I tried to keep my expression passive, but I must've failed.
"Oui, but why are you looking at me this way, like it is some joke?"
"Oh, it's one of those American slang things." I grabbed his hand, pulling him up. I didn't step back. Instead, brazen hussy that I am, I stepped into his embrace. "I'll explain it another time." Why did having his arms around me feel better than anything I could imagine? Well, almost anything, and that involved him as well, but we hadn't gone there…yet.
"I will prepare your favorite, if you will open a bottle of wine." He released me momentarily, then grabbed my hand leading me through the kitchen. Apparently the word had gone out that the captain was on the bridge—someone had lowered the music. "There is a very nice Malbec that I've been saving for us. I think it will go nicely with sliders prepared as you like." He glanced back at me. "How do you say it?"
"Fully loaded?"
"This is it, yes." He took the spatula that Rinaldo proffered. With a practiced glance at the few orders listed on the screen inset in the backsplash, he dove in. "The wine is—"
"I know, in our cabinet behind the bar."
He smiled but didn't look at me, his concentration now captured by the task at hand. With Jean–Charles, food was serious business.
We were so compatible that way.
***
Dinner had passed in easy chatter and the comfort of the developing warmth between us. Even though I think he knew that I'd only given him the high points, Jean-Charles had let me off easy. I mean, what was there to say, really? I was in a building when a bomb exploded. Wrong place, wrong time.
The sliders had been as advertised—fully loaded and delicious. I'd stopped counting after my third, but I had taken notice when we'd popped the cork on the second bottle of wine. That had been two glasses ago.
Jean-Charles leaned across the table, capturing my hands in his. "This city, it is more dangerous than they say."
I gave him a sheepish shrug. "It just seems that way. I have a particular knack for sticking my nose where I shouldn't."
His face clouded. Idioms were indecipherable to him—I kept forgetting that.
"If there's trouble, I usually can find it," I added.
"You will have to fix that." He looked serious.
"Right after I solve global warming, bring peace to the Middle East, and a stable economy to the EEU." A glow suffused me as I looked at our entwined hands, then I shot him a rueful half-grin. "Besides, finding trouble is one of my best things. God knows I have far too few skills to abandon even one."
"Then you will be careful. I do not want to lose you." He leaned closer. I met him halfway. A jolt of fire, the kiss singed every nerve ending and seared every synapse. Reveling in the connection, I lingered, savoring. As he pulled away, little aftershocks chased through my body, then coalesced into a ball of warmth somewhere deep inside.
Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes. I felt a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. Then my heart stopped as my phone sang out at my hip. Actually, it was the Black Eyed Peas singing I've Got a Feeling. Either way, the shock was a cold jolt of jump-juice to the heart. I grabbed the thing and pushed-to-talk. "What?"
"Lucky?" My father didn't sound happy. "I'm at your place. We need to talk. Now."
Chapter Three
"Christ Almighty," I said as I burst through the door to my apartment on the top floor of the Babylon's west wing. "Why have you been so hard to find? Where have you been?" All the lights were off, but I could see my father standing at the window, silhouetted by the lights of the Strip streaming through the wall of glass. "And why the hell are you standing here in the dark?" I stopped a few feet from him.
He didn't turn. Instead, he stood there as still as a statue. He didn't respond. Unsure what to do, I considered checking his pulse—after all he wasn't exactly a spring chicken.
Finally he rescued me from my quandary. "Will you get me a drink?" he asked. His voice, low and emotionless, had a hard edge to it. "Then join me."
"With your recent health scare, do you think drinking is a good idea?" He didn't answer, not that I expected him to. I didn't know what to think as I walked to the far wall and pressed a panel. The wall slid back exposing a fully stocked bar. I decided on a fifteen-year-old single malt for him and club soda with lime for me—I'd exceeded my legal limit already. Besides, keeping my wits about me would probably work in my favor. While I didn't know what he had to tell me, I knew it couldn't be good. Pouring the drinks into Steuben double old-fashion tumblers, I added a couple of cubes of ice, then returned to his side with drinks in hand.
He took his glass without question or acknowledgement, then took a long sip. "The Glenmorangie?"
"Hmm." I took a tentative sip of my soda, then wrinkled my nose at the tickle of the bubbles. Although I'd tried, I never had developed a taste for tasteless beverages. Was that even possible, I wondered? The lime helped, as did the bubbles. But still, they just effervesced the boring.
The ice tinkled in my father's glass as he lifted it to his lips. "The eighteen?"
"No, the fifteen. A bit more fire-in-the-belly action. I like that from a Highland dram."
That got a snort out of him. "Lucky, I swear, you're the best son a man could have."
"As a card-carrying member of the boy's club, I'll take that as a compliment."
"As well you should." He cleared his throat after another sip. "You may be tough and know your way around, but there's folks tougher than you."
"No doubt." The lights of the Strip flashed below us, an ever-changing neon display that could be seen from the International Space Station, or so I'd been told. To me, they were magic, a tangible reminder of all that is Vegas—the fun, the food, the shows…the money. And where there was money, like bloodhounds on a scent, the bad guys lurked in the shadows. But I didn't linger on that—they weren't part of my Vegas. At least not until they started detonating bombs around town. "You gonna tell me about that note you got?"
Startled, he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "It's nothing. I can handle it."
"But it's upset you. I can help."
"Not this time." His tone held a subtle warning. I didn't care.
"When the shit really hits the fan, you can count on family. Isn't that what you tell me?" The stern set of his jaw told me I was being stonewalled, big time. I didn't like it. All it did was ramp up my worry-meter. "Mother—"
"Your mother and her hormones." My father bit off each word like a rabid dog tearing into a carcass. "She's seeing boogiemen in every corner."
"Boogiemen…an interesting word choice. And do I need to remind you that you wanted to talk to me?" I analyzed his profile as he turned to stare out the window again. Tension hunched his shoulders slightly, bunching the muscles underneath his jacket. The skin stretched tautly over his cheekbones, his mouth drawn into a thin line. His chin set at a defiant tilt, inviting someone to take a swing. Mona was right; something was going on. And being a man who solved his own problems, the Big Boss wasn't going to give it up. So like him. I'd have to outflank him somehow. "So, you think I should be scared of Boogie Fleischman?" I wiggled my glass, trying to work up an enthusiasm for a non-alcoholic beverage. It wasn't working. "Boogie's gotta be like, what…seventy?"
"Careful."
"Hey, he may be tougher than me, but I'm sure I can outrun him."
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught my father fighting with his smile."Lucky, I swear..."
"Go right ahead if it feels good, but I'm too old to change." My arm circled his shoulders and I gave him a squeeze. "Okay, just for you, until this thing blows over, I'll check the women's bathroom before I sit down…for a meal."
"Small comfort." He handed his empty glass back to me. "I'm trying to give you a warning."
"Did anyone ever find Boogie's stash?"
"His stash?" I had my father's interest now.
"I'd been told that back in the day, the bomb makers all had hiding places for their…ingredients."
"That stuff'd be damn old by now." My father's eyes snapped to mine as realization dawned.
"Precisely." I lifted the glass with an eyebrow raised in question. "Another?" At his nod, I headed toward the bar but kept talking. "So did they find his stuff?"
"Not that I'm aware of, but I wasn't in that loop."
I almost snorted in disbelief but decided it wasn't consistent with my strong desire for self-preservation.
"Lucky, this just adds more weight to my warning."
"A warning. I heard you. But really, you know as well as I do, I couldn't do my job if I had to be afraid of every reprobate wishing to knock me down a peg. Truthfully, fear isn't my strong suit—I come by it naturally."
When I returned to his side, my father took his glass and sipped. He swished the scotch around his mouth before swallowing. "I'm trying to tell you this time is different. Boogie being back. The bomb. Just stirs up a bunch of old grudges—wrongs to be righted."
"Great, a bunch of old farts all tilting at windmills." I threw back the rest of my drink, then almost choked. I'd been prepared for whiskey, not fizzy water. "Just what we need for the Fourth of July."
"You really aren't going to take this seriously, are you?" My father sighed, a hint of frustration in his voice.
"Father, I was four when Boogie the Bomber got his balls busted. I can't imagine what beef he has with me. Besides, it's not me Boogie is after."
"Jimmy can handle himself."
"Not Jimmy." I waited until he turned to look at me. "There's someone else Boogie has a beef with, at least according to Jimmy."
"Who?"
"You."
"Me?" My father shot me a half-assed smirk. "Tell him to take a number."
"My point exactly."
***
After my father left, I lingered at the window, this time with a glass of Wild Turkey. Perhaps it was a delayed life-passing-before-my-eyes experience in the wake of a near-death experience, or maybe just the echoes of emptiness pinging off the walls of my heart, but demons assaulted me. And what was that whole weird thing with my father? Usually not one to beat around the bush, he'd left me with the feeling so much had been left unsaid—that I'd gotten only one piece of the whole picture. He expected me to read the subtext when he knew better than anyone that I was a big-print kind of gal.
So how did one protect themselves from unknown evils? Who knew? The whole thought left me curiously defeated. A Pollyanna to the last, I'd always lived each day, seized each moment. When had that changed? If I was honest with myself—not one of my best things—I'd probably have to say the whole down-in-the-mouth Lucky showed up when Teddie left. The fact that he had so much power over me should probably disgust me. But that's what happens when you give someone your heart, right?
Short on answers but long on questions, I succumbed to the bone-bending weariness washing through me. Tossing back the last of my drink—this time getting the anticipated high-octane hit—I put the empty glass on the bar, then headed toward the bedroom. While it was a nice place to sleep, it wasn't home. All my things were still packed away in the boxes stacked against the wall.
A metaphor for my life.
I wondered what I was waiting for.
***
The Fourth of July in Vegas—a giant citywide party.
To be honest, it was my favorite holiday—even above New Year's Eve. Less structured, less controlled, the Fourth allowed for a bit more individual expression. All the major properties on the Strip participated. Some had private fireworks shows choreographed to a headliner concert. Some had public displays of pyrotechnic excess. All had pool parties with celebrity hosts. And for those of us riding herd on the whole thing, sleep would be at a premium.
Somehow, I was the first to arrive at the office. The ongoing construction in my new corner of this command center obviated the need for a lock and key. Anyone could step through the gaping hole that would someday be an appropriate private entrance—or so they promised, but I had my doubts. Flicking the lights on as I wandering into my old office space, I found myself still curiously wired even after only four hours of fitful shut-eye. Bucked with life, I stuffed my Birkin in a drawer, then locked it and pocketed the key.
Before I lost my nerve, and bracing for the always colorful greeting I knew would be forthcoming, I whisked off the cover on the large birdcage in the corner next to the picture window overlooking the lobby below.
Newton, my multicolored, foul-mouthed Macaw didn't disappoint. "Bitch! Slap you! Slap you bad!"
"Glad you remember me, Bird." I grabbed a slice of browned apple from the plate next to the cage and stuck it through the bars, taking care not to offer the bird any of my delicate flesh—he had a hard time discerning between the tasty and the tender.
After eyeing me, he slid warily across the bar toward the delicacy. With a "Fuck you," he snagged the morsel, then promptly retreated to the other side of the cage to savor it. At least my relationship with the bird was straightforward—I fed him, he tolerated me, sorta like a lot of marriages I'd witnessed. Maybe that explained my difficulty with commitment.
With the bird fed and mollified for the moment, I busied myself with coffee preparations—Don Francisco Vanilla Nut, my caffeine delivery vehicle of choice. Cupping my hands around the warm mug, I inhaled the aroma, then took my first tentative sip as I wandered into the war zone. After flipping on the light, I peeled back the plastic sheet protecting my desk and chair, and settled in.
I was still anticipating my second jolt of java when an angry male voice shattered my joie de vivre. "Lucky, you damn well better be in here!"
Coffee flew as I jumped at the shout. Thankfully, I managed to avoid staining my white shirt and slacks, but the papers on my desk took a direct hit. Grabbing a paint cloth, I dabbed at the liquid pool.
Xavier Sang, all five feet and a couple inches of wiry male, stuck his head through the doorway. "You and me, girl, we gotta chat."
With his straight hair dyed an unnatural shade of bright red and hanging across his forehead, the clean flat planes of his face unmarred by even the hint of a beard, his eyes dark and slanted to give him just the hint of exotic, Xavier looked more like a kid heading to UNLV than the master miracle worker he was. The latest in a long line of a very prominent Chinese family who made their fortune working magic with gunpowder, he was my big bang expert. I'd always wanted to ask him about his name—Xavier wasn't exactly a common choice for the Number One Son—but I'd never worked up the nerve to be that rude.
"Oh good," he remarked as he stepped over a paint can, then plopped down in a chair across from me—he didn't bother removing the tarp. "You really are here."
"Not yet fully caffeinated, that would be overstating." I dabbed at the last of the coffee-stained papers—something about a new fire ordinance in effect for the upcoming celebratory displays. After the fire at the Monte Carlo, we'd had one heck of a time getting the county to once again allow fireworks from the rooftops.
Xavier steepled his fingers as he pressed them to his lips. "What's the other guy look like?"
"What?" I tossed the rag in a box that served as my trash bin.
When he lowered his hands, I could see his smile. "That's quite a shiner you've got. I hope you gave as good as you got."
"Have you ever known me not to?" I raised a finger, putting him on mute for a moment, and grabbed my now empty mug. My body squealed in protest as I pushed myself to my feet, but I ignored it. "I'll be right back. You want some?"
He shook his head. "I've already had enough to throw a lesser man into A-fib."
"No worries. I passed my last CPR course with flying colors…on the third try. I only broke a few ribs on the dummy." After refilling my cup and getting reestablished behind my desk, I took a sip, bracing myself to dive into the day. "Okay, what's got your knickers in a twist this morning?"
"You know how we carefully count and report all the major explosives we have?" He paused.
I guess he expected a response. "Yup."
"And you know how we're supposed to report anything that's missing?" Again a pause.
"Yup."
"Like to the ATF?"
This time I didn't wait for the prompt—I'm a quick study. "Yup. Can we get to the point?"
"Some big stuff has gone missing."
I set my mug down. "What?"
"I need to show you."
***
The sun was just high enough to bathe the rooftop in light, which was a good thing. Normally a minefield of knee-knockers, pipes, and electrical boxes, rooftop navigation was much less perilous in the daylight, especially now with all the mortar racks and wires as we busily prepared for the fireworks display tonight. Each individual tube would launch an aerial shell, some of them almost two feet in diameter, with precisely timed fuses. This year, the whole thing would be choreographed to the current hits by the Thump Dogs—the latest 'new, hot thing' and our entertainment option for the weekend. Xavier's team of experts scurried mounting shells, running wires, testing fuses. Precisely timed, intricately planned, tested, then retested, the show would be controlled from an electrical console that looked like the cockpit of a 747. Loudspeakers mounted on stalks behind the command center would pipe the music in so the operators could check the display timing. As I looked at the whole setup, all I could think of was if God had a sense of humor, all she had to do was get a wild hair and rain on my parade. Precip wasn't in the forecast, but this being July, a rogue monsoonal flow could strike at any time.
Woefully inadequate in the weather-control department, I abdicated responsibility for the weather. Simple mundane human problems were proving to be taxing enough as it was.
On the far side of the roof, an empty electrical shed had been converted into a secure housing for the pyrotechnics. The door hung on one hinge. The latch, with the lock still through it, was bent and mangled.
Bracing my hands on my hips and squinting my eyes against the assault of the summer sun, I surveyed the damage. "You didn't touch anything, did you?"
Lucky Bang Page 5