“Did she say why?”
“If she did, I don’t remember.”
“Do me a favor—try. When she sailed out of that helicopter, she landed right in my lap. I could use some help on this.”
He nodded, his eyes serious.
I patted Mr. Pascarelli’s shoulder. “Go easy on us tonight, okay?”
“Sure, honey,” he said with a wink.
Mr. Pascarelli was the only man on the planet who could call me “honey,” wink at me, and live to tell about it.
I dove into the crowd and wove my way on toward Stairwell Fifteen. I threw my weight against the stairwell door and came face to face with the normally unflappable Sergio Fabiano, our night-shift front-desk manager. Dark hair, olive skin, a face a photographer would love and a body to match, Sergio was the Babylon’s resident Greek god. Women were drawn to him like sharks to an injured seal. Thankfully, the women were nowhere in sight. Neither was Security. Apparently, Dane had done as I asked and called off his posse.
“Thank heavens!” A scowl creased Sergio’s otherwise flawless face, but his dark eyes danced with merriment. He gestured disdainfully toward the space under the first flight of stairs.
“Good God!” The words escaped before I could stop them.
“But not a merciful God,” announced Sergio.
Our naked guest must have weighed four hundred pounds, with pasty white skin and more hair sprouting on his body than his head. Thankfully, he was curled in the fetal position. And he was still out cold. But, judging from the way his ass was twitching, his dreams were good ones.
“We don’t know who he is?” I managed to choke out. I kept repeating, I will not laugh at this over and over in my head until I felt confident I would do as I told myself.
Sergio shook his head, his jaw clamped tight, his lips compressed together. He didn’t laugh, not even a smile, or a smirk. Amazing.
I keyed my Nextel. “Security, any missing-person reports for tonight?”
“Excuse me?” The unmistakable voice of Paxton Dane. Did the guy ever stop? Like the Energizer bunny, he just kept going and going, handling everything, everywhere.
“Dane, have you guys had any calls from anyone looking for someone who matches the description of our guy in Stairwell Fifteen?”
“Already checked that. And, to answer your question, no.”
“Okay, then send four…” I looked at the inert shape again. “Make that five of your strongest guys to Stairwell Fifteen, ground floor.”
“On their way—again.”
Taking the high road, I ignored the jab. “And, Dane, remember, a bit of discretion here. This man is most likely one of our guests. We wouldn’t want to see him on the news, okay?”
“You mean one appearance on the nightly news is enough?”
Did the guy take a class on how to be a jerk or was it something that just came naturally?
“Dane…” I started in on him, then realized I was talking to dead air.
Sergio looked at me, his eyes round black saucers.
I snapped my phone shut. “Sergio, take care of this guy,” I said as I reclipped my phone, glad that Dane had retreated. I was too wrung out to do the whole verbal thrust-and-parry thing. “You know, the usual routine.”
“Right,” Sergio began. “First, get a robe that’ll fit him—preferably one with another hotel’s logo on it.” He paused to flash me a grin, then continued as if he’d memorized it all from the employee handbook and hadn’t actually learned it from me. “When Security gets here, have them carry him through the back corridors to the worst room open tonight. Take all the bedsheets, the towels and the robes—anything he can put around himself when he wakes up, so he can’t sneak out on us.”
“You’ve got it. But you might see if Security can spare someone to stand outside the door, just in case our friend—” I pointed to the guy on the floor, now snoring loudly. “—has an accomplice to bring him some clothes.”
Sergio nodded.
“And the doc is going to check on him?” I asked.
“Every half hour.”
“Good work.” Another problem down, how many more to go? I’d lost count. “Sergio, another thing…”
Again those black eyes focused on me.
“I need you to alert your staff at the front desk, the bell staff, and the valets. If anyone comes around asking questions about a girl falling out of our helicopter, they are to be directed to my office. That includes the police. Our staff is not to answer any questions or to give any information. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Sergio’s eyes grew a fraction wider, but he kept his composure.
“And if anyone is poking around, let me know, okay? Just because you send them to my office doesn’t mean they will actually do as you suggest.”
I gave one last look around. I couldn’t think of anything else. Satisfied Sergio could handle the problem from here, I turned to go—
After all, it’s not as if this was our first naked drunk sleeping in a stairwell.
The elevators lurked just inside the foyer of the Babylon, separating the casino from the hotel. The foyer was the Babylon’s showpiece. Designed to draw all passersby inside, the grand ceiling was covered with millions of dollars’ worth of Chihuly blown glass. The Bellagio had glass flowers, we had butterflies and hummingbirds—thousands of them. Personally, they made me feel like we all were in a remake of the film The Birds, but obviously no one shared my opinion. As usual, a crowd clustered under them, oohing and ahhing.
Numerous walking bridges arched over a lazy river, our interpretation of the Euphrates, which snaked throughout the ground level. Tropical plants and trees grew along its banks, lending shade for the colorful fish, swans and ducks that swam in the clear blue water. Somehow, I doubted whether the birthplace of civilization ever had a river quite like our Euphrates, but The Big Boss wanted it, so there it was.
Off to one side of the lobby, behind a wall of twenty-five-foot windows, an indoor ski slope with real, man-made snow descended from high above. Again, I wasn’t sure whether the original Babylonians had ever strapped on a pair of K2s and flown down a snow-covered hillside, but in keeping with the relatively recent adage “If you build it, they will come,” The Big Boss had built it and, indeed, they came. Another crowd gathered there, watching the folks who had paid an exorbitant sum to ski indoors on the desert slide down the hill.
The other side of the lobby boasted the entrance to the Bazaar. There one could slide behind the wheel of a Ferrari, buy a six-hundred-thousand-dollar pink diamond ring, a two-thousand-dollar pair of Versace jeans, or load up on five-hundred-dollar Jimmy Choos. A constant line of customers with fat wallets trailed through there like ants bearing gifts for the queen.
The Big Boss was an expert at separating tourists from their money.
Ah yes, The Big Boss—he was next on the list.
I shouldered my way through the crowd, ignoring the man yelling at one of the bellmen—a front-desk clerk was already interceding. Paxton Dane was giving a woman a hug—probably the mega-millions lady. He caught my eye over the lady’s shoulder and gave me a discreet thumbs-up. For this brief moment in time, we appeared to have things under control, which, of course, was an illusion. Life in Vegas was never under control; it walked, trotted or galloped, as it chose, and we merely hung on for the ride.
Tomorrow, the Trendmakers would arrive for their annual week of spouse swapping, the stars of the adult movie industry would descend on us for their annual awards ceremony, ElectroniCon started Tuesday, and I would have to deal with the fallout from Lyda Sue’s dramatic exit, which would surely hit not only the morning papers but the Internet as well.
Whoever thought up the tagline “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” got it backward—Vegas was always news. Heck, the video of Lyda Sue’s final dive was probably playing on YouTube by now.
I was a fool to think I could corral this one.
I rounded the corner, pushed the up button, and pondered the
reflection that stared back at me from the mirrored surface of the elevator doors. I looked like a hundred miles of bad road. Barely over thirty, and I could pass for my mother’s sister. Haggard was the word that leapt to mind. Thankfully, the doors slid open and I was no longer nose to nose with myself. Why people want mirrors everywhere is beyond me.
I stepped inside the empty car, inserted my security card in the slot, and pressed the button marked “private.” Self-consciously I patted my bottle-blonde hair, my one concession to the land of the beautiful people. Attractive enough, I guess, I’d never be considered beautiful or buxom—at least not without serious surgical intervention—but I damn well could be tall and blonde. Self-consciously I smoothed my dress, pinched my cheeks to get some color into them, then wiped at the black smudges I had seen under my eyes. I threw back my shoulders and adopted what I thought was an air of confidence.
“Who you trying to fool?” The voice emanating from the ceiling startled me.
I looked up at the “eye in the sky,” the small video camera hidden discretely in a plastic bubble partially recessed into the ceiling of the elevator car. Security monitored the video feeds from thousands of similar devices located all over the property. The voice belonged to Vivienne Rainwater, one of our Security team.
“You know what they say, image is everything.” I forced a smile for the camera. “I’ll be unavailable for a few.”
“You go, girl.”
“Over the line, Viv.”
“I thought there weren’t any lines in Vegas, just shades of gray.”
“And you shouldn’t listen to conversations you’re not invited into.”
“You’d be amazed at what you see and hear up here.”
Not long ago, I had sat where Vivienne now sits, and received a quick lesson into my fellow man, one I assumed Vivienne was now learning. “Titillated? Maybe. Amused? Possibly. But amazed? No. Now, go away and spy on someone else.”
The elevator whirred seamlessly to a stop at the fifty-second floor and the doors slid open. Every time I made this ride, I thought of Dorothy leaving Kansas in a tornado and waking up in Oz. Thirty seconds and I was transported from the semi-controlled chaos of the lobby to the quiet, serene living room of The Big Boss’s penthouse.
The muted lights cast a warm glow on leather-finished walls. The rich sheen of the hardwood floors framed hand-knotted silk rugs from the Middle East. Each was tastefully arranged and supported a cluster of understated furniture made from the hides of exotic beasts and woods from faraway lands. Lesser works from some of the great Masters graced the walls—sketches by Picasso and smaller works by Van Gogh and Monet. I couldn’t identify the others—apparently my high school art history teacher had overlooked them—but I was sure they were all very expensive and “important.” The whole effect made a three-thousand-square-foot box of a room cozy.
The Big Boss stood silhouetted against the wall of twenty-foot windows backlit by the lights of the Strip below. He warmed his hands in front of a gas fire dancing merrily in a freestanding fireplace. He explained to me once that he kept the air-conditioning on full blast so he could have his fire. Something about the ambiance.
The Big Boss, Albert Rothstein, was a Vegas legend. He had started as a valet at the Flamingo, caught the Mob’s attention—he never would tell me exactly how—and then worked his way to the top of the heap. A short man with a full head of once black, now salt-and-pepper hair, he kept himself trim with thrice-weekly personal training sessions. His smile could light up a room and his manner made you feel like you were the most important person in his world. He had a penchant for stiff whiskey, tall blondes, and big stakes. When I was fifteen, I’d filled out an employment application, stating my age as eighteen. The Big Boss hired me on the spot, even though he had known I was lying.
More than a little peeved at being summoned through the new flunky, I started in as I strode toward him. “Lyda Sue made a helluva splash, but I’ve got everything under control: Jerry’s on his way to get the tape from the station, the front entrance staff has been alerted to direct all inquiries to me, and once I actually make it to my office, I’ll work on keeping us off the front page.”
I stopped in front of him, but The Big Boss didn’t look at me. Instead, he continued staring into the fire, then he reached into his back pocket, extracted his wallet and pulled out what I knew to be a one-hundred-dollar bill. He put his wallet back, then started working with the paper money, smoothing it, lining up the sides, meticulously folding it again and again. The silence stretched between us, then he finally said, “Bring all the copies of the video to me.”
“You don’t want Security to go over it? May I ask why?”
Now he eyed me over the top of his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. His eyes were red. He looked like hell. “For once, just do as I say.”
“Okay.” First Lyda Sue, then Dane, now The Big Boss. Had I suddenly stepped into the Twilight Zone? Nothing about this night added up. “Aren’t you interested in what the pilot has to say?”
“The pilot?” he repeated, as if stalling for time.
“The pilot’s story should be a doozie.”
His hands shook as he folded the bill over and over. “Of course, what did Willie have to say?”
Okay, now I was sure I smelled a rat. “How did you know it was Willie? We haven’t found him yet.”
The air seemed to go right out of The Big Boss. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Lucky, you can truly try a man’s soul.”
“And you’re stonewalling me.” I laid a hand on his arm. “Boss, it’s my job to solve problems, but I can’t do it unless I know what the problems are.”
“I was solving problems long before you showed up. This one’s mine. I’ll solve it myself, my own way.” He shrugged out of my grasp.
The second man tonight to do that. Clearly, I was losing my touch.
“Just bring me that tape and keep me in the loop,” he growled, looking like a pit bull ready to take a bite out of somebody’s ass.
I had no idea how to reason with a pit bull—assuming it could even be done—so I bailed. “You’re the boss. Anything else?” If I couldn’t go through him, I’d just go around him.
Again the silence stretched between us as he worked, folding and folding. Finished, he took my hand, and closed my fingers around the small shape. He didn’t let go. His eyes looked at our hands, then reluctantly met mine. “Trust me on this one.”
“Sure.” I looked at the shape in my palm. The Big Boss had folded the bill into a small elephant. I extracted my hands from his and dropped the figure into my pocket. “Look. Right now I got more fires than California in the fall and they are spreading by the minute. May I go now?”
“Give that to the first kid you see in the lobby.” His voice was tired. His eyes, distracted.
“Boss, it’s midnight. If there’re any kids around, somebody ought to call Child Services.”
“Right.” He stepped around me and headed toward the bar. “Tomorrow then.” He pulled a bottle of single malt off the shelf and raised it in my direction. I shook my head. He poured himself a drink. He raised the glass to his lips, took a long pull, and then said, “We’ve got another problem.”
That much I knew. In fact, I thought we had several.
“And what might that be?”
“Paxton Dane.”
Now that I didn’t expect.
The Big Boss turned and stared at me, apparently awaiting my response.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he seemed nervous, a little antsy even, as he shifted from foot to foot.
A cold chill went through me. Whatever was bothering him, it must be bad—real bad. I’d only seen The Big Boss this way once before, and we both darn near went down in flames.
“He was your hire. What’s the problem?” How I kept my voice even, I don’t know.
“I hired Dane so we could keep an eye on him,” The Big Boss said, his eyes drifting from mine
.
For a moment I was speechless, unable to comprehend what he had just told me, then I found my voice. “Wait, let me get this straight. You put somebody you don’t trust in one of the most sensitive positions in the house? Do you think that’s wise?” I tried to keep my voice low, my tone smooth, but even I could detect a hint of panic around the edges.
“Probably not, but it was the best I could think of on the fly.” The Boss took a slug of scotch. “Jerry knows. He’s keeping tabs on Dane, and I want you to help him.”
“Why?”
“He asked too many questions and was snooping around like he was trailing after something or someone. It doesn’t seem hiring him has put him off the scent. I want to know what he’s looking for and who’s holding his reins. So, keep him close, okay?”
“Why me? I’m not in Security. I’m the customer relations person, remember?”
“I know it’s asking a lot.” He turned. His eyes locked onto mine. “But, Lucky, you’re the only one I can trust.”
End of Sample
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FOR MORE DONNA…
Read a short excerpt here
Chapter 1
Please Read and Follow Directions Carefully…
Any woman can be both the perfect housewife and an accomplished assassin, because both functions require the same qualities: creativity; a never-say-die attitude; and an attention to details, no matter how small…
All I really needed to know about being a freelance assassin I learned before my youngest daughter, Trisha, started kindergarten.
I’ve come to that realization as I lay naked and handcuffed to the bed of my target du jour, a sleazebag by the name of Yuri Petrovich.
Yuri has just downed a couple of Viagra with the last of his Starbucks venti-sized nonfat decaf caramel macchiato. This is to ensure us both that his attempt to mount me will have all the gusto of a broncobuster breaking in the wildest filly in the corral before heading on into the sunset. (In truth, we are in a hillside suite at the Chateau Marmont. But considering Yuri’s attitude toward women, the cowboyspeak sums things up quite nicely.)
The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky Page 26