Lucky Bastard

by Deborah Coonts

  With a weak grin, he crossed his heart. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. “From here on out, no matter what, no more lying.”

  “You know what this is like?” I focused on the television hanging in the corner while I fought a losing battle with myself. Even with the sound muted, I could tell the talking heads were discussing our murder. In Vegas, while good news traveled fast, bad news traveled at the speed of light. The one bright spot appeared to be that Shady Slim Grady’s demise was still under wraps. “This is like one of those word problems in freshman algebra: If a liar tells you he’s not lying, is he?” My resolve weakening, I gave Dane a tepid smile. “I never got that answer right.”

  Sensing my weakness, he went for the kill. “Help me? Only you can fix this.”

  Manipulation at its best and most obvious. Why didn’t it put the fear of God in me? I must have a death wish.

  “Against my better judgment, I’ll listen, but we take it one step at a time.” Relief washed over him, easing the tension from his features, relaxing his posture, and breaking my heart a little bit. “However, if you try to hook a ring through my nose and lead me down some path, I’ll bust your ass. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal.” He grabbed my arm and squeezed. “Thank you.”

  “As a token of your good faith, give me Sylvie’s phone.”

  “I don’t have it.” He shook his head. “Before I called you, I looked for it. That’s why my boot prints were around the…” He swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. “The car.”

  “Give me her number.” I boosted myself up and leaned across the bar. Sean had a bunch of pens stashed in a glass next to the register. I grabbed one, then handed it to Dane. He wrote the number on the back of a cocktail napkin, which I folded and pocketed.

  Fire burned in the pit of my stomach. My body was trying to tell me something, something more than it was hungry, but I ignored it. “Sean, do you have some peanuts or something back there?”

  “Peanuts, please! This is the Babylon. We have plump whole cashews and dates from the finest Persian markets. Extra-virgin olives…” The kid’s smile lit his face as he pushed a bowl of the delicacies in front of me. With blue eyes, a receding hairline, and short-cropped brown hair, which he spiked up, Sean had an easy rapport with customers and, apparently, us corporate types. He loved to tell young ladies that his last name was Finnegan and he was Black Irish. I knew the truth: His last name was really Pollack and he was from New Jersey, but far be it from me to bust his myth.

  Even though I knew there was no such thing as an extra-virgin olive, I played along, appreciative of Sean’s attempt to lighten my mood. “Then those olives are the only thing extra-virgin in this town.” I pretended to grouse as I picked at the nuts Sean set in front of me. I popped a few in my mouth and said to Dane, “Okay, let’s try to figure out who’s playing whom. Why don’t we start with the poker game? Tell me everything you know.”

  “I got pieces, but I don’t see how they fit together.” Resting his elbows on the bar, Dane sipped his beer as he settled in. “Sylvie called me a week ago. To be honest, I was surprised to hear from her. Our relationship, if you could call it that, was acrimonious at best and over a long time ago. After being granted an early discharge, I started the formalities, as I told you.”

  “Early discharge?”

  “Cost-saving program.”

  I tested a few of the dates as I listened. “What made Sylvie call you now?”

  “She was scared, I think. Although, with her it was hard to separate the truth from the bullshit.”

  “At least you two had something in common: Lying, the bedrock of a solid marriage.” I avoided the olives as being far too healthy while I contemplated another beverage choice.

  “Do you ever give it a rest?” Now it was Dane’s turn to snarl.

  “Not when I’m angry.” I said matter-of-factly, then turned my attention back to the bottles behind the bar. “Sean, how about a split of Veuve Clicquot?”

  After rooting in the refrigerator under the bar, he popped the cork, filled a crystal flute and set it in front of me. “Celebrating something?” he asked me with a quick glance at Dane who continued to scowl into his beer.

  “The demise of good judgment.”

  “Always in short supply,” he said as he wiped his hands on a bar towel. “But you’re lucky, in this town, it’s not valued.” With a nod and a raised eyebrow at Dane, he wandered to the end of the bar to check on his other guest, leaving us alone.

  “What is it with bartenders?” Dane snarled when Sean was out of earshot. “They’re always spouting some profound philosophical bull they’ve overheard.”

  “Wisdom gained from vicarious experience—the safest kind.” One sip of champagne and every nerve ending jumped with joy. On some level I knew that should bother me. However, caring was an insecurity I hadn’t the time nor the energy for—coping took everything I had. “What was Sylvie doing in that poker game?”

  Dane didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stared into his beer. I could almost see the wheels turning—the truth shouldn’t be that hard. “I don’t know,” he finally said, “but she was as twitchy as a dog before a storm. She bought in for cash—she wouldn’t tell me who staked her—she never had that kind of green.”

  “Anything you do know?” What I meant was did Dane know anything important that I couldn’t find from another source, but I was betting he knew that. The guy hid plenty of IQ points behind the aw-gee-shucks cowboy routine. I’d learned that the hard way—which was pretty much my MO, especially when it came to men.

  “Someone was watching her, I know that.” Dane glanced at me as if trying to see if I was buying it or not, then he refocused on his beer.

  “Who?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  I grabbed his knee and spun him around. Face to face, I leaned in. “Don’t play me, Cowboy. I didn’t ask you what she said; I asked you what you know. I’m five seconds from walking.”

  “Okay, okay.” He rested a hand on my knee, as if anchoring me to my stool. “I don’t know who exactly was watching her. Several of the players in the game showed more than even the normal amount of interest my wife generally drew, but nothing that seemed odd. Everyone seemed pretty focused.”

  “With those guys, it’s about the chase,” I said, thinking out loud. “Winning is everything. There is no such thing as enough. The games they play when the stakes are high are subtle, but very serious. And the Poker Room manager, did she mention him?”

  Dane thought for a moment. “Not that I recall. Why?”

  “I just find it odd, that, with all his years of experience, he didn’t figure out she was cheating. After that much time, you just develop a sort of sixth sense, you know?”

  Dane shrugged. So he knew she had been cheating…“She was slick.”

  “Maybe the manager wasn’t that smart, but if anyone else knew…” I let the thought dangle. Vegas was a boat riding on a river of money. Anyone messing with the flow was a marked man…or woman. One possible motive, and a tableful of “persons of interest.” “You told Romeo that she called you during the game, but we both know that isn’t true. Why’d you call her?”

  “I wanted her out of there. I could tell the noose was tightening—someone was onto her.” His voice cracked. Swallowing hard, he cleared his throat.

  “Saving damsels in distress is your thing, isn’t it?” Dane had run to my defense a time or two so I knew the drill. “But she didn’t want to be rescued.”

  “No, she was pissed.” His brows snapped down. “Damned independent women.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He shrugged, but didn’t meet my angry gaze. Nor did he look sorry.

  “You two left the Poker Room together. It’s not too big an assumption to believe you stayed together, but that would make you the killer. You say no. So, what’s your story? Lead me through it.”

  Dane worked his shoulders, stretching. “I’m a fool.” I detected a hint of defeat in his voic
e, but I wasn’t about to argue—I happened to agree with his assessment. “Once we were out of sight of the Poker Room, she…” Again he rubbed his cheek and winced. “Like I said, she was pissed. Said we should split up. She didn’t want anyone to see us together and it would give me a chance to see if anyone followed her.”

  That sounded reasonable…I guess, since I’m such an expert in this arena and all. I nodded for him to continue.

  “We were to double back and meet in Delilah’s. She promised she would lay the whole thing out for me.” His eyes narrowed and his face shut down. “Guess she had no intention, really. She didn’t show.”

  “So how’d you end up in the dealership?” I took another sip of my champagne—much better bubbles.

  “I really was on my way to the garage—my truck is still there if you want to check. I saw the dealership door ajar and the rest is history.”

  “Not quite—there are some giant holes in the story. You didn’t smell a rat?”

  He shook his head.

  “Bad time to be wrong.” I resisted diving in for more nuts—Champagne with anything other than beluga was like a crime against the god of good taste or something. No need to add my name to the shit list of another minor deity—I was on enough of those lists already. “Did she clue you in to her need to detour through the dealership?”

  “She was pretty good at keeping me in the dark.”

  “A skill you seemed to have picked up,” I said as I sipped my bubbly and eyed him over the top of the glass. “Do you have any idea why she would go there?”

  “None.”

  I let the silence stretch between us. “The cameras in the hallway leading to the front door of the dealership weren’t any help—they were blocked.”

  “Yeah. I saw the sign.” He moved to get Sean’s attention then apparently thought better of it—I guess five was his lucky number. I did not smile at the pun.

  “Do you have any idea how she got in? Did someone let her in?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “I’ve told you all I know.” He reached over and squeezed my hand. “Trust me.”

  “Said the spider to the fly. Where men are concerned, trust isn’t good for my health.” I finished the flute of Champagne and poured the rest of the contents of the bottle into my glass, before I spoke again. “Did you see anything odd? Anyone hanging around looking nervous?”

  “Odd? In this loony bin?”

  My patience at an end, I leveled what I thought was my best stern gaze on him. “Anything that looked…I don’t know…wrong?”

  He pursed his lips and shook his head.

  “And you didn’t show up on any of the security feeds after you and Sylvie split up. Where’d you go?”

  “I doubled back. I wanted to see if anyone followed her.”

  “So why did you avoid the security cameras? That looks a bit suspicious, don’t you think?”

  “I wasn’t avoiding them, it just looks that way.” Dane took a deep breath and looked at me, conjuring his most sincere look. “Lucky, it all looks bad, but I’m telling you the truth. You have to believe me.” His eyes skittered from mine as he hailed the bartender. “Sean, what do I owe you?” he asked as he reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

  Sean glanced at me and I shook my head. “It’s on the house,” he answered.

  Dane backed off the stool, then pulled a hundred out of his wallet and tossed it on the bar. “This ought to cover it.” Then he turned to me. “If you find out anything, you let me know.”

  “You didn’t seem surprised she was cheating. You wouldn’t happen to know why she was also losing, would you?”

  That got his attention. His eyes snapped to mine and widened in surprise. The most amazing color of green, those eyes were his best feature—emerald whirlpools that captured the weak and unsuspecting. Conscious effort was the only thing keeping me from surrendering my sanity and succumbing to the pull.

  Leaning back, putting a few more inches of distance between us, I nodded in answer to the question I saw lurking in his expression.

  “She busted out,” he said. A statement, not a question.

  “Curious, isn’t it?” I knew I’d never keep the sarcasm out of that simple statement, so I didn’t waste the effort.

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Amazingly, that much I’d figured out all by myself. Do you have any idea why she would cheat, then not win?”

  “Something scared her? It was part of a bigger plan?” He rubbed his eyes and for a moment he let his mask slip and I saw the toll all of this was taking. Not that I felt pity, but I’d be lying if I said his pain didn’t squeeze my heart a tiny bit. “How the hell do I know?” He made it sound like an epithet as his shoulders drooped in defeat.

  “Go home, Cowboy.” I picked up his Ben Franklin from the bar and stuffed it in his shirt pocket, then patted his chest. “This mess will be waiting for us tomorrow. Maybe a new day will bring a fresh perspective.” In my experience, that was rarely the case, but a little ray of hope is a powerful thing.

  Taking my hand from his chest, he raised it to his lips—his skin was cold. With a sardonic grin, he let my hand go.

  I watched Dane saunter away—he really did have a Grade-A ass. Too bad he was one as well. Even though he hadn’t answered my questions, he’d shown a few of the cards he was holding. He hadn’t told me about the necklace…or the shoes. He hadn’t explained dodging the security cameras—a skill we all had—at least not to my satisfaction. Although he acted surprised, he hadn’t asked how I knew Sylvie had been cheating or how she had done it. Yup, there was a lot he hadn’t shared. But he had told me one thing loud and clear—we weren’t partners. Like a TV cop working his snitch, Dane wanted to keep me close, letting me do his work for him.

  He might think me a fool, but he had met his match. Coming up through the casino ranks, I’d cut my teeth on inveterate liars, cheats, cardsharps, and other vermin. Compared to them, Dane was a piker.

  “Did he kill her?” Sean’s voice at my elbow startled me out of my reverie, which was a good thing as my thoughts had done a one-eighty toward committing a murder rather than trying to solve one.

  “If he did, he’s dead meat.”

  Chapter Eight

  The intoxicating aromas of beef cooking over charcoal, of onions glazing in a buttery skillet, hit me halfway through the Bazaar. Salivating in earnest now, I walked faster, unsure as to which I wanted first—a juicy hamburger or a juicy chef. It was a toss-up. I doubted the order would matter significantly, so I surrendered myself to anticipation.

  But, before I fully relinquished myself, I put in a quick call to Jeremy. Reading from the napkin on which Dane had scrawled Sylvie’s number, I recited it to him, then double-checked it as he read it back. “Can you find out who she called and who called her?”

  “No worries.”

  “Wow, really? That easy?”

  “I know people you don’t want to know.”

  “You won’t get any argument. Thanks.” I terminated the call and reholstered the phone. If only all my problems were that easy to solve. But they weren’t. And if I was going to be of use to anybody, the hunger beast needed to be feed.

  Working in the hermetically sealed environment of a top casino where nary a window or clock could be found, I’d developed other ways to keep track of time. One of them was watching the crowd. Judging by the thickening flow of humanity, older couples dressed for the evening strolling hand in hand, pausing occasionally to drool over the extravagant offerings in the shop windows, and the younger crowd, sunburned and still in pool attire, I guessed afternoon had segued into the refreshment hour.

  Even though each day in Vegas seemed to be a random walk through alcohol-fueled chaos, it actually had a subtle regularity to it. The older crowd generally dined early, then hit a show, and were tucked in before the younger crowd had even decided what to wear. Nightclubs didn’t open until ten thirty or eleven�
�the cool folks wouldn’t show until well after midnight. The morning lull gave all of us time to recover, restore, and rejuvenate—in theory. For me, it was just enough time to catch my breath, and perhaps a couple of winks, if luck was running my way, which wasn’t the normal flow. Even though I kept hiring assistants, the load kept growing, overtaking any free time into which I could fit a life.

  Of course, recent history had me rethinking the whole having a life thing—it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  The short line in front of the Burger Palais told me my guess as to the time wasn’t too far off. Guests occupied over half the tables—the place would be packed in an hour with a line out the door. Apparently hamburger joints and reservations didn’t go together—at least according to the gospel of Jean-Charles Bouclet. He felt a line of anxious diners and a reasonable wait fueled demand. By all appearances, he knew what he was talking about, so who was I to quibble? I hated lines. What was it Yogi Berra said? The place was so crowded nobody went there anymore. I so got that. Apparently I was in the minority.

  A beckoning combination of rough-hewn wooden floors, mortared brick walls, brass sconces, tables draped with checkered cloth, the restaurant reflected the refinement of its proprietor tempered with his sense of fun. A bar, hand-carved of the finest wood in Scotland and imported piece by piece, curved from the right-hand wall. Bottles lined the shelves—Jean-Charles preferred quality rather than quantity at each price point. Something for everyone, he said, but not so many to choose from that the choice became daunting. A glass wall ran the length of the dining space opposite the bar. Behind the glass, Jean-Charles and his staff toiled in a carefully choreographed dance. Tonight, the proprietor worked the stove while barking orders. I sifted through the early dinner crowd already gathering at the entrance. With a nod and a knowing smile, the hostess stepped out of my way as I breezed by her. Halfway down the far wall, I made a left turn into the kitchen and entered another world.