“I’m damaged goods, on the rebound, and thinking of swearing off men for a while. I don’t want a relationship right now, and I can’t make any promises.”
“If catching you on the bounce is the way I get my foot in the door, I’ll take it. And I understand, no promises.”
“Friends?” I asked. I so did not want to lose another friend by falling in love.
“A good place to start.” He gently stroked my face. “How about a date, like normal people—maybe dinner and a show?”
“How about a trip out to Rachel and the Little A’ Le’ Inn tomorrow night?”
“Where?”
“North of Area 51 on the Extraterrestrial Highway. I need to track down a radio guy who’s gone commando.”
***
I couldn’t shake the feel of Dane, his touch, the look in his eyes after he kissed me, as I charged into the day. What a stupid thing to do. Why had I done it? Erratic behavior on the rebound bounce—that must be it. Temporary insanity. I let my guard down for a moment, and I get a case of the stupids. I need a keeper.
Distracted and practically dysfunctional after a night without sleep, I was minimally effective as I dealt with a few minor issues: a couple who wanted to arrange a marriage in the Temple of Love, a man who wanted to ensure that his room would be filled with roses when he arrived this afternoon with his wife for their thirtieth anniversary, and Harry and Mavis who had questions beyond my areas of expertise—I sent them back to Smokin’ Joe’s Sex Emporium.
I wanted to be like them when I grew up.
***
A quick nap on my office couch did little to replenish my depleted stores. And now I was on my way to face an irate ex-showgirl who wanted a pound of my flesh—I must be punishing myself.
GiGi Vascheron, former star of the Calliope Burlesque Cabaret, spent her days as a tenured professor of Medieval History at UNLV, leading the unwilling through the tortured past. Having never taken a history course while at UNLV, I didn’t know exactly what medieval history entailed, although I sincerely hoped GiGi hadn’t developed an expertise in torture.
Like everything else about Las Vegas, the university was much like any other university, but wound a few turns tighter. Here, strippers by night fought their way through English by day. Valets and bartenders, bouncers and dancers, hookers and dealers worked their way toward an academic education one class at a time alongside an average full-time student body—business school, medical school, law school…all were possible. In addition, UNLV boasted one of the world’s top hotel and restaurant management schools, which made sense. I was a proud alum and an occasional adjunct professor—to my everlasting wonderment.
GiGi’s office was on the third floor of Wright Hall, one of the newer additions to a not-so-old campus.
Amazingly, I managed to find her cubbyhole without too much trouble. Through her open door, I watched GiGi as she regaled a group of young men leaning expectantly toward her as if drawn by an invisible force. The former showgirl looked accustomed to the adulation—not indifferent to it, but not overawed either. Tall and stick-thin, she wore her height with an aplomb I’d never completely developed. With a long cascade of auburn hair, peaches-and-cream skin, and bright, intelligent blue eyes, GiGi commanded attention. Her face was pinched with interest, her eyes dark and serious as she listened to one of her young students.
Lurking outside her doorway transported me back to my stint at the university. Hanging outside professor’s offices waiting for an audience, I’d always felt like the condemned coming to plead for clemency—I guess that spoke volumes about my college experience.
In short order, the young gentlemen left and GiGi strode through the door after them. Extending her hand to me she said with a smile reflected in her eyes, “Lucky, so sorry to keep you waiting. Come in.” She stepped aside and motioned me into her lair. “Can I offer you tea or anything?”
“If you’re having some, great. If not, please don’t bother.” I took one of the chairs recently vacated by her young squires.
GiGi, her back to me, busied herself with tea preparation. “I need a little pick-me-up this time of day,” she said. “When I was dancing, I couldn’t get through the afternoon without serious caffeine. Juggling two jobs meant sleep was as rare as knights in shining armor.”
“I guess you and I have dated from the same kennel club,” I empathized, eliciting a grin. “I know I have no right to ask, especially given my responsibility for the demise of your show, but I’ve come to ask for help.”
GiGi set a mug of steaming tea in front of me, then took the chair next to mine, cupping her own mug with both hands. “No hard feelings. I’ve bounced around this town for long enough—I know the ropes. What can I do for you?”
I followed her lead and kept my face passive although I wanted to grin appreciatively at her apparently unintentional pun. “Have you been following the story about Dimitri?”
“ How weird is it that his body disappearing like that? Do you have any idea what happened?”
“I’ve got a lot of questions but very few answers.”
“What do you need from me?”
“I saw Dr. Zewicki talking to you. Do you know him well?”
“We’ve kicked around a bit. I met him when he was based here with the Air force a few years ago.”
“Was he up at Nellis?”
“No, Papoose Lake.”
“Isn’t that the place where that former employee claimed the Air Force was reverse engineering a flying saucer with the help of an alien who loved to eat strawberry ice cream?”
“That’s the place.” GiGi grinned at me. “You have to admit, the men in this town are a bit off-center.”
Again, that wasn’t the adjective I would’ve reached for. “Is Papoose Lake part of Area 51?”
“Not technically. They say both are connected underground, but I couldn’t tell you if that’s true or not. Dr. Zewicki never talks about it.”
“Is he still based there?”
“No. His program was disbanded.”
“Why?”
“Something bad happened. I don’t know exactly what, but I got the impression someone died.”
***
Romeo, Las Vegas’s finest detective, caught me as I pushed through the front doors of the Babylon. “Do you have a minute?” he asked. Rumpled, his lack of sleep echoing in his bloodshot eyes, he looked like he could use a hug.
I resisted—hugs were so unprofessional… but sometimes as necessary as the blood coursing through our veins. My resolve dissolved, I wrapped him in a bear hug, embarrassing us both. “Sorry, you looked like you needed that.”
“You’re probably right. And, for the record, I didn’t mind.”
Steering him toward Delilah’s, I said, “I’ve got a couple of additional pieces to the puzzle, although I’m really not even sure if it’s the same puzzle. Nothing about this thing is adding up.”
“Tell me about it.”
The bar was filling up, but I managed to snag a small table in the corner next to a larger one inhabited by men who looked like they had been there since yesterday. Romeo and I ordered Cokes—sugar for him, virtue for me.
“You go first,” the young detective said. “I’m so whacked, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.”
I filled him in on Dr. Zewicki and his tie-in to Papoose Lake—which I was willing to assume equated to Area 51—and the rumors of a death.
“Great,” Romeo groused, which was so unlike him. “Assuming your sources are good, we’ve got an old case and a bunch of nutcases at Area 51. Someone is leading us down a blind alley. I can’t see how any of this ties into the case we’re actually interested in. The missing magician? Remember him?”
Sarcasm. I must be rubbing off on him. “I’m working on a connection, but so far my luck is running cold.” Which seemed to be a recurring theme, but I didn’t want to whine. “Anything on Molly Rain?”
“Nothing unusual.”
That would be unusual in
and of itself where this case was concerned, but I didn’t say so.
“She’s kicked around town for a while now. Normal stuff—a few Cirque shows until she hurt her shoulder, then she took up pushing pasties, dressing nudes.”
“For the record, nudes don’t wear pasties. But they have dressers… I’ve always wondered about that.”
“You would.”
“Okay, that’s the second bite you’ve taken. You want to tell me about it?”
“How do you handle the kinds of hours you and I put in and have a life, too?”
“Brandy?”
He nodded, a grin finally lifting a corner of his mouth. “The girl will be the death of me.”
“Romeo, I wish I could help you find balance, but I still haven’t learned how to juggle all the knives and not end up cut to the quick.”
***
This last time, with Teddie, had sliced me up pretty good. Lost in thought, I pushed through the office door and tripped over my mother. Her long legs stretched in front of her, she sat in one of the chairs against the window, while clinging to my father’s arm.
“Who sent you two to the principal’s office?”
“Your father is taking me to get a marriage license,” Mona announced, as she glanced at Miss P behind her desk. “We want you as a witness.”
Miss P gave me a wink.
“You’ll come, won’t you?” my father asked me. “Sort of a family outing before the proverbial you-know-what hits the fan.”
Glee written on their faces, nervous energy pulsing through them, a hint of mischief in my father’s eyes—the two of them were living proof that grown-ups are nothing more than teenagers with money.
Holding the door open, I said, “Let’s go. The sooner we hit the trail, the larger our head start when Flash’s bombshell hits the evening paper.”
Instead of leading us to the front where the limo waited, The Big Boss steered us toward the garage.
“Are we taking Marilyn?” I asked. My father named all of his automobiles. Marilyn, a stylish, twenty-year-old Bentley ragtop, fire-engine red with natural leather seats, and enough cool and sassy to make even the most hardened teenager take notice, was his favorite.
“Only the best for my ladies,” my father announced as he held the door open, first for me as I climbed in the back, then for his future wife who took her proper place beside him. She even skooched over and put a hand on his knee when he slid behind the wheel—like two kids out for some serious lip-lock time at the drive-in.
Lounging in the back of the Bentley, my parents happier than I’d ever seen them, the cool early evening air running it’s fingers through my hair, I had a hard time finding fault with the moment—even with Teddie gone and the book closed on that chapter. That’s one of the miracles of life, if you keep moving forward, even though one path may be blocked, another beckons.
With life in front of me, I drank in all the possibilities.
***
Marriage is big business in Vegas, so the politicos streamlined the process, while getting their piece of the pie for county coffers, of course. First stop—the Clark County Marriage License Bureau. In most cities in the world, obtaining a marriage license is like trying to maneuver through the DMV while the disinterested clerks count the seconds until the government pension kicks in. Not so in Vegas. Here the marriage bureau is open until midnight every day during the week and all weekend long. In my sleep-deprived state all the days had run together, so I wasn’t sure what day it was, but it didn’t matter—at this hour we were golden.
The Big Boss had timed it right—no one waited in the plastic chairs bolted to the floor, we didn’t have to take a number, or come back later. Instead, hand in hand, my parents strolled to an open window and the bored clerk manning it. I trailed behind and wished I had brought a camera when the clerk looked-up.
Having Albert Rothstein appear in person at any Las Vegas municipal facility was on par with the president of the United States showing up for a company picnic. I leaned against a post as my parents took the two chairs and the clerk tried to find her voice. Somehow she managed to compose herself. Everything went swimmingly until she asked Mona her age.
“May I lie?” Mona asked the clerk, who seemed dumbfounded at the question.
The Big Boss settled back in his chair, a grin splitting his face. Mona versus an entrenched bureaucracy… I’d give even odds.
“No, I don’t think you can lie,” the clerk offered hesitatingly.
“But, if you don’t know my real birthday, how can you tell if I’m lying?” Mona looked down her nose at the poor young woman.
“Ma’am,” the clerk started, then ground to halt when she ran up against Mona’s frown.
Taking pity on the woman, and not wanting to spend the rest of the dinner hour abusing a government employee—although there were days that held appeal—I waded in. “Mother, what does your passport list as your birthday?”
Apparently unwilling to speak the date aloud, Mother thrust the document at me. I took a gander, then understood why such a lie would never pass her lips—she’d be struck by lightning on the spot. And she was perilously close to making her previous maternity a physical impossibility—not to mention turning The Big Boss into a cradle robber.
I pulled Mother aside. “You’ve apparently been lying about your age to the government for years,” I whispered, as I waved her passport under her nose. “Why the sudden attack of conscience?”
“I don’t care if they take away my passport,” she said, twisting her hands and looking at me with huge, frightened eyes. “But I don’t want them to tell me I can’t marry your father.”
I gave her a big hug. “I doubt that will happen. Use the birth date on your passport—the government thrives on consistency.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. Whether you are lying or not will be a matter between you and Saint Peter,” I added.
As expected, Mona gave me a wicked look—I doubt she held any expectation of discussing her merits at the pearly gates. In my book, not that God would ever take a gander, Mona had earned her spot in Heaven years ago when I stopped counting all the girls she had taken in, cleaned up, educated, and sent off to be senators and congressmen, lawyers and doctors, wives and mothers.
Mother again took her seat across from the clerk. “Just use the birth date on my passport. That will work, won’t it?”
After a glance at The Big Boss, the clerk nodded.
All questions answered to the satisfaction of Big Brother, all blanks filled in, my parents signed on the dotted line, and The Big Boss forked over the fee.
As we filed out I said to the clerk, “They’re doing this so I’ll no longer be an illegitimate child. Sorta like trying to stuff the cat back in the bag, don’t you think?”
Mother giggled and grabbed my arm. “Would you quit?”
“What? I like having been born in sin, under mysterious circumstances—it gives me a certain panache.”
“Honey, you are like a bright light, a shooting star, a brilliant diamond,” my Father added. “You don’t need any panache from us.”
“A bit of an exaggeration.” I looped my free arm through one of his. “But I’ll take it. Thank you.”
“Albert?” Mona stopped, jerking us all to a stop. “I thought you said Lucky needed to be a witness?”
My father shot me a wink. “I lied. I wanted her here and I knew you would also.”
She squeezed his arm and kissed his cheek. “You think of everything.”
Mona had no idea. And I might be wrong, but… I could feel it in my bones—for once, my father had taken my advice.
***
After we had retaken our positions in the car, my suspicions were confirmed when The Big Boss said, “Let’s take a swing through town.”
“Oh,” Mother shifted and put a hand on his arm. “Can we get a steak at Hugo’s? We haven’t been there in ages.”
“Perhaps.”
“I think we need
to celebrate, don’t you, Lucky?” The air carried her words back to me.
“Absolutely!” I had to shout to force my reply the other way.
“See that, Albert? It’s two against one.”
“But I’m the one holding all the cards,” The Big Boss said as he motored Marilyn into the drive-through wedding chapel and wheeled to a stop.
He turned to mother. Taking both her hands in his, he said, “Marry me, Mona. Marry me now.”
I crossed fingers and toes, praying the woman would find some sense.
“Here?” she asked, her voice quiet—no fight in it. “In the drive-through?”
“I’m still that scrapper you fell in love with a hundred years ago— I came up the hard way, we both have—I’m a drive-through kind of guy.”
Mother glanced at me. I gave her an encouraging nod.
“Mona,” my father continued, “I’ve waited half a lifetime to be able to introduce you as my wife. I can’t wait a moment longer. Please don’t make me try.”
I choked up—if Mona could resist that, her heart was stone.
“Oh, Albert.” Mona dabbed at tears, trying not to smear her makeup. “Of course I’ll marry you, here, now…anywhere.”
“Lucky, will you be our witness?” my father asked.
“And our best person?” my mother added.
“I can’t think of anything I’d like better.”
My father eased the big car forward to the window. A gray-headed man who looked half sober, peeked his head out as he hastily tied his bow tie. His efforts at shaving had been lackluster—gray stubble dotted his face like patches of dandelions marring a smooth-mown lawn. In contrast, his thinning hair was carefully parted and slicked down. “You youngsters going to tie the knot today?” he said, giving my parents the once-over.
“About thirty years too late, but yes,” my father said.
So Damn Lucky (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 3) Page 22