Lucky Score

by Deborah Coonts

  And maybe, if I paused and clicked my heels three times while repeating “There’s no place like home,” life would return to normal and none of the previous three hours would have happened.

  Fantasy: the snake-oil dream peddled in each come-on flashing over the Strip and appearing on televisions around the world.

  But I’d seen behind the curtain.

  I pushed through the door to the stairs, banging the door off its stops, then bounded up the stairs two at a time, ignoring my screaming calf. At the top, my breath tore through my chest, my heart hammering. The Lucky O’Toole Self-Improvement Plan put on hold by life, now reared its nagging little head. Only in my early thirties and I was feeling like Death might be welcome.

  Not a good sign, but daunted, I felt powerless to make the changes, to give up my coping mechanisms and strip myself bare. Everything about that made me want to curl up into the fetal position. Years ago, that alone would have launched me into self-betterment. Apparently, I was no longer that person. I didn’t know whether that was good or bad; it just was.

  “Ms. O’Toole?” The voice emanated from my pocket—my in-house push-to-talk. Security calling. Sounded like Fox had returned to his desk.

  The call came on the heels of the doctor as he stepped through the office door, beating me by a stride.

  “Where is the patient?” the doc asked.

  For a moment, I was stymied as to which question to answer first, then I grabbed my phone. Before I pushed-to-talk, I lifted my chin toward Miss P, “She can tell you.” Then I pressed my phone to my cheek and stepped around him. “O’Toole. Please tell me you found Boudreaux.”

  “We’ve got panty pushers in elevator eleven.” Fox kept his tone even, something I doubted even I could do. “And negative. Still looking. If the two men you mentioned earlier are here, they are buried deep.”

  Not the best analogy, but I shook it off. “You and I, we need to talk.”

  “We are talking.”

  Newton and his perfectly inflected “asshole” would have been appropriate here, but alas, someone had muzzled the bird by covering him for the night. And, despite my low standards, quoting a bird somehow seemed beneath the me I aspired to be, so I didn’t give in to the temptation. “Delilah’s, thirty minutes.”

  “No can do. My ass is in this chair for another three hours. Bought and paid for.”

  While I worked through a list of responses, none of them appropriate, I half-listened to Miss P with the other ear as she told the doc that the EMTs had taken Jerry to UMC, our nearest hospital, and “the other gentleman” had refused a similar trip. Her decorum made me smile as I returned to my security guy. “I bought and paid for you, so I call the shots. Vivian Rainwater can sub for you—if you don’t know her, find her, then call me. I’ll take the ladies in elevator eleven. Double our security presence at the party in Babel and keep the staff looking for the player. We found the other guy.” Unused to people milling around my office, I took a bit more circumspect approach when speaking about the now-deceased senator.

  “You found Lake?” The question sounded casual, but I sensed a serious undertone.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Stick to your job, Fox.” I cut off any reply by severing our connection. Too late I remembered Fox had worked for the senator. Better to deliver the news in person—rock Fox a bit, then call his bluff. The guy was working an angle. I knew it; I just couldn’t prove it or identify it. But Death had come visiting, so it was time for the thumbscrews before he found another victim.

  Before leaving, I turned to the doc. “Even if Mr. Ponder refuses your services, insist.”

  He gave me a tired nod as he turned sideways to slip past me—him moving in, me heading out.

  I ignored the irony there.

  Panty pushers. Silly amid the serious—normally I welcomed it. Tonight, I found it an odd inconvenience. I needed to find my father and pull his story out of him. First the panty pushers, then murder—solving or committing it; the jury was out.

  I let irritation and worry lengthen my stride as I made my way down the stairs, then burst through the door and into the lobby.

  Panty pushers. I worked to focus on the problem at hand. Blood, a lethal topical opioid, and a dead senator fought for every brain cell, but I’d done all I could. Had Ponder done it? Was there a killer loose in my hotel? And the Fentanyl? Who would be next?

  But Security and Housekeeping hadn’t been able to find anything amiss. Not that Fox was serious about manning the helm or anything.

  Fox—was he covering up or uncovering? I had no reason other than loathing to remove him from his perch—the decision to put him there had come from higher than my corporate rung, so I needed more before I crossed my father, who had had a hand in Fox’s hiring, I was sure of it. There was no other explanation for a rookie playing sides to be manning the helm.

  But one problem at a time.

  Almost apoplectic with worry, I was actually glad to be handed a bit of mischief I could solve.

  The young women in elevator eleven were playing way out of their league.

  The key was catching them in the act.

  I needed bait.

  Across the lobby, Chase Metcalf nursed a soda as he signed autographs.

  Perfect.

  If Beau Boudreaux was the black hat of the NFL, Chase was the white hat. Many likened him to Steph Curry who, despite being undersized and leaving the pro scouts somewhat underwhelmed, had taken the NBA by storm. Chase even had the beautiful wife and cute kids to match. He also was that curious coloring that defied racial labels, so no one owned him, and everyone felt he was theirs. A man of the world and they loved him.

  So did the women.

  A small herd of them in all shapes and sizes, ages, and races, and in various stages of dress and undress fawned around him. He handled them each in turn with a smile and the aloofness of the unavailable.

  Using my size and a scowl, I waded through the throng, ignoring the muttered “wait your turns” and the “you can’t have him, he’s mines.” Wishful thinking knew few limits.

  But, if we couldn’t have our fantasies, the homicide rate would skyrocket.

  My theory, and I had no proof…well, only me, but I still would bet my reputation it would hold water.

  “Chase,” I touched his elbow to get his attention. He turned impossibly green eyes my direction. I ignored the fact that we were the same height. I gave him the weight advantage as he was probably solid muscle and I…wasn’t. “Lucky O’Toole. We met at the cocktail party yesterday.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Good to see you again.”

  “I hate to drag you away from such adoration, but I could use your help if you have a minute.”

  His eyes lost their glint. “Sure. How can I help?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I STATIONED Chase at the door of elevator eleven along with one of our security personnel, Temperance Tremont—a truly stunning young woman who trained for the MMA on the side. All red hair, buff biceps, and a shy smile, she was climbing the pound-for-pound rankings, or so I’d been told. To be honest, I had no real idea what that meant other than I should be nice to her when at all possible.

  Leaving Temperance and Chase with their instructions, I stepped into another elevator for the trip to the top public floor, the fifty-second, on the east wing of the hotel.

  I figured the panty pushers would consider Chase Metcalf worth the full ride.

  Several young couples joined me in the elevator as the doors closed, cocooning us from the noise and mirth of the lobby. The piped-in music was rather dull. I made a mental note to tell the staff that, if they wanted to go retro, the Rat Pack was their only choice. There ought to be a law against instrumental-only tracks of old pop songs. Without the words, there’d be no Kumbaya moment of shared history, so, what was the point?

  I keyed Security, anticipating Vivienne on the other end. “You’ve got the eye in the sky on in elevator eleven, with audio?”


  “Yes, ma’am.” Fox again. “Monitoring it now.”

  I didn’t even know the guy, and he was worming a hole through my carefully constructed executive veneer. “And Ms. Rainwater? Isn’t Vivienne supposed to be subbing for you and you’re going to give me a time and a place that’s convenient for you?” Sarcasm, my voice of choice.

  “Been busy.”

  The guy was avoiding me. Hadn’t someone warned him that with time I only get worse? “Keep your feed rolling until I say otherwise.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I sighed as I disconnected, careful to keep my frustration from echoing through the line to Fox’s satisfaction. He was a bit heavy-handed with the ma’am thing right now. Off and on, like a lover’s affections. Not literally, of course. That thought nauseated me. But, even for me, it was a weird analogy.

  Ma’am. That one word made me feel old where most other more obvious reminders didn’t do more than dent my shield of self-delusion.

  Knowing the noise would only increase once the elevator deposited me into the fray in Babel, I unwound my earbuds, connected them to my phone, put one bud in my ear, and let the other one dangle as I dropped my phone back in my pocket.

  When I glanced at the reflections in the elevator doors, the young people with me snapped to attention like recruits before a drill sergeant. These days, I guessed anyone with a walkie-talkie and a hint of authority was one of the oppressors. Most days it didn’t bother me to be included in that group. Today wasn’t one of those days.

  Today I really wanted to be young, in love for at least the next few hours, in Vegas, and on my way to one of the best nightclubs in town—Babel, the Babylon’s rooftop Party Central.

  But that train had left the station.

  I stared down my reflected glare. My shoulder-length hair had been recently returned to its natural shade of light brown from bottle-blonde. I still wasn’t sure which was the real me, but that was consistent with my vacillation about everything. Jutting out below wide blue eyes, my cheekbones were the only thing about me that hadn’t been whittled and rounded by time and indecision. Confidence built on that. Throwing my shoulders back, I went to work on my badass. Already there, I needn’t have bothered. I was pretty sure the kids in the elevator with me had stopped breathing.

  Once the crack in the doors was wide enough, they squeezed through like cattle desperate to avoid the branding iron.

  I waited for a more dignified exit. As I drifted through the opening, catching a side view, I realized I was smudged in blood in more than a few places—transferred when I’d grabbed Ponder, I suspected. No wonder the kids had hung on the verge of apoplexy.

  With my badass complete, I strode into chaos.

  Backdropped perfectly by the lights of the Vegas Strip, writhing bodies danced to music at a decibel level just short of violating the United Nations Convention Against Torture—yes, I’d measured it to be sure, making our lawyers happy. Thousands of strands of twinkle lights wound around every vertical post, pole, and tree, and draped over the swimming pool in a shimmering blanket of light.

  While not a private event, with the NFL types in town and mingling with the rest of us, we’d jacked-up the cover charge to keep the numbers down. By the looks of it, we hadn’t jacked it up enough.

  The well-dressed and the well-funded stood five deep at the bar to my right with only inches to maneuver—the hotel executive in me rejoiced. Well, except for the niggling worry that we’d blown right through fire safety limitations. The private tables ringing the pool and roped off from the riff-raff, who only paid five hundred a head rather than ten-grand for a table seating four, were either occupied or sported a sign with “reserved” in three-inch red letters. The real celebrities rarely showed up before midnight, so the next few hours would be a bit light on the photo ops but long on the hook-up opportunities. And the NFL types would provide some eye candy in the interim.

  The Average Joe part of me shuddered—too much noise, too many folks trying too hard to be hip, trendy, important, and desirable. All that was way too much trouble for me anymore—all I wanted was a night of uninterrupted, very sound sleep with someone who loved me wrapped around me like a swaddling blanket. To have any real hope of that, I’d have to add it to my job description.

  Magical thinking for sure.

  Bartenders darted and dashed—how they kept from having a major collision always confounded me. Good training and flawless execution were the reasons our head bartender, Sean, always told me with a smile. Peering over and around the crowd, I saw him in the thick of the fray, guiding his staff as he fielded drink orders. With a ready smile and a quick quip, Sean’s story was that he was Black Irish with the hint of an accent to back it up. New Jersey was really home, but, like everyone in Vegas, Sean had embellished his story to add to the magic. At least that was his story. Personally, I figured embellishing improved his odds of getting laid, and that was his real motivation, but call me cynical. I didn’t care what line he fed the ladies. He was a master of mixology earning a cult following among our regulars.

  Recently, the good citizens of Nevada added another variable to the party quotient by legalizing recreational marijuana. Good thing or bad thing, for those of us in the people and party business, it was a real thing.

  The smell of pot rode the breeze and swirled around me, so strong I hoped for a second-hand high.

  “Welcome to Babel,” a deep voice greeted me.

  I looked up into the bright smile of our resident head bouncer, Ralph. “Wow, the boss is in the house. I thought you could delegate this sort of craziness to one of your understudies.” I had to shout to even come close to being heard.

  Even still, he stared at my lips, reading the words. “I could. But, man, some of my teammates are here signing stuff. I like goin’ around with the young guys. These are my folks. Makes me remember the best times, you know?”

  I’d forgotten Ralph had played in the NFL. His size should’ve been a constant reminder, but I’d met him after that. Funny how we meet people and we take them from that point forward. Only the ones we let in open their past to us in return. Ralph’s resume mentioned the NFL, but we hadn’t…until now.

  The elevator beside me, elevator eleven, opened, disgorging a couple of men running on the high octane of hollow promises made by our panty pushers as they ascended to the party. I could read that look. With sixteen thousand hookers roaming the four miles of the Vegas Strip, lots of empty promises swirled and lots of men wore that same hopeful, chagrined, elated, and dazed look. Should they or shouldn’t they? A here-hold-my-beer question made worse by the excesses available in Sin City.

  As the men high on the fantasy brushed by me, I tugged at a bit of silk peeking from a back pocket of the one closest to me. Panty Pushers pushed exactly that. And most invitational lingerie was made of silk. High cost to attract a fat wallet. No doubt, the girls would call it quality presentation, but I’d always had a problem with quality as a concept when speaking of the bartering for sex, but apparently, I was alone in my delicate sensibilities.

  As I held on and the man moved toward the bar, the fabric trailed out of his pocket. A lacy, delicate G-string. Black and white, it had Fancy French in every square millimeter, and there were precious few of those.

  Given that my mother had imparted her philosophy of the Power of the Undergarments when it came to love and seduction, I considered myself to be a bit of an expert.

  French and fancy, for sure.

  I didn’t even have to look. A phone number and fake name would be stitched to the inside—like those cloth labels mothers used to sew into kids’ clothing before sending them to camp. But I looked anyway, a quick glance.

  I was wrong. Not a phone number, just a name.

  Billy the Boilermaker.

  A guy. Now that was unexpected, and I struggled with the appropriate interpretation.

  As the fabric pulled away with the final tug, the guy turned, then had the decency to color when I held the G-strin
g looped over a forefinger in front of his face. He reached to grab it—a flash of gold encircling his left ring finger.

  “You know better.” I sounded like the Moral Police, which made me throw up a little, figuratively speaking. To me, passing judgment on others was, at best, asking them to do the same. The last thing I wanted or needed was some stranger casting stones. I wasn’t about to start the fight. I balled up the tiny bit of silk and stuffed it in a pocket.

  He drew up in offense, but he didn’t ask for the bit of lace wedgie-maker back. “It’s just a party. Consenting adults and all that. My wife will be there, too.”

  “A party? With hookers handing out the invites? Your wife will be there, too?” For once, words failed and I was left gulping like a guppy. Finally, I managed, “You expect me to believe that?”

  He gave me a slow once-over. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you believe.”

  I’d asked for that. “Who’s Billy?”

  “Don’t know.” He clearly wasn’t interested in cooperation.

  I didn’t blame him—we all knew to offer little, especially when criminal self-incrimination reared its ugly head. Short of thumbscrews, I wouldn’t get any info out of him. But I didn’t believe a word he said. His wife would be there! Right. Cheaters would cheat. And I couldn’t imagine the temptation bombarding the players. While I respected a woman’s right to make a living as she saw fit, I still rebelled at the anyone-is-fair-game mentality. Personally, I didn’t play in somebody else’s sandbox, and I thought no matter whether personal or business, the rules should be the same.

  The crowd at the bar swallowed the man and his friend in a flurry of back-slapping and high-fiving. Guess he was somebody I should’ve recognized.

  Shoulder to shoulder, Ralph and I absorbed the mix of scantily-clad women, suit-bedecked football players, and the assorted lesser luminaries who had ponied up serious green to rub shoulders with the has-beens, the wannabes, and the current flavors in favor. Sports stars and Hollywood celebrities—oil and water, but they filled the house.