Lucky Bastard

by Deborah Coonts

  He did as she asked. “What’ll it be? An elephant for luck?” he asked.

  “Luck is always in short supply.” And Shady Slim’s had run out, but I didn’t add that part.

  With Mona absentmindedly kneading his shoulders, my father began to crease and fold the money, his fingers working the paper with the quiet sureness of years of practice. Instead of worry beads, the Big Boss turned to origami to ease the tension, to take his mind off unpleasantness. As he folded, refolded, and creased a small form took shape. This miniature elephant would have its trunk raised…for luck.

  With one hand he grabbed mine, opened it, and dropped the tiny shape into my palm. With both hands he closed my fingers over it and held them there. “The two most important people to me are in this room, alive and well, so don’t look so stricken. Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

  “It’s Shady Slim. He’s dead. I’m so sorry.”

  A tic worked in my father’s jaw as his face clouded. Mona reached for his hand and squeezed, her eyes reflecting his pain. He worked his hand from hers then patted it as he rose. I stepped out of his way. As he moved to stare out the window, I stepped in beside him.

  “Heart attack?” he asked after a few moments. Shady Slim had been asking for one for years. Everyone, including Slim, had known it was a matter of when, not if.

  “Don’t know. There weren’t any obvious signs of foul play.” I left out the part about him dying on the throne. Somehow I didn’t think my father needed to be burdened with that bit of indignity. “Romeo questioned everyone. There will be an autopsy, but with budget cuts and the fact that no foul play is indicated, it could be a while before we have any results. I’ll let you know when I hear.”

  “Arrangements will need to be made.”

  “I mentioned that to Miss Becky-Sue.”

  My father flinched. “Slim always said he wanted to be buried here. I think he has a plot at Palm Mortuary. He said no funeral.”

  “No funeral?”

  My father shook his head then gave me a faint grin. “No, Slim wanted a party. He didn’t want anybody going all soft and weepy. I believe that’s how he put it.”

  “A wake?”

  “From the sounds of it, he envisioned something bigger, something definitively Vegas.”

  A themed party in lieu of a funeral?

  My father sounded hopeful, but not certain. “I think it’s called a Celebration of Life.”

  But of course.

  ***

  The increasing energy level in the lobby assaulted me as the elevators deposited me in the middle of the fray. With long strides, I covered the vast marble expanse taking in every detail while pretending not to. The lines in front of each registration station were several customers deep but moving quickly. With ready smiles, bellmen jumped in to help with baggage. Cocktail waitresses in their tiny togas with gold braided cord, balanced on stilettos while darting in and out, supplying the oil that kept the squeal out of the Babylon’s finely tuned engine. Clusters of admirers gathered under the flocks of blown-glass hummingbirds adorning the ceiling. Others wandered, window-shopping, holding hands, relaxing. A gallery of spectators ringed the large windows in front of the ski slope and rewarded a successful run with raised glasses and a cheer. A spectacular wipeout earned a collective groan and cringe.

  Midafternoon was well under way. No wonder my stomach was staging a revolt. Liquid refreshment before dawn and one bagel slathered in a cholesterol-raising amount of butter was hardly sufficient sustenance—at least for this body.

  Something told me there was a yummy, juicy, gourmet...French…hamburger in my very near future. The lone bright spot in a deadly day. I’d been sidestepping Jean-Charles’s issue of an appropriate kitchen—it was time we came to some sort of resolution, although I had no idea what. But first I probably ought to put in an appearance at the office and at least pretend I was in charge. And there was Dane…

  Feeling the need to move, I took the stairs, two at a time, to the mezzanine. Miss P didn’t give me a glance when I burst through the office door. Her eyes were riveted to the six-foot-four, two hundred and twenty-five pound hunk holding down a corner of her desk—the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock. For a nanosecond, envy perched on my shoulder. To have a guy like that. I could almost resort to mooning, too…almost. He bent down and whispered in her ear, making her blush, then giggle. Mooning, blushing, and giggling—the woman had no shame! I should be so lucky….

  As a challenge to females everywhere, Jeremy had been graced with light brown hair, brown eyes flecked with gold, a ready smile hanging like a hammock between a pair of the deepest dimples, and a body begging to be…Well, I slammed my mind closed on that visual. Suffice it to say he was the kind of male populating women’s fantasies since the beginning of time. I wasn’t immune. I could easily picture Jeremy in a kilt wielding a broadsword, or astride a white steed. But he was Miss P’s knight, and there are certain boundaries no friend would ever cross. Especially not this friend.

  “Jeremy, great. I need to talk to you,” I said, as I breezed by on my way to my office. Two steps through the door, I realized it wasn’t my office anymore—it was Miss P’s. But she was sitting at her former position out front, which was where Brandy should be. Old habits are hard to break. And I had a hard enough time keeping up without my staff playing musical desks. I backtracked and this time, under the amused expressions of Miss P and Jeremy, stepped through the makeshift doorway to my new office—or what would someday be my new office, perhaps not in my lifetime the way things were going, but someday.

  Miss P followed me with notepad in hand and Jeremy on her heels.

  “Take a seat.” I motioned to a tarp-covered form against the wall as I settled into my desk chair. Early this morning, which now seemed a lifetime ago, I had uncovered my desk. Like powdery snow, a fine layer of white now dusted the rich burled walnut.

  A cloud of fine grit floated and danced in the shafts of light that filtered through the doorway and shone weakly from the lone overhead lightbulb as Jeremy folded back the cloth over the couch. Miss P sank into the soft cushions as Jeremy straddled the arm, folding one leg over the other so his ankle balanced on his other knee. Holding his leg in both hands, his foot bounced as he glanced around the construction zone.

  “I love what you’ve done to the place,” he said, his dimples deepening. What is it about an Australian accent that runs through a woman like molten chocolate?

  “Nothing like that personal touch,” I said as I tried to marshal my thoughts—the morning had left me reeling. Two dead bodies are two more than I’m used to dealing with.

  Leaning forward, I placed my hands on my desk, idly swiping at the dust. Then, focusing on a point on the wall—not making eye contact somehow made the telling easier—I summarized the events of the morning. Miss P scribbled notes. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jeremy staring at me intently, a small frown marring his otherwise perfect visage, but neither interrupted me as I filled them in on the dead woman on the car—Dane’s wife—the poker game and my Poker Room showdown with the Stoneman.

  After I finished, the two of them stared at me with owl eyes. Jeremy was the first to break the silence. “Hooley-dooley, Dane has a wife.” He reached across the space between us and grabbed my hand. “Lucky, you have to believe me, I had no idea.”

  “You work together.”

  “He was a right-up guy.”

  I looked at him and wanted to believe him. “That’s like telling me he slaps his wife around a bit, but he’s really a great guy.”

  Jeremy’s eyes widened and he started to say something, but I silenced him with a raised hand. “Don’t mind me. I’m not exactly feeling kindly toward the Y-chromosome set these days. Nothing personal.”

  He gave me a wink. “Of course not.”

  Dane was a championship liar and men historically weren’t great at ferretting out the bad apples in their barrel, so I let Jeremy off the hook. “I need you to find a needle in a haystack: an optician somewhe
re in this town willing to fit red contact lenses. I know Sylvie could’ve gotten those things anywhere, but, if we’re lucky…” I let the thought hang.

  “That all?” he asked with just a hint of sarcasm, which made me grin.

  “Child’s play for a man of your skills.” Nervous energy overflowing, I picked up a pencil and began tapping a rhythm on the desk. Irritating I know, but it was a far sight better than wringing necks or shooting someone and I figured Jeremy and Miss P would get that. “I have no idea what to make of any of this. I need you to get me a toehold, at least.”

  “What can I do?” Miss P asked.

  “Someone hung a banner outside the Ferrari dealership—a hand-lettered, butcher-paper sign designed to block the camera recording the traffic in and out of the showroom. Security says the work order came from this office.”

  Miss P’s eyebrows snapped into a disapproving line.

  “Could you follow up on that?”

  Miss P, familiar with my order-framed-as-a-question style, didn’t bother to answer. “Then get Flash on the phone,” I went on. “Somehow we’ve managed to keep Shady Slim under wraps, so give it to her. Tell her to handle it appropriately—she’ll know what you mean. It’s sorta interesting Miss Becky-Sue hasn’t tried to sell the story to People or something.”

  “Maybe she’s honoring Slim’s memory?” Miss P offered.

  I paused, pondering that imponderable. “Possible, but the high road isn’t her usual route.” I turned to Jeremy. “Can you find out where the Stoneman lives, the places he hangs out in when he has free time, and anything else you deem pertinent? We need to find him ASAP. It also wouldn’t hurt to get a snapshot of his finances.” I pushed up out of my chair. The others rose out of habit. “When you are ready to go round him up, call me; I’d like to ride along.”

  He nodded, but his eyes had lost focus as if he were already three steps ahead of me in the thinking game. Apparently not hard to do these days. Being blindsided by life was getting really tiresome.

  “Oh, and Brandy? Has she caught up with Cole Weston yet?”

  “He staggered in not too long ago, muddy and dead on his feet. He’s asleep in his room. If he sleeps as soundly as most young men I know, she won’t be able to get his attention with the light over the door. And he certainly won’t hear the phone or a knock, so she’s waiting until he appears. Do you want her to get security to let her in his room?” Miss P looked like she knew the answer.

  “No. Barging in there half-cocked would open the hotel to serious liability.”

  “They’re supposed to meet up at five.”

  I glanced at my watch. “It’s almost five now. When they appear, give me a heads-up and I’ll meet them in the Burger Palais. The food’s on me.”

  “You got it. And I’ll get on that sign as you asked. Where will you be in the interim?”

  “Whomping rats.”

  ***

  By the time I hiked up the steps to Delilah’s, a thumper of a headache pounded behind my right eye. Great. A migraine, a putrid pit in my stomach, two dead bodies, one of them a good friend of my father’s, another a former friend’s wife, a Poker Room manger playing games, and that former friend hell-bent on proving my all-men-are-pigs theory was actually true and not the result of rampant cynicism. Could today get any better?

  Pulling my phone from my hip, I flipped it open and hit Jerry’s direct dial. He answered on the first ring. “Jer, where’s Watalsky? Did you tell him I want to see him?”

  “I put the bug in his ear, but he said he had plans. I didn’t think it was critical.”

  “He’s peggin’ my interest meter.”

  “I’ll try to roust him—he was here until after dawn. Left with a pile.”

  “Any idea who he took it off of?”

  “DeLuca. And he wasn’t happy about it.”

  “DeLuca. He’s next on my list. Do you have a bead on him?”

  “Girl, he won’t be here at this hour.”

  “Keep an eye out for him. Let me know the minute he hits the property, okay?”

  ***

  The sight of Dane sitting at the bar, his back hunched, two empty Buds in front of him and draining a third as I approached, did nothing to brighten my less than sunny disposition.

  Thankfully, business was light at this hour. The only other patron sat at the far end of the bar mechanically punching buttons on a video poker machine embedded in the bar top. I thought I remembered seeing the guy here yesterday, and the day before that. I wondered if he ever went home…or if he had one to go to. But, in my line of work, it was best not to dwell on those kinds of questions, so I didn’t. I was only one problem-solver swimming in a sea of problems—drowning wasn’t a possibility; it was an inevitability. So, it was best to pace myself, delay the inevitable.

  “Drinking’s really going to help,” I snarled as I slid onto a stool next to Dane.

  He set the third empty next to the others, carefully aligning them before he spoke. “You’d be surprised.”

  The water cascading down the sandstone wall behind the bar, the flowering bougainvillea trailing from trellises, the soft music, warm colors and muted lights were supposed to be welcoming and soothing. I wasn’t buying any of it. Apparently I must’ve looked ready to chew through a tanned hide or something because Sean, our head bartender, kept his distance as he lifted a bottle and an eyebrow at me. I shook my head—just the thought of a Wild Turkey fireball in my empty stomach convulsed me with anticipatory pain. “Club soda with lime, please.” If he tried to hide his smirk, he didn’t try very hard.

  Sean put a tall glass filled with clear liquid and bubbles in front of me. Bubbles really weren’t my thing—unless they were rising through a golden liquid from a very specific region of France. However, I’d been trying to cultivate a taste for water—part of my anemic effort to improve my health—so Champagne had been downgraded from an everyday thing to a special occasion thing. And bubbles were an attempt to make a tasteless beverage palatable. Why did everything that was good for you have to be so unappealing?

  “If anyone wants to know what a lying creep looks like,” I said, glancing at Dane as I took a tentative sip of the soda water, grimaced, then placed the glass back on the bar and pushed it away. Bubbles didn’t help. “I’ll just send them your picture.”

  If my verbal arrow hit his soft underbelly, I couldn’t tell. I hoped it had, but felt bad if it did. What can I say? Conflicted is my natural state. Apparently I am incapable of feeling a pure, unadulterated emotion without wallowing in ambivalence.

  “I take it you looked at the security tapes.” Dane motioned for another beer.

  “Convicting. And that’s ignoring the serious issues you have with the truth for a moment. Those tapes alone are more than adequate for a grand jury. The two of you leaving the Poker Room, heading toward the dealership, where she was found dead—you were the last person to see your wife alive.”

  “Only if I killed her.” He glanced at me then focused on lining up the fourth beer with the others. He didn’t take a sip.

  “How much money were you guys wrangling over in the divorce?”

  He glanced at me. “Enough.”

  “And those scratches on your face.”

  With a haunted look in his eye, he raised a hand to gently probe the angry red gashes on his right cheek. One of them was deep enough to have drawn blood.

  “Did Sylvie give you those?”

  “She was pissed when I showed up in the Poker Room.”

  “Why?”

  He gave a snort. “With Sylvie, the rising of the sun each day could piss her off. I know it looks bad.”

  “Bad!” At a loss, I stared at him. Clearly his reality wasn’t mine and words weren’t bridging the gap. I grabbed his arm, swiveling him around so he at least half faced me and had to meet my eyes. “Cowboy, let me give it to you straight: You are so far up shit creek even a Mercury outboard wouldn’t help.”

  “But you can.” This time, when his eyes met mine,
they held.

  “Dane, I’m a customer relations person. If you’ve got a pesky rash, an ill-advised marriage to be annulled, your bathroom is too small, your bed too hard, your dinner unacceptable, your show tickets for the wrong show, your wife needing to be rubbed the right way, I can fix that. But you’re looking at twenty to life with no parole. What you need is a pit bull with a Bar card and a healthy dose of divine intervention.”

  “Or someone who can uncover the truth.”

  “A concept you seem curiously divorced from.” Throwing caution to the wind, I grabbed the full bottle in front of him and drained half of it before coming up for air. Beer, not my beverage of choice—a bit low on octane—but it was a darn sight more bracing than water with bubbles. “I can’t help you,” I said as I slammed the bottle on the counter. I resisted wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as being a wee bit tacky.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  Unwilling to answer, I shrugged and refused to meet his gaze. Conflicting emotions waged a battle in my churning belly. Of course, the beer hadn’t helped. And it also wasn’t helping me fight my Pavlovian response to other people’s problems.

  Dane reached for the bottle still clutched in my hand. I relinquished my hold and he drained the remaining beer in one swallow. “I’ve lost your trust,” he said as he again carefully aligned the bottle with the others as if keeping score.

  “One of the many downsides to lying.”

  “If I promise to be square with you, will you at least listen before deciding whether you will help or not?” He gave an almost imperceptible nod to Sean who popped the top on a fresh longneck, then slid it down the bar where it stopped, still upright, in front of Dane—a skill I marveled at.

  “Cowboy, I would like nothing more than to hear the truth. But how do I know when you’re giving me the straight skinny and when you’re shining me on?” I asked even though I knew he had no answer. Trust, once lost, can be regained but never fully restored. And, picking the right horse in this race would be critical. If I picked poorly, I’d be in desperate need of a get-out-of-jail-free card.