we could all live here and not lose ourselves.

  Lost in thought, I didn’t notice the sleek, midnight blue convertible until it eased to a stop in front of me. Dane stepped out of the driver’s door.

  “Nice wheels,” I said. As greetings go, it was a bit lame, but it was better than ‘nice ass,’ which was also true. “Aston Martin?”

  Dane nodded as he opened the passenger door for me. “A Vantage.”

  “So work is a hobby for you?” I had to wait for his answer until he settled himself behind the wheel.

  “I know how much you like well-engineered cars,” Dane said, as he put the car in gear and pulled into traffic. “A friend of mine works at Gaudin. He let me borrow it.”

  As he drove east on Tropicana, we fell into easy conversation about the merits and deficiencies of all the toys sold by the Gaudin dealership, including my favorite, Porsche, which has no deficiencies whatsoever. Dane didn’t disagree, scoring major points in the process. My life sure would be simpler if I could find something to dislike about him—but it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.

  The Gun Store occupied a long, low-slung building constructed of cinder blocks and topped with tin. In a valiant attempt to combat the assault of the sun and the heat of the desert, someone had painted every surface white. Similar commercial buildings bracketed the store and lined the opposite side of the street as far as I could see. The neighborhood reeked of old East Vegas and hard times.

  Dane parked the Aston Martin two spaces from a beat-up Ford F-150 that looked like it had been painted with Krylon. The license plate said SHOOTR, and the bumper stickers would make the NRA blush with pride. Being from Nevada, a live-and-let-live state, I could relate. The pickup and our convertible were the only two cars in the lot.

  “Are they open yet?” I always felt like a fool waiting for a man to walk around to let me out of the car—especially since I was fully capable of doing it myself. So I did, and unfolded myself into the day.

  “Like I said, I know this guy… ” Dane grinned at me over the top of the car. “He’s opening for us. We’ll have the place to ourselves.”

  The white cinder-block motif continued inside, where someone had painted the floor bright blue. The shooting range consisted of a reception area, where patrons picked their weapon of choice—anything from several fully automatic weapons, sniper rifles, 50 caliber cannons, to tiny semiautomatic handguns. The shooting bays, with a bench rest at one end, a backstop at the other, and an overhead pulley system to move the targets, occupied the remaining area of the building. I could see several of the bays through a wall of glass opposite the front door. The pop-pop-pop of rapid single-shot fire sounded from the range, but I couldn’t see the shooter.

  Dane and I stood at the counter and surveyed the possibilities. Guns of all shapes and sizes hung from pegs, covering the wall behind the counter. A bipod-supported cannon called The Saw caught my eye, but I dismissed it as too gaudy; not to mention it would probably knock me on my ass.

  “I’m thinking an Uzi and maybe an M16,” I said. All this firepower made my trigger finger twitchy.

  “The perfect solution: Kill the intruder and take out a few neighbors in the process.”

  The neighbor right above me sprang to mind—not that I really wanted to shoot Teddie. However, making him suffer held some appeal. The guy had been acting like a toad. If he wanted to blow me off, the least he could do was tell it to me straight.

  “Okay, no M16, but I’ve always wanted to shoot an Uzi—something about the name, the whole Mossad thing—I don’t know.”

  “I think we can handle that,” Dane said, his brows creased in concentration. “But I really want to teach you to shoot a handgun, get you comfortable with it.”

  Without asking my opinion, he settled on a Glock. Had he asked, I would have agreed—constructed of polymer, the Model 19 was light, compact, easy to use, and deadly. And it fit my hand better than the Beretta or the Walther PPK.

  The sound of shooting stopped. A tall man, dressed in black and wearing ear protectors and safety goggles, walked into view in the shooting area. He waved at us through the glass, then checked his weapon, leaving the receiver open, hung his ear protectors on a peg on the wall, and let himself out through the locked door into the reception area.

  Dane and the man shook hands, then Dane said to me, “Lucky, this is Shooter Moran. We kicked around a bit together in the service.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Shooter said, as he took my hand in his huge paw. “I could tell you stories about this one.” He cocked his head toward Dane. “He took a bullet and still saved—”

  “That’s enough,” Dane interrupted. “Don’t fill her head full of your exaggerations.”

  Shooter gave me a wink. “The Captain never liked anyone talking about him.”

  “Captain?”

  At a glare from Dane, Shooter changed the subject. “So what’s it going to be, Captain?”

  “The Uzi and the Model 19, and enough ammo to assassinate several targets. My lady here has a serious case of red ass she needs to work out.”

  “Yes, Sir.” If Shooter thought Dane’s pronouncement odd, he was gentleman enough not to quiz me.

  I, on the other hand, unfettered by social strictures, shot my shooting partner a glare. Lately people had been reading me like a billboard, and I didn’t like it.

  With his arms full of trays of ammo, safety goggles, ear protectors, and several targets, Dane motioned for me to grab the weapons and follow him. We set up in a shooting bay at the far end.

  “Do you want to throw some serious lead at whoever stuck a burr under your saddle, or do you want to start with the handgun and work your way to virtual homicide?” Dane placed a pair of safety goggles over my eyes, donned a set of his own, then hung a set of ear protectors around my neck. Then he attached one of the targets to the clips and ran it along the pulley system to the far wall.

  “Let’s do the handgun first.”

  Only half-listening I watched Dane, his face serious, his eyes a deep green, as he carefully explained the proper handling of a handgun. He showed me the various parts of the gun, how to chamber a round by pulling back the slide, how to change the magazine, reiterating twice that the Glock had no external safety so I had to be ready to shoot when I put my finger on the trigger. He had nice hands, strong hands… And he looked so cute when he was serious….

  “Let me fire it first, then I’ll help you,” he said. After putting the protectors over his ears and motioning for me to do the same, he took a bent-knee stance, arms extended in front of him, both hands on the gun, and squeezed off a couple of rounds—all of them kill shots to the target’s upper torso.

  “Impressive,” I said after removing my ear thingies.

  “Now you try it.” Dane took one hand off the gun and motioned me in front of him.

  With my back to his chest, his voice warm in my ear, I held the gun as he indicated. His arms on either side of me, he closed his hands over mine. He smelled like soap with a hint of something musky, something masculine—safe, yet with a hint of danger.

  “I fired three rounds, so you have twelve left. Just squeeze smoothly. The gun doesn’t kick much. Don’t be nervous,” he whispered. With one hand he eased my ear protectors back into place, then regripped my hands.

  I felt his breath on my cheek, his chest pressed to my back, his arms around me. My skin warmed to his touch. Don’t be nervous? Who was he kidding?

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and settled myself. I hoped shooting was like riding a bicycle.

  In my previous experience, I was always instructed to aim for the body, the largest target. I opened my eyes and sighted on the target’s head. Taking instruction was not my best thing.

  With quick, precise pulls, I squeezed off five rounds. Four hit my mark, one grazed an ear—not bad after all this time.

  “Beginner’s luck,” Dane said, raising his voice to be heard since we both had our ears covered. He dropped his hands but stayed pressed
against me. “Now you do it on your own.”

  I repeated the exercise, this time with better luck—all five shots hit where I aimed.

  Dane pulled my ear coverings off as I set the gun on the rest. “You’ve done this before.”

  “Once or twice. Growing up in Nevada was like growing up in Texas, just more so. Shooting at cans on the dry lake bed outside of town was a common summer game.”

  He spun me around to face him. There was challenge in his eyes and a grin on his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You asked if I owned a gun, not if I knew how to shoot one.” For a moment I thought he was going to kiss me. For a moment I wanted him to, but then I realized he deserved better than to play a bit part in a childish game of revenge. Then, out of nowhere, the thought occurred to me that I was better than that—and I deserved better than to be left in limbo. Teddie had some answering to do.

  “A full clip, ten points for a head shot, five for a body shot?” I said, tossing down the gauntlet.

  “You’re on.” Dane left, then returned with his own gun, a Walther PPK. He slammed a magazine home, ran his own target to the far wall, donned his protective gear, and said, “Fire when ready.”

  I don’t know how much ammo we burned through. Sometimes he won, sometimes I did, and in the end, it didn’t matter. We laughed, we teased, and when we’d finished, I no longer wanted to shoot the Uzi.

  ***

  Ever the eager beaver, Brandy already manned her desk when I arrived. Her youthful enthusiasm and diligence warmed my heart, but made me feel old. Had I ever been so single-minded? Would I do it all over again, knowing the price? Of course I would, but it’s nice to imagine I might have had a choice.

  Besides, it wasn’t my professional life that was causing me angst. Still no word from Teddie—he had fallen off the face of the earth. What was I supposed to make of that? Okay, I was sorta getting the hint, but I didn’t want to believe it. And I’d be damned before I called him.