Lucky Score

by Deborah Coonts

  Boudreaux opened the door to the suite, then stepped aside, allowing us to pass. “A fucking cow,” he muttered as I squeezed past, my udders grazing his crotch.

  With a wicked elbow, asshole. I half-thought he’d hit me or pinch me on the ass, but he didn’t. If he had, we’d find out if it were possible to break an already broken nose.

  My phone sang out. Secured in my right udder, the ringtone was a bit muted. Sirens—Mona’s ringtone. I ignored it. After a few moments of wailing, a moment of silence, then it started again.

  The only way to shut Mother up would be to pretend to listen.

  The door to our left led into the service areas. With an exaggerated shrug, hands lifted in my best mascot imitation, I tilted my head toward the door. Once I saw a glimmer of understanding, I motioned for Teddie to dig out my phone.

  “Always wanted to milk a cow,” he said with a smile that barely held the weight of his emotion as his fingers brushed places they used to roam freely. “I guess I can cross that off the bucket list.” He handed me the phone as it stopped ringing.

  The men looked ready to engage in battle, so I motioned for the two of them to join the party, then, with Boudreaux focusing on two nubile young things whose costumes left little to the imagination, or perhaps fired imaginations, considering the venue where inhibitions ran unfettered.

  Thankful for a respite from the visuals, I ducked through the door.

  Mona answered before the call even rang through from my end. “Lucky! We’ve had a disaster!” my mother reserved speaking in italics for only the worst problems.

  My heart did a dead-fish flop. “What?”

  “A detective is here. He wants Nolan.”

  “A detective? Which detective?”

  “God, Lucky. How can that be important? They all work for the police.” Her voice dropped to a theatrical whisper.

  Right. And Glinda the Good Witch didn’t actually make Dorothy risk her life several times before telling her she could’ve gone home right from the start. Frankly, I’d always felt I’d have a better chance with the Wicked Witch of the West—at least all the cards were on the table with her. None of that passive-aggressive benevolence Glinda wore like a crown of righteousness.

  But I didn’t waste time on a life-is-like-a-fairy-tale conversation with my mother. If she hadn’t admitted it by now, she never would. Sometimes clinging to life as you wished it to be was the only way to live through life as it was.

  “His name, Mother?”

  “Lucky, your tone.” She sighed dramatically as if I couldn’t be a bigger disappointment—she knew better. Finally, she gave me what I demanded. “Reynolds.”

  I wondered how a bad cop would fare in prison among the inmates he’d helped send up and I smiled. “Is he there to arrest him?” Hadn’t Romeo said he’d already been booked on Murder One?

  “How can he arrest him?”

  Mona’s questions always staggered me a bit, as if I was spinning at a slightly slower speed. “Well, a dead man, a knife, blood, a few public threats…”

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake! I know all of that and we’ve been over it, Nolan and I. He said he didn’t do it.”

  “Well, that settles it.”

  “Lucky!”

  “Mother, I’ve got to go. Why don’t you call the D.A. and have a little chat. I’m sure he’ll take your word as to Ponder’s innocence. I don’t have the time to run interference.” Nor any intention, but I didn’t say that. “I have a party to attend.”

  “Of course you do, dear.” Her words dripped with a subtext I’d developed an immunity to decades ago—or that’s what I told myself. And if I couldn’t believe me…

  “Mother!”

  “He couldn’t arrest him even if he wanted to because he’s gone!”

  “Mr. Ponder is gone?”

  “Didn’t I say that?”

  “Mother, given there are several interpretations of “gone” and there are two men involved in your side of the conversation, can you elaborate? Who is gone, and what does gone entail actually?”

  A dramatic sigh barreled through the line as she composed herself, or whatever she did before lambasting me with an explanation bordering on hysterics—that subtext cut right into my soul. “I went to wake Nolan up. He’d put pillows under the covers, and he was gone!”

  “Gone? Like disappeared? Like running from justice?” Why did men run from everything? Their chromosomal defect, namely trying to replace an X with a Y, could explain some of it, but you’d think eventually they’d grow a brain. “Any idea when?”

  “In the last hour or two.”

  “Running from arrest is so stupid.” Teddie had done exactly that, and we’d both nearly died trying to put it right.

  “Who’s going to be arrested?” Mona’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. Since I knew better, I’d say she was enjoying the game of misdirection.

  With no real choice, I bit. “Isn’t Reynolds there to arrest Mr. Ponder?”

  “Of course not!”

  “A social visit, then?” Two could play this game.

  “Don’t be silly. He wants to let him go.”

  Her ace trumped anything I held in my hand. I folded. “Mother!”

  “Lucky, don’t use that tone with me! You’re not listening—as usual.”

  Every moment of every day, with a few slips, Mona kept insisting I was the idiot—at some point she was bound to be right.

  The only gambit I had left was to accept defeat now to have a chance to gain victory later. A long shot. My normal odds. “You’re right, Mother. I’m sure.” I let her harrumph in surprise until I figured I’d breached the wall. “So, tell me, why does Reynolds want to release Nolan from his ankle jewelry?”

  “Nolan has an alibi, and it checks out.”

  “Who says?”

  “Detective Reynolds.”

  THE BOY WHO CRIED WOLF—THE truth had not set him free.

  With all the angles he played, and all the strings he pulled, Reynolds made that kid look like a piker. But they both had a similar problem—no one believed anything they said.

  Least of all, me.

  Ponder was covered in blood and holding what was presumably the murder weapon—and he had an alibi?

  I’d stepped through the looking glass for sure.

  What angle was Reynolds playing this time? Trying to spring an accomplice?

  As I repocketed the phone and stepped back into the public part of the hotel to face down Boudreaux, this time without my two Galahads, I knew the truth would set someone free—I just couldn’t fathom who.

  Luckily, Boudreaux was occupied with a scrum of scantily-clad couples—I didn’t have the restraint necessary to resist breaking another bit of cartilage should he give me any more lip. Using several representatives of the Beautiful People with Wandering Eyes to hide my heifer-self, I managed to slide past and melt into the party. Slipping in unnoticed was far easier than I expected. Dressed as I was, I developed a new appreciation for those who walk the globe in relative obscurity, no one throwing anything more than a brief bit of amusement or pity their way.

  Teddie and Jordan clustered together at the piano, back-to-back like animals sensing predators. Teddie eyed the instrument with undisguised yearning. If he could sit on the bench and let his fingers fly over the keys, he’d be transported, and the world would fall away.

  Boy, what I would give.

  I closed within ten feet when one of the women we’d seen in the hallway slithered up to Teddie. “I don’t care who you came with or what your sexual predilections are, you’re mine at midnight.”

  He swallowed hard and gave her a nod and a smirk worthy of James Bond. Only I saw the fear.

  At midnight, the masks come off. Reality slapped me upside the head. Murder or mischief? Frankly, I preferred the former. But if I was in the game it’d be nice to know what the rules were. I leveled one eye out the peephole at Jordan.

  Even he could read the thought there. “You stake your claim, then
trade when you’re done.”

  I shuddered. Shit! When I was done? The thought of swapping made this one-guy-gal nauseous. Now I had to pretend to play—well, no one would want a cow, so I had to watch my best friends—okay, one best friend and one first love—barter themselves to the bidders with the most intriguing assets.

  It was one thing to know Teddie had slept with someone else; it was another thing altogether to witness it. My courage failing and bile rising, I turned toward the door.

  Again, Jordan’s iron grip staked me to the floor. “Trust us. We got this.”

  While leaving me out in the cold, they’d come up with a plan. As I tried to work up some mad, I realized they really hadn’t thrown me to the wolves.

  They’d hidden me in a cow costume.

  Jordan and I waited while Teddie threaded his way through the crowd toward the bar at the back of the great room opposite the wall of windows. Through the windows, several mermaids and mermen, both genders dressed only in flowing locks and green tailfins from the waist down, swam in the pool. Intertwining, fondling, kissing, they were a high-class substitute for porn to get the partier’s juices flowing and lust on.

  Gauging by the pawing and drooling, I’d say the strategy was spot-on.

  While Jordan and I chose to keep to ourselves, we watched the other invitees as they visually measured each other, checking off the requirements. Occasionally, someone would lean into another and whisper. At a nod, they’d both make notes, in pencil, on an individual form or something; it was hard to tell without acting too interested. At a shake of the head, they’d move on. Everyone was stunning. I was the bovine adrift in a sea of pulchritudinous perfection.

  I had no idea how they made their choices.

  The odd man out, I was happy to be hidden.

  “The evening’s dance card, if you will.” Jordan knew my problem with swappers and took a perverse delight in sharing the details.

  Karma was a bitch, but he knew that. He just loved the game. Next move would be mine.

  Teddie returned, weaving through the crowd. His face red, he carried three very large plastic mugs with lids and long straws. “Sippy cups. Each holds an entire bottle of wine. I got you Veuve,” he said as he handed me mine—a plastic jug with a top and a long straw. “I guessed you’d be a meaty Cab kind of guy,” he said to Jordan, pegging him perfectly. Superficial thoughtfulness had always been one of Teddie’s strengths.

  While I’d been known to sip Champagne from a Flintstone’s jelly jar, I’d never had the good stuff from a sippy cup. Tonight would be a night of many firsts. I took a long pull. Same exquisite taste. Same millions of tiny bubbles of happiness. Same warm glow.

  After lightening my sippy cup by half, I felt fortified enough to face the evening. As if Jordan sensed my readiness, he said, “Let’s mingle.”

  He pulled me over to the nearest couple. “Hi.”

  Both dark-haired, sultry, and interested, they gave him an appraising look. He waited until they both looked willing. “We’re throwing something a little different into the mix tonight.” He motioned to me, which elicited lukewarm smiles. “We’ve hidden a prospect in this silly cow costume. Male or female, you don’t know. Beautiful or not so much, you don’t know that either. The only thing we know is the skill level is high.” He gave a wink and a knowing nod, almost overplaying his hand. “So, view your cards as draft choices, if you will, the top line being your top draft choice. You need to decide what draft choice you’re willing to trade to play with what’s under the cow costume.”

  “Kinky,” the woman said as she licked her lips and angled, trying to see through the peepholes. “Blue eyes. I’m in.”

  I snapped my head around intending to give Jordan the stink-eye, but the cow headdress spun a half rotation more until I was looking out the back of my head. I swiveled it back into position as I worked to regain a modicum of dignity.

  “What if some of us give the same draft choice?”

  Jordan tapped her on the arm and leaned in, “You negotiate,” he said, his whisper laden with every possibility a warped mind could conjure.

  My skin crawled; I felt like shedding it like a snake. Good thing I had a thick black-and-white hide. Sweat trickled down my sides as heat and humiliation rose. As I let Jordan lead me from one cluster of over-amped partiers anticipating the night’s fun to another, I scanned the crowd and pretended I wasn’t being auctioned off as the evening’s secret toy.

  One advantage of being tall was I could usually look over most crowds I found myself mired in. Not tonight. Everyone matched my height or exceeded it.

  The two women I’d braced in the elevator, our panty pushers, were holding court in the corner by the bar. The taller one, Olivia, wore one of the G-strings they’d been handing out and a sheer black lace bra, six-inch Lou-bous and a crystal-encrusted dog collar with matching leash. The other one, Stella, carried the whip. The extracurriculars they not-so-subtly advertised gave me the willies. Puns arrived with panic, what can I say?

  Two men and another woman clustered with them, but the girls weren’t engaged. Each of them cast looks toward the door. Were they planning an escape or afraid someone would show up? Whoever or whatever, it had them worried, shifting like gazelles sensing a lion. One nudged the other with an elbow and their faces brightened.

  I turned to look at what shoved their worry aside.

  Brandy.

  Even without the black-and-white uniform, she turned every head in the room as she elbowed her way through the crowd. Her youth shouted, “Fresh meat,” which lured the seasoned party participants.

  Ignoring those who reached out to stop her, she shrugged them off like a horse shaking off flies. Tall and lithe, she walked with feral grace. Lethal skills to match hid behind her innocent exterior. As a former cage dancer she’d acquired the black-belt skills to defend herself.

  Like the others, she let her gaze roll over the cow costume. Nothing jumped out at her, not one flicker of recognition. I think I felt good about that, although, at this point, I was confused enough to be perpetually conflicted. She turned her attention to Teddie and Jordan. “Have either of you seen Lucky? I was told she was with you.”

  I leaned into her as close as I could get. “Does Romeo know where you are?” Shit, I sounded like my mother. I took another drag on my sippy cup straw.

  Brandy focused and maneuvered to see through my eyeholes. “Are you in there?”

  I nodded dramatically so the cow head actually moved up and down.

  Her lips pinched, she looked at me long and hard, then shook her head. “I got nothin’.”

  “Yeah, me either,” I said with a snort.

  “Jean-Charles came by looking for you.” She kept her expression flat, her voice free of recrimination.

  “I think I’m sorta glad he didn’t find me, not like this anyway. Right now, I’m safe. He’s cooking. Keeps him out of trouble. Wish I could say the same for myself.” An itch bloomed on my right thigh. With my hoof-encased hand, I tried to scratch through the matt of faux fur.

  “You don’t cook,” she said it as if not cooking would earn me a platinum-level man card.

  I already had one—a few noses broken and balls busted was all it took. Pretty easy when you considered the gauntlet women had to run each day in the workplace. “I have a professional kitchen replete with a French chef to satisfy my every desire, so what’s your point?”

  “I should know better.”

  Several men and one woman sidled over, their interest aroused. “Who’s the new chick?” the woman asked.

  Jordan stepped in next to Brandy and curled an arm around her shoulders. “My daughter. And she’s just leaving.” He gave her a sharp look. “Right, honey?”

  “Sure. Right after I tell this cow something important.” She pulled me into a corner. Once out of earshot, she hissed, “Have you talked with the M.E.?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, he’s looking for you.”

  “Two men looking for me�
��this could be either really good or really bad.” I tilted my head and gave her as much wide-eye as I could—we still attracted too much interest.

  She swiveled; then, satisfied no one could overhear, she leaned in. “The blood on Ponder? It was Lake’s. You know that already, but here’s the kicker,” she lowered her voice. “Best as Doc could tell, Lake’s body ended up a gallon shy, even taking into account the blood that had sprayed everywhere and had seeped into the sand.”

  I chewed my lip, which Brandy couldn’t see, and thought about that.

  She touched my arm. “There’s more. The knife? It was the murder weapon, but he had a hard time establishing that. Some of the wounds were shallow, some deep, some angled one way, some another. Hard to tell which one was actually the lethal blow. Lake must’ve put up one hell of a fight.” Brandy’s eyes drifted over the crowd, lighting briefly on a few of the men.

  “Great.” The tumblers were spinning. With the handprint, murder weapon, and phone call, it seemed like they had Ponder cold. Yet, he kept insisting he was somewhere else. I couldn’t prove it, but no one had placed him at the scene yet either.

  Brandy pulled a slip of paper out of her pocket, her eyes going back and forth as she read down the list. “Oh, yeah, the lock on Bungalow 7 had the old electronics in it. But there were scratches indicative that it had been replaced, then the new stuff taken out, and the old put back. And the chip you found in the Secret Suite was one of our active ones. Last time a game was set up there officially was two weeks ago, but Jerry called, said he was on it and he’d found whispers of a set-up game, all under the table, as it were.”

  “Interesting. I need to think. I’m missing something.”

  “It’s all a jumble.”

  “Anything else from Jerry?”

  “Oh, yeah. He said you were right about Chateau Marmont. Fox and Boudreaux were regular visitors.” She folded her paper and tucked it away. “Any idea what that means?”

  “It means I’m on the right track, it’s all coming together. And,” I waited for her complete attention, “we’ve got someone on the inside helping the wrong team. Any idea how we can figure out who?”