Lucky Bastard

by Deborah Coonts

  “This isn’t making me happy,” he groused, but he did as I asked.

  “As I was saying,” Brandy drawled. “Cole knew Sylvie from playing poker. Once he was sure she was on the up-and-up, he took his data to her.”

  “What data?” Romeo whispered. I filled him in. “Wow, the plot thickens,” he mocked—his version of pouting. Or maybe he’d tracked down DeLuca and wanted to take a chunk out of my hide. I wasn’t going to ask.

  “Cole wanted Sylvie to take it to the next step, get a warrant, whatever, but Sylvie refused.”

  “Why?” Romeo and I said in unison.

  Cole’s fingers flew as Brandy watched. “He says she was working her own angle and wanted some time.”

  “And he doesn’t know what she was after?” I asked.

  Brandy pursed her lips and shook her head. “No.” Cole tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention. She watched him for a moment, her eyes growing wide.

  “What is it?” I asked unable to contain myself.

  “After the poker game, Cole went to an underground game over in the warehouse district just across the Fifteen.”

  “I won’t mention those are both illegal and unsafe,” I scolded.

  Cole shrugged and gave me a cockeyed smile. He was cute, no doubt about it, with a charm he knew how to use.

  Brandy looked at me, her eyes as big as plates. “There was a girl there, at the underground game. She had the necklace that Sylvie Dane was wearing.”

  “Sylvie’s necklace?” I spluttered. “How?”

  Cole shrugged, and shook his head.

  “Do you know her?” I asked. Again a negative response. “Was she young, Hispanic, long dark hair?”

  This time a vigorous nod of his head as he pulled Brandy around.

  “He tried to follow her after the game, but he lost her. He wants to know if you know her.”

  “No. So, far, she’s just one more dead end,” I said, hoping only figuratively.

  “Was anyone else there that we should know about?” I asked routinely, never expecting to know anyone at one of those games. I was wrong.

  After watching Cole for a moment, Brandy, her voice hushed as if conjuring an evil spirit, announced, “River Watalsky.”

  Romeo snapped out of his romantic funk, his cop sensors on alert. “Watalsky? What was he doing there?”

  Cole rolled his eyes as he signed.

  “Playing poker,” Brandy interpreted, fighting a smile.

  “Thank you,” Romeo countered. “Anything else? Anything unusual?”

  “He seemed awfully interested in the girl,” Cole said this himself, the words a bit muffled, but understandable. “And the necklace.”

  “I bet,” I offered—so helpful, I know.

  Jean-Charles reappeared with the promised platter of hamburgers. His mood seemed to have improved as he cast a smile my direction—a smile that looked like he meant it. With youthful metabolisms to feed, Brandy and Cole dove in with gusto. Initially hesitant, Romeo finally dismounted his high horse and pushed his way to the trough as well. The three of them moaned in gustatory delight making the chef who stood next to me smile, although I suspected he was accustomed to that reaction.

  “Those three are my perfect demographic—young enough to eat so many calories, old enough to appreciate the nuances of the flavors.”

  “And to pay for premium burgers.”

  “That as well.” Jean-Charles gave me a smile. “I am sorry to be difficult.”

  I leaned into him, savoring the spark where our bodies touched. “Trust me.”

  Once a lead dog, the habit was hard to break and I watched my chef struggle with the concept of letting someone else pull the sled for a bit. “The kitchen, it must be…”

  “Professional, I know.”

  “But most chefs with that sort of kitchen will not…”

  “Share, I know.”

  Those robin’s-egg eyes went all milky and soft, turning my heart inside out. “Yes, I can see that you do.”

  “Your son, Christophe? He comes soon?” I said, changing the subject as I watched him pour us both another glass of wine. Three or four, I’d lost enthusiasm for counting, and apparently for moderation. Whatever the number, it was past my limit—when I used to have a limit, that is.

  At the mention of his son’s name, all the hard lines softened. A smile lifted the corner of Jean-Charles’s mouth. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out the creased and worn picture of his five-year-old I had seen countless times before. Although I had yet to meet him, I could easily pick the boy out of any kindergarten lineup.

  Sandy curls, blue eyes like his father’s, a smile to melt even the hardest heart—he terrified me. If he didn’t like me, I was screwed. Well, if experience had taught me anything it was that life would lead me down the path I was meant to follow. And, whether I went willingly or screaming bloody murder with my heels dug in, never seemed to make a difference.

  Jean-Charles lingered over the photo before stuffing it back in his pocket. “He comes soon, yes. My sister’s daughter, Chantal, is bringing him from France. My mother is already calling me, threatening to keep him. She is making fun with me, of course, but like all mothers, she enjoys, how do you say it? Pulling my rope?”

  “Jerking your chain. Mona is a master.”

  “I have not seen this side of your mother.” Jean-Charles snagged another slider, this one made of ahi tuna. I let it go, but between you and me, creating a hamburger from raw fish…okay, rare fish…was a culinary crime. Hamburger and healthy should never even flirt with being synonymous.

  “Of course not. She would never let a handsome Frenchman see her practice the subtle art of manipulation.”

  “Then, there are benefits to being in my company?” His smile lit his whole face, reaching his eyes.

  “Many.” Something in his eyes made my heart beat faster, my skin flush. When he reached for my hand, a connection jolted through me. Why did life always serve up more than I could handle? Just lucky, I guess. Maybe I could change my name—then all these stupid puns wouldn’t apply. Maybe that would help. Who knew? “Your mother is enjoying her grandson, then?” I asked, veering the conversation away from my mother—not the best topic for a bad day.

  Jean-Charles turned his eyes toward Heaven and blew in the way that the French do when they think you are the master of understatement. “They are like…” He paused for moment, searching. “They are like two people with one soul.” He crumpled his eyebrows together, questioning.

  At my nod, he continued. “My mother, she likes the earth, the animals. My son, too, likes the animals, especially the babies. My parents have many on their farm.” Jean-Charles chuckled as a faraway look flashed in his eyes. “In the beginning, the animals were to be raised organically. Then, when the time was right, they were to be slaughtered and served in my father’s restaurant. You know, of course, how this would end?”

  Taking a sip of wine, I relaxed and smiled, enjoying the story.

  “My mother, she gave them all names. This, my father said, was the death kiss. And he was right.” Jean-Charles laughed at the memory and shook his head. “All their animals die of old age.”

  “And your father’s restaurant?”

  “He buys his meat from a local farmer with a more hard-hearted wife.”

  “I would like them, I think.” My phone sang out at my hip—actually it was Teddie doing the singing.

  I didn’t meet Jean-Charles’s eyes as I reached for my phone.

  I didn’t have any answers, but one thing I knew: My fun was over.

  Chapter Nine

  As I raced out of the restaurant, I clung to the tenuous threads of a cheery mood that threatened to evaporate in the face of worry. Jerry’s call had been brief—he refused to share over the phone. He said only that I needed to meet him at the front desk, I’d better hurry, he hoped I hadn’t eaten anything, and I would not like whatever it was he hadn’t told me.

  My pulse still racing from the kiss del
ivered with meaning by my chef, I dodged and darted through the ever-thickening crowd, arriving at the appointed spot in near record time. But Jerry wasn’t there. My back to the counter, I leaned on one elbow and scanned the crowd, cooling my heels, waiting for a man who was never late.

  Taking measured breaths and pretending this was just another day, much like all the rest, I reminded myself that all problems, no matter how large, had solutions, but I just wasn’t buying it. That’s the problem with arguing with yourself—nobody ever wins.

  This was so not going to be good—I could feel it. Like smoke under a door, an ominous sense of foreboding filtered through the edges of my consciousness. My heart skipped a beat, then raced to catch up.

  Surprises, especially bad ones, were among my least favorite things—Jerry knew that. I’d shot people for less—okay, I made that part up—but I’d felt like shooting them. For him to risk running afoul of my notoriously short temper and twitchy trigger finger meant it had to be bad. Real bad.

  I should’ve known—today could get worse. Silly me. At least Brandy and Cole were safe under the watchful eye of Detective Romeo as Cole went off to play poker in the High-Stakes Room. At least, that’s where they had said they would be, but I had left in a hurry.

  Brandy, Romeo, and Cole. The three of them. Together. Perhaps I should rethink that “safe” part.

  “Ms. O’Toole?”

  I whirled, even though I knew Jerry would never call me that, and found myself face to face with Sergio Fabiano, our front desk manager.

  Dark and delectable, with bedroom eyes, a mop of jet-black hair that he constantly flipped out of his eyes, full, pouty lips, and a body Rodin would have immortalized in marble, Sergio was the perfect frontline face for the Babylon, or so said the Big Boss. Admittedly, he was a tasty bit of eye candy, but he was a tad fussy for my tastes.

  If you ask me, it wasn’t his animal magnetism but rather his mystical ability to tame the customers with a firm but gentle hand, like Siegfried and Roy with their white tigers, that endeared him to the brass, me included. As long as he continued beating back the hoards from my office door, I was good. And, as his direct superior, I guess my opinion counted for something, although, at times, I wasn’t so sure.

  “Ms. O’Toole, are you busy?” Sergio asked as he grabbed my arm and pulled me toward a couple standing off to the side. “I have some people I’d like you to meet. They are such good customers.”

  Something about his manner kept me from shrugging him off. I was as far from being in a social mood as was humanly possible, but he looked like he was having fun. Right now I could use even just a hint of joy, so I let him maneuver me to the far end of the reception desk.

  The couple, I guessed them to be somewhere around forty, give or take a few years, stood apart, several feet separating them. To the casual observer, they didn’t look like they were together or that they even knew each other. They didn’t make eye contact, or any contact for that matter. They didn’t chat or exchange flirty looks. In fact, they appeared to be studiously avoiding each other.

  The man looked ill at ease, antsy, as he shifted from one foot to the other. I guessed him to be a trifle over six feet since, with me in my sensible Ferragamos with their one-and-a-half-inch heels, we were eye to eye. Casual in his pressed jeans and open-collared shirt, he looked up as I approached. He had kind eyes and a corn-fed, middle-American wholesomeness.

  As we stopped in front of the two of them, Sergio motioned toward the woman and said, “This is Mrs. Jacobs.”

  Shorter than the man, but not by much, and dressed in a chic Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress and flats, the woman was long and lean, with black hair, penetrating onyx eyes, and porcelain skin.

  A quiet mirth sparkled in her eyes and the hint of a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth as she made a shushing sound, then said, “Myrna, please.”

  When I took her extended hand, the warmth of her skin surprised me.

  Sergio dropped his voice, adopting a conspiratorial whisper. “Right. My apologies.” He gestured toward the gentleman. “And this is Mr. Jacobs.”

  “Toby, please,” he said as he grasped my hand and pumped it up and down. “And we don’t know each other. I mean, I know I don’t know you…” He paused, flustered, as his cheeks reddened and he started over. “I was referring to this lady here.” He tilted his head toward the woman who I thought had just been introduced as his wife.

  We hadn’t even successfully navigated the how-do-you-dos and I was already at sea. Lately I’d been spending so much time behind the eight ball, I might as well hang out a shingle and call it home.

  Pausing, I blew at a lock of hair that tickled my eyes, hoping for an epiphany…or an explanation. When neither was forthcoming, I looked between the two of them then raised a questioning eyebrow at Sergio.

  He shrugged and grinned—so helpful.

  “I’m Lucky O’Toole,” I said to the couple, “part of the Customer Relations team here at the Babylon.” My face flushed when I realized I still clutched Mr. Jacobs’s hand. Trying not to call attention to that fact, I let him have it back. If I had breached protocol, he didn’t seem to care. “Welcome to our hotel. I take it, this isn’t your first stay with us?”

  “Oh, no,” Myrna said in a theatrical whisper. “We come here every year.”

  “But you don’t know each other?”

  “Not yet. We meet tonight for the first time.” Myrna glanced at her watch. “Oh, I have to hurry. They’re holding some things for me at the mall. You’ll have to excuse me.” She pecked her husband-who-she-had-yet-to-meet on the cheek. “Bye, honey.” Then she waggled her fingers at us as she stepped away and melted into the crowd.

  Toby seemed energized as well. “Gotta scoot. I need to make some…preparations.” He too melted into the crowd although I could see the top of his head as he moved toward the elevators.

  When I turned my attention back to Sergio, he pressed his lips together as if trying to stifle a laugh.

  “Am I the butt of a joke?” I asked.

  Sergio seemed aghast. “But Ms. O’Toole, I would never make you the butt.”

  “Trust me, I don’t need your help. I am able to do that all by myself with alarming regularity.” I thought I felt the glimmer of a smile tickle my lips, but I wasn’t sure.

  Sergio must’ve seen it as he relaxed a bit, the tension easing from his shoulders as his body settled into its normal insouciance. “I wanted you to meet them—to me they are…wonderful.”

  “Certifiable, if you ask me.”

  “Perhaps.” Sergio nodded, his dark eyes dancing. “But they have fun. Twice a year they come here together, then pretend to not know each other.”

  “A mutual time-out vacation?” I’d met plenty of folks who came to Vegas to take a respite from their marriages—a few even with their spouse’s blessing. But I’d never met a couple traveling together to cheat on each other. Sounded like a prelude to justifiable homicide. “A cheating trip,” I said, not sharing Sergio’s glee.

  “Exactly.” Sergio adopted a sage attitude. “But they don’t cheat on each other, they cheat with each other.”

  “Really?” This time I know I managed a smile as the pieces fell into place and it all made sense. Marriage therapy, Vegas-style. Once again love triumphs. Just the thought proved a strong antidote to an abysmal day, so I wallowed a bit. “They role-play—I like it. Do you know if their tastes include a French maid’s outfit? I’ve heard that can be fun—although, between you and me, I’d laugh myself silly. Somehow that would probably break the mood, don’t you think?” Captured by the visual, I glanced at Sergio.

  Momentarily struck dumb, he stared at me with owl eyes.

  “What?” I kept my face impassive. “You know what they say about all work and no play.”

  Sergio still couldn’t rally, which made me proud. Never one to gloat…much…I decided to let him down easy, especially since this wasn’t exactly the sort of professional repartee a corporate type should have
with the staff. Even in Sin City we had sexual harassment sensitivity training. However, I never understood whether it was something we were being taught to avoid or to do—lines blur somewhat in Vegas.

  “Sorry,” I lied. “Recently, I’ve developed this proclivity for oversharing.” Unfortunately, that last part wasn’t a lie. For some reason, I wasn’t as embarrassed as I should have been. Apparently my give-a-damn had gone AWOL. I wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but I didn’t seem to care.

  My front desk manager swallowed hard then continued, “Myrna buys trashy clothes and dresses as a...how should I say it?

  “A hooker?”

  He shot me a look. “If you wish to be crass, yes. She waits for him at Delilah’s. He picks her up. What happens from there…”

  “I can only imagine,” I groused, my fleeting frivolity crushed under the returning weight of reality. That was the problem: I could only imagine.

  Leave it to me to live in the Sex Capital of the Western Hemisphere and not be getting any.

  ***

  Apparently underwhelmed by my mood, Sergio left me there contemplating my nonexistent sex life. For a moment I was perplexed by the conundrum of ruminating on something that didn’t exist, then decided I was making a simplicity into a complexity—one of my better skills.

  That’s when Jerry appeared at my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “Come with me. You are so not going to like this.” Gripping my elbow, he held me close to his side as steered me toward the garage elevators.

  “Oh goody, a surprise.” I managed to choke out, but I swallowed the rest of my sarcasm when I turned and got a good look at his face.

  Dark circles half-mooned his bloodshot eyes. Like denim on a twenty-year-old, his skin stretched taut and tight over the frame of his face, bone and sinew barely concealed. Life was sucking him dry. To be honest, our days were filled with herding rattlesnakes. You never knew when the bite would come, but eventually it did—that final venomous sting of reality that would have us chucking it all for a flower stand on a beach in Tahiti. My bags were half packed, Jerry’s too, from the looks of him.