Lucky Bastard

by Deborah Coonts

  “Lucky,” he began. “I’ve been practicing this over and over, rewriting it in my head, trying to find the words. Finally, I realized, words are inadequate. Anything I say will fall so far short of what I feel. But, words are all I have.”

  He paused. I could hear music in the background. I had no idea where he was, but he lived life to an accompanying soundtrack, subtle background music to set the mood. Perhaps that assessment was a bit unfair, but I wasn’t in a magnanimous mood. Sue me.

  “When I left, I thought I was doing us both a favor.” He sounded like a lawyer for the accused pleading his case in summation.

  My heart fell. Great. So, this was my fault. Somehow I’d had a feeling he’d lay the blame—no, not the blame…the justification…at my feet.

  “No,” his voice interrupted my pity party. “Lucky, don’t go there. You know it’s not what I meant. This one is all on me.”

  Apparently I was as easy to read as a billboard—even from half a world away. That gave him quite an advantage. But, he wasn’t the only clairvoyant…I had seen the end from the beginning. I’d warned him about spiking the cauldron of friendship with 200-proof love—a potent punch that would leave us with nothing but a headache…and a heartache.

  “But,” Teddie continued, “I convinced myself that cutting you loose would be the best thing. Then I could let go of the guilt. It didn’t work out the way I’d planned.”

  The games we play. The lengths we’ll go to justify really bad behavior.

  “I told you so!” I threw the verbal dart into the darkness, but this was a one-sided conversation—he didn’t hear it. Of course, if I had the nerve to pick up the phone, which I didn’t, I could tell him myself. I just didn’t see the point—we’d worn a path through this ground before.

  “You always told me, like the young woman who tried to leave Shangri-la, you’d die before you hit the city limits of Las Vegas. Point taken—your life is there. You were always honest about that. And you were honest about wanting a man to come home to every night.”

  Yes, I’d wanted all of that. And, while we were dreaming, some of his mother’s coconut oatmeal raisin cookies wouldn’t be bad either.

  For a moment I had had that—life with Teddie, even the cookies. Life had been perfect. In retrospect, a lie, but a perfect lie. Tired of fighting the memories, I relinquished myself to them: I could feel his arms around me, and remembered lying awake in the dark listening to him breathe, comforted and content—a Norman Rockwell picture of the past.

  “I thought I could be that man, writing my music. But I forgot what it was like to be in front of a crowd, feeding off their energy. Man, it’s electric, intoxicating.” He sighed. “And I chose.”

  Open and raw, I was no match to fight off those memories either. The pain flared as his words, his callousness, assaulted me once again. He’d come home unexpectedly—one last fuck before saying good-bye. Pig.

  “They say you never really appreciate what you have until you’ve lost it.”

  Christ, the guy should be with Miss P—they could share a lifetime trading platitudes.

  “I know that’s one of those corny things you hate.” He chuckled, presumably at a memory. “What is it you say? Platitudes are lies the world wants you to believe? I think that’s it.”

  I took another long drink, then closed my eyes and rested my head on the back of the chair. The guy got me. I used to love that about him, now I resented it. This would be so much easier if I could work myself up to hating him, but I couldn’t.

  “Anyway, I have no idea whether you will ever hear these words, but I had to say them.”

  He sounded so sad, and sincere. Fuck.

  “For a smart guy, I can be incredibly stupid.” He took a deep breath.

  I could picture him running his hand through his hair making it stick out in all different directions, his blue eyes dark with emotion, wearing his Harvard sweatshirt with the collar cut out—the one I used to sleep in when he wasn’t home. Home. Something twisted in my gut.

  “And here’s the kicker.” His voice caught. “I thought performing was my calling, food for my soul—all that I would need. I was wrong.”

  A tear trickled down my cheek. I didn’t wipe it away.

  “I knew it the minute I left. I’ve spent the last couple of months trying to run from the truth, but I can’t. Lucky, you are my tether. Without you I am adrift, at the mercy of the tides of life, lost. You are the words to my melody. You give me meaning.”

  I took a ragged breath and drained the last of my drink in one gulp, then slammed the glass on the desk.

  “I love you,” Teddie said. He’d always said it so easily while I had stumbled over the words. “I need you more than you can imagine. And I am so very sorry I hurt you. I pray that someday you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  Forgiveness. There was that word again.

  “You know my parents; stupidity runs in the family. Let me back in, Lucky. Please. I won’t hurt you. Not this time. That I promise.”

  He’d promised that the first time.

  The line went dead. The machine beeped. The message was complete.

  Men. Can’t live with them, can’t shoot them with a gun. Well, today had proven that sometimes you can, but that wasn’t in the cards for Teddie. What had the Big Boss said? The man worth having would never make you cry?

  As emotion overwhelmed me, I buried my face in my hands, fighting it. But I didn’t have any fight left. Relinquishing myself to the tears, I cried. For me. For Teddie. For what we’d had, for what we had lost, and for what we would never have again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Like a diver struggling to reach the surface, I swam toward the light, pushing the darkness away. Slowly, awareness returned. For a moment I didn’t know where I was—drop cloth, shrouded furniture, all illuminated by light filtering in from the room beyond. A hole in the wall. A single lightbulb on a cord.

  My office.

  What was I doing here? Apparently I had fallen asleep on the couch. Tentatively I moved, stretching first one arm, then the other. Man, I was too old for this. My joints creaked in protest. My neck would punish me with a headache later.

  In the windowless, eternal half-light, I had no idea what time it was. I pushed myself to a seated position; I didn’t dare stand until the feeling returned to my left foot. Groping for my phone, I found it firmly affixed to my hip and tugged at it. I didn’t remember putting it back in its holster, but I must have. When it came free, I held it up and squinted at it.

  Seven a.m. One hour to pull myself together, find my car and meet Jeremy for breakfast halfway across town—piece of cake.

  After far too long under the assault of a seriously hot shower, some of the kinks in my muscles loosened. A few more minutes and I’d be able to turn my head fully in each direction—a small thing, but right now I’d take all the positives I could find. Murders awaited and I needed to stoke my fortitude—however one did that. I was making it up as I went.

  “Lucky? Are you in here?”

  The familiar voice put a smile on my heart. “In here.”

  “Fuck.” Flash let loose the epithet as she collided with something solid. “What the hell are you doing taking a shower in your office? You have a perfectly wonderful one upstairs. I’ve been looking for you all over. Are you hiding from someone?”

  Reluctantly, I killed the water. After wrapping a towel around myself, then squeezing the water from my hair, I stepped out of the shower. Steam filled the small bathroom and I could just make out the filmy visage of my good friend peering through the doorway. “Yeah, I’m hiding from myself.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Not so good. I seem to know all my best hiding places.” With a hand towel I wiped the fog from the mirror. “Apparently so do you.”

  “If I admitted how long it has taken to find you, my rep as an investigative reporter would go down the crapper.” Flash moved into the small room, lowered the cover on the toilet, and too
k her position on the throne.

  Flash and I went way back—if she wasn’t my best friend (and I suspected she was), then she was my longest running friendship. We’d met while attending UNLV back before the earth was cool when each day had held the promise of untold adventures. Of course, being who we are, we’d found a few. I’d kept us out of jail and Flash, who was known then as Fredericka Gordon (“Flash” was pinned on her after an interesting night with a busload of NBA players), kept our names and photographs out of the paper and off the eleven o’clock news. We’d been watching each other’s backs ever since.

  From the looks of her, Flash was in total man-killer mode today. Like lava from Vesuvius, her bright red hair erupted from the top of her head in a cascade of unruly curls. And she was dolled up—from her war paint to her six-inch heels, which still put her barely a few inches over five feet. Her double Denvers threatened to explode out of a threadbare tee shirt advertising the last tour of the Grateful Dead. I knew where she’d gotten that—hidden under Miss P’s Iowa exterior lurked a die-hard Dead Head who still refused to tell me whether she had really slept with Jerry Garcia.

  Flash could’ve bought the Lycra mini at any hooker emporium on Trop. Her pink nails, diamond loops and Chanel J12 encrusted in diamonds added a touch of class—not nearly enough, but a touch, and that made me suspicious.

  “Where are you headed looking like that? Or are you on your way home?” I leaned into the mirror to examine my refection. Bad idea.

  “Today’s a shopping day.” Flash crossed her legs and leaned back, her elbows resting on the top of the toilet tank. The limitations of physics made it impossible for her to cross her arms across her chest. “Starbucks, nine a.m.”

  “I may not be fashion-forward, but shopping at Starbucks?”

  “I made it to the go-see. My first time ever.” Even though she seemed to be using a dead language or something, she looked pleased.

  “Is the appropriate response, ‘good for you’? I’m a bit unclear.” I let the towel fall to the floor—I never could keep the damned things up anyway—and I began applying my mask for the day.

  “Lucky, you can’t be serious.” Flash looked at me with amusement and pity—her normal expression when dealing with me, so I didn’t take it personally. “Online dating? Hello?”

  “But of course. How silly of me.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never tried it.” Flash actually sounded serious. I opened my mouth to fire off a brilliant retort, but Flash stopped me with a raised hand. “I forgot, it’s you I’m talking about, Miss All-Work-and-No-Play.”

  “Should I ask what a ‘go-see’ is, or would I be shocked?”

  That got a howl out of Flash—she had a great, bawdy laugh—sexy with a hint of naughty—that men loved. “It’s not what you think. I’m meeting a guy for coffee. Up to now we’ve just exchanged e-mails.”

  “And exaggerated profiles.”

  Flash looked at me with big eyes. “Why do men do that?”

  “Same reason they buy sports cars they have to squeeze into.”

  “Compensating.” Flash nodded sagely. “Well, I hope this guy is real.”

  “I’m sure he’s real, the question is a real what?”

  “He might even be The One.” Flash said it with the reverence of a true believer contemplating the Second Coming.

  “Please,” I snorted. “To you, fishing for men is strictly catch and release.”

  She let loose another of those infectious laughs. This time I laughed with her. It felt good to laugh—until I almost blinded my right eye with the mascara wand. “Damn. I feel as phony as a kid playing dress up.”

  “If you pretend long enough, it becomes real.”

  I didn’t ask my friend to elaborate on what was a very profound observation, fecund with meaning. Although Flash was bimbo on the outside, she was a curious combination of Einstein and Freud on the inside. I wasn’t sure I could handle her full explanation—not today.

  “So, not that I’m not thrilled to share my bathroom with you, but to what do I owe the honor?” A little lipstick in a subtle gloss of pink, smoky gray on my eyelids, and I was done.

  “I got my marching orders from Miss P on the Shady Slim Grady story. Another byline thanks to you—above the fold even. He was a bit of a Vegas creation, you know. I think you’ll be pleased with how I handled it.”

  “With a deft touch, I’m sure.” I opened the folding door to my closet and perused my emergency wardrobe. Not much to choose from—too many recent emergencies, too little recovery time. “The Big Boss will be pleased.”

  “I figure we’re even.” Flash moved to stand next to me. She reached in and extracted two hangers, which she thrust at me. “Here, you need some attitude today, I can see it in your eyes.”

  A hot pink boat-necked sweater that sagged seductively off one shoulder and a pair of silver satin pencil-leg pants. I raised an eyebrow at her. “The knock-me-down-and-fuck-me Jimmy Choos and pink lace bra and undies?”

  “You rock that and the world is yours.”

  “That might be overstating, but I’m never one to turn my back on unbridled optimism.” I set to work putting the outer me together. The inner me was what it was and I didn’t think anything as simple as kick-ass lingerie would fix it.

  When I’d finished, I turned to my friend, who nodded her approval. “Okay, we’ve gone through the niceties, why are you really here?” I raised my hand before Flash could jump in. “Wait, let me guess. You want the skinny on one dead girl on a Ferrari.”

  Flash’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is that not the best?”

  I turned and walked out of the bathroom and went in search of the Jimmy Choos. “Perspectives probably differ on that.”

  Flash seemed not to have heard as she followed me into my office then deposited her ample backside in one of the chairs in front of my desk. “I mean, what a way to go. If it’d been me, the only thing that would’ve made it better was if I’d spent my last hours fucking Hugh Jackman.”

  Words failed me as I stared at my friend, so I leaned down and dug through the bottom desk drawer—the last place I’d seen those shoes. I saw a glint of silver. Hooking my finger around a strap, I pulled. One shoe came free. I held it up in victory as I fished for the other. “We all have our little fantasies. Frankly, yours scare the hell out of me.”

  “Poo,” she waved her hand as if shooing away a fly. “But I’m getting off topic. What can you tell me?”

  When I didn’t respond immediately, she leaned forward and snapped her fingers in my face. “Come on. Dead girl. Ferrari. Hello?”

  Shoes in hand, I resurfaced. With numerous straps and buckles, the shoes would take me a while. I might as well use the time to fill her in. What could it hurt? If she took the story and ran with it, maybe, just maybe, it might make somebody nervous. Nervous enough to show their hand. “I got twenty minutes and it’s a heck of a story, so listen and listen good.”

  ***

  Ten minutes by Ferrari, Jamm’s Restaurant lurked half hidden in a strip mall on Rainbow just south of the 95. Traffic was light and I let the horses run while my thoughts struggled to keep up. After all these years I should have known better than to tackle Flash before being fully caffeinated. After a nonstop grilling, I felt like a run-out racehorse, put away wet—tired, stiff, and in need of a good meal.

  Flash, on the other hand, had bolted out of my office like the race favorite with the bit in her teeth, leaving me not only choking on dust but with the distinct impression that she liked Dane even more now that he had a wife. Dr. Donner, the chief coconut–cracker we kept on retainer to try to keep our entertainers on the functional side of crazy, would have a field day with her. Of course, I’m sure he’d love to crack my nut as well, but that would never happen. I wasn’t convinced that crazy wasn’t a good way to go.

  Self-delusion: a sugar coating on the bitter pill of reality.

  Flash was my sister from another mother, but her observations and choices us
ually left me praying someone would throw me a rope. Today was no exception.

  Jeremy’s black Hummer squatted in a space at the back of the parking lot—two spaces, actually. Wheeling in beside him, I angled the Ferrari across another two spaces and killed the engine. As I climbed out and shut the door, I paused, running my hand over the smooth metal. There was something about a fine sports car—a precision instrument designed to assault the highways, delivering the escape of an all-consuming task. A few minutes behind the wheel of the Ferrari lightened my load. Someday, I’d point that car toward points unknown and never look back.

  Today wasn’t that day, so I parked that dream and turned to the task at hand. Kathy waved to me as I pushed through the door. “He’s in the booth by the window—Sandy’s section. Shirley’s off today.”

  Sandy apparently had seen me walk in. A tall, thin woman with a ready smile and long strawberry-blond hair pulled back into a tail arrived at the booth the same time I did with a cup of steaming coffee in her hand. “You want your usual scramble and pot of cinnamon bread?” she asked as she set the mug on the table.

  “I am a creature of habit. Eggs, bacon, spinach, and mushrooms.” I slid in across from Jeremy and began sweetening and whitening the dark witch’s brew. “And keep the coffee coming, I’m running from the back of the pack this morning.”

  “You got it. Jeremy, what’ll it be?”

  “Bangers and mash?”

  “Honey, the cook would have a coronary—you know what they say about English food. How about a nice American heart attack on a plate? Chicken fried steak, perhaps?”

  Jeremy looked a little ruffled—so unlike him. He pushed the menu toward her without opening it. “A couple of eggs, over any way the cook wants to make them. And a ham steak.”

  “The boy’s off his feed,” Sandy said, turning to me, then she bounded away to greet another table full of new friends.

  “She’s right.” I took a test sip of my coffee, then added more milk. They brought it to the table warm—one of those little details that kept me coming back along with half of Vegas. “Any leads on the red contact lenses?”