by Lynn Shurr
Cassie withdrew a notepad pad and pen from her small, kicky purse. “Let’s see.
What’s your last name, Billy?’
“Ruggles. I hope he’s mine.” The guard’s watery blue eyes, nestled in two deep pouches of flesh, lit with hope.
“Thank you. So, we have Benito Rizzo, Billy Ruggles, Lionel Lowe, and Chet Lovell as suspects. Where can we find your agent?”
“In his office tomorrow or hanging around the bus terminal handing out cards to possible clients fresh off the bus, but he usually slithers in after my last show hoping for a little free nooky—like I have the energy when I need to get over to the restaurant by six. Stick around if you really want to meet him. I’ll give him a heads up on the situation if you don’t. Chet’s son you can find at his place of business. The real estate market is crap in Vegas right now. Tell him you want to buy a house, and he’ll see you, no problem.”
“Thank you for your help, Ms. Coy.” Cassie closed the note pad and put it away. “We’ll set up a time for all the daddies to get their DNA test and let you know.”
“Yeah, I always wondered.”
Howdy, face ablaze, glared at Cassie. “What are you, my personal assistant? Maybe I don’t want to know. It’s bad enough finding out she’s my mother.”
He found a big, wrinkled fist thrust at his chest. “Don’t you talk to her that way. You should have seen Mariah when she first came here, all fresh and pretty, before Rizzo and Lowe got their hands on her. I had to protect her from lots of guys, but I couldn’t save her from them.” Billy Ruggles ran out of steam and lowered the fist as if it were too heavy to hold up much longer.
“Billy, you’ve always been my hero. Howie, I did right by you taking you back home. You grew up straight and tall like my daddy. I see him in you every move you make, every sentence you say without a single word of cussing. I don’t see how it matters who your father is because you turned out fine, really fine.” Mariah plucked a tissue from a box on the dressing table and dabbed at her eyes careful not to smudge her lavish makeup.
“The lawyer called me when Dad died, part of his instructions so I’d know, along with a letter saying he’d left the ranch and what little he had to you. I stayed away from the funeral. I kept my word, and I didn’t come running when you signed a big contract with the Sinners. My singing career is pretty much over. Benny lets me have this gig for old times’ sake, then I go to work at his cheap breakfast buffet to pay my house note. I have a little place of my own and live there alone. You may not be pleased by the mother you found, but I’m not asking anything of you either.”
Howdy nodded and walked out the door. Cassie said, “We’ll be back to meet Lionel and get this all cleared up.”
“No, we won’t.” Howdy’s voice sounded from the hall.
“Yes, we will. Interesting meeting you, Ms. Coy.”
Mariah pointed a long acrylic fingernail her way. “Right back at you, sweetheart.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Walking her dazed man up and down the dazzling Strip as if she were attempting to sober him up, Cassie kept up a constant chatter. She might as well have been saying, “Stay with me,” like EMTs did to patients who were bleeding out.
“Really, she’s not so bad. I admire how tough she became to survive in this town. She never once broke her word to your grandparents. She has the McCoy sense of honor, wouldn’t you say?”
Howdy declined to answer. She steered him into a bar, ordered a whiskey, neat, and held it to his lips until he swallowed.
“It burns all the way down,” he said.
She wasn’t sure if he referred to the liquor. “I favor Billy over Benny Rizzo for your father. I’ll bet he was an athlete in his youth, and you both have blue eyes. He seems like a nice guy and loves your mother.”
“My mother has blue eyes, or at least she did. But yeah, I’d take Billy over Benny any day if I had to choose a father. Except I don’t get a choice.”
“About time to go back to Nero’s Lounge and catch Mariah’s second set. We need to check out this Lionel Lowe.”
“I have the feeling I won’t like him any better than Rizzo.”
Cassie put on a happy face. “You won’t know until you meet him,” she said cheerfully, but the misery she’d caused him weighed her down like the sacks of coins most people traveled to Vegas to win. She’d told him she’d given up impetuous acts, but she had dragged him here without any preparation for what they might encounter. Now he knew his mother slept around, would have married a man for his money, might have aborted her son if it didn’t work out. She’d never be that blue-eyed sylph in the tutu for him again, a terrible loss. He bled from the soul if not from the heart.
She got him another whiskey and coaxed him to drink, then took him outside into the refreshingly chill desert night to pace some more. No sense in making him watch his mother prance around with her enormous boobs hanging out again. She got him back to the lounge as the aged trumpet player blew his first note.
Billy escorted them directly to Mariah’s dressing room. “He’s in there, Lionel Lowe. She always calls him Li, and it fits. How many times did he promise her a better career if her tits were bigger, her hair redder, her eyes greener like she had no talent to offer at all? She never smoked a butt or a joint, took a drink or slept with a man before he nabbed her. He picked her up by the side of the road when her old truck broke down just outside the city limits on her way from Oklahoma. Ruined her, ruined that pretty young thing with a voice like lark on a sunny morning. It’s gone now, that voice, all because of him.”
The guard rapped on the door harder than necessary. “Come,” Mariah answered, but Billy got in their way. “I want to say I don’t think Lowe is your father, Howie, because he’d only breed belly-dragging snakes like himself and you seem like decent guy.” He stepped aside and let them enter Mariah’s smoky domain.
Adding to the funky air in the small room with his own cigarette, the agent sat backwards in the only spare chair and leaned his arms across its top. Mariah, hairpiece discarded and lying on the table like a dead fox but still in her costume, removed her stage makeup with cold cream and wipes, each swipe adding the years back onto her face. Lionel Lowe had been watching her, but now his eyes, a muddy mix of green and brown, fastened on Howdy. A lean and hungry look is how Shakespeare would have described him, Cassie thought. His cheeks sunk in as he took a drag. Unlike Rizzo who might be dying his jet black hair, Lowe had allowed two silver wings to sprout over his ears and another to grown down the middle of his dark brown hair. Skunk came to mind, not angel.
“So you might be my kid. Always thought you belonged to that old geezer, Chet. But hey, I think this is great. Only now does Mariah shows me all those clippings about you she’s been hiding. You’re kinda famous. You got an agent?”
“A sports agent,” Howdy answered, his face gone blank.
“You turn out to be my son I could take you on, keep all that income in the family so to speak. Always wanted to try my hand at representing athletes, but it didn’t work out.”
“Because naive young women are easier to con,” his mother said.
“She’s always joking. I love that about the old gal. You tell me where and when for the DNA test, and I’m there. Here’s a card with my numbers.” Lowe held it out between forked fingers.
Howdy made no move to take it, but Cassie did. “I’ll try to get an appointment for late tomorrow afternoon if everyone can get there.”
Through the small crack left in the doorway, Billy answered, “I can come then.”
Lowe laughed like a jackass issuing several strong “hee-hees.” “You took so many steroids in days gone by, I doubt if you ever came. I’m amazed you haven’t died of testicular cancer by now.”
Billy slammed the door fully open and, pulling back his stooped shoulders, loomed over the chair where Lowe lounged. “Tell him that ain’t so, Mariah. You and me were good together.” The agent rose to face him, a slender reed compared to a gnarled oak.
&n
bsp; “You were a sweet lover, Billy. I hope the boy is yours.”
“See. She doesn’t want him to belong to you. You made her give the kid away. She cried in my arms one night right here in this room because of what you done.”
“Shut up, Billy. All of you, out of here. I need to change and get some shuteye before the breakfast shift. Leave and don’t come back until you get the results.” Mariah stared into her mirror and swiped hard at the makeup beneath her eyes.
Howdy moved across the small room in two quick strides. He bent and kissed her cleansed cheek. “Goodnight, Mama.”
If he expected a soft reply, he received none. “Is that hard liquor I smell on your breath, Howie McCoy? You know your grandma would not approve. Don’t you turn into a drunk on me now that we finally got together again.”
He straightened. “I won’t. I promise, and McCoys keep their promises.”
“Yes, yes they do. Now get out each and every one of you.”
Howdy slept in late the next day, though it wasn’t as if they’d torn up the sheets last night after returning from Mariah’s dressing room. He wasn’t in the mood, didn’t feel like it, wanted to be left alone. Cassie ordered room service and ate stuffed French toast topped with fresh strawberries along with her coffee while she organized the DNA test for four p.m. and informed Billy and Lionel about time and place. She did hope Howdy woke soon so they could track down his possible brother, Robson Lovell, and get him to attend as well.
He stirred in the suite’s bedroom. A shower blasted on and ran for a good long time. Finally, he appeared freshly shaven and wearing his usual cowboy gear. Cassie looked him over with a critical eye.
“Didn’t you bring any khakis or maybe a golf shirt?’
“Brian says this is my look. It’s the only one I brought along. I didn’t figure we’d be staying more than a few days. Exactly how much did you pack for a stay at the ranch?”
Cassie glanced down at her full-skirted dress with the blue floral print, little capped sleeves and modest scooped neckline. She wiggled her peach-painted toes in their white sandals. “Well, you’ve seen the size of my suitcase. I thought we might have to go to your church and this would be okay.”
He relented. “You do look pretty this morning, but nothing like last night.”
“I wasn’t pretty last night?”
“You were scary, sexy gorgeous last night, but I think I prefer pretty in the morning.”
That warmed her heart. She cut off a corner of the French toast she’d saved for him and impaled a small strawberry on top of it. Holding out the loaded fork, she said, “You have to try this. It’s amazing—bread stuffed with a cream cheese filling, then dipped into eggs and fried. So good with the strawberries.”
He pushed the fork away like a petulant toddler. “Not hungry. Got any coffee?”
“Yes, I made a fresh pot in the kitchenette while you showered. You’ll feel better if you eat. If I finish both pieces, I’ll put on five pounds before noon.” She wiggled the fork at him again.
“I said I do not want any!” he replied with each word cut into a small piece like the French toast.
“Champagne hangover? They’re the worst. I shouldn’t have made you drink those two shots afterward, but you seemed to need fortifying, and beer wasn’t going do it. How about if I order some dry toast and tomato juice for you?”
“I’m not hung over. My selection of daddies is making me sick to my stomach. Why don’t we just go over to Rizzo’s breakfast buffet and have my mom wait on us again?”
“If you want, but I’m stuffed. Besides, it’s nearly noon. I think they might be closed. I hoped we could find Robson Lovell and invite him to the DNA test party. See, I’m dressed like a newlywed looking for her first home. I guess she married a cowboy if that’s all you packed.”
“Cassie, I was being sarcastic.”
“No wonder I didn’t get it. Sarcasm is new for you. I don’t think I like sarcasm before noon.”
“Right now, I don’t much care what you like.” Howdy fixed his coffee, gulped it down, and poured another. Grudgingly, he pulled the plate holding the last of the berries and French toast toward him and ate for the energy he’d need to get through another miserable day in Vegas.
He’d barely swallowed the last bite when Cassie grabbed an elbow and steered him to the elevators and out into the glare of the noonday sun. The dancing waters of the Bellagio’s fountains made him wince. Maybe he did have a tad of a hangover, another first for him along with sarcasm. A dynamo of determination, Cassie already had the address and directions to the offices of Lovell Real Estate. Reluctantly, he drove his truck there to ruin Robson Lovell’s afternoon, too.
They got past the receptionist and into the owner’s domain because of another premier performance by Cassie. Hanging on Howdy’s arm, she gushed, “My boyfriend and I are thinking of settling in Las Vegas after we get married. He’s Howard McCoy, kicker for the New Orleans Sinners. We can live anywhere he wants in the off-season. I’d like something really nice and roomy. Could we deal with Mr. Lovell directly?”
Not trusting this news to the intercom, the motherly, middle-aged woman, wearing comfortable gray slacks topped with a silk blouse under the company’s red blazer, hustled down a long hall to the end office, rapped, and entered. She returned with alacrity.
“Mr. Lovell will see you immediately. He’s canceling his afternoon tee time for you.” She beamed as she delivered her message.
They walked along the corridor decorated with framed photos of fabulous estates both sold and still on the market. Robson Lovell met them at his door, escorted them inside like a well-trained butler, and offered seats in two deep red leather chairs facing his desk.
“Would you like something to drink, anything at all? I’ll have Linda bring it.”
“No, thank you, sir.” Howdy, uncomfortable in the well-padded seat, gripping the armrests like he might sink in too far, glanced around the office—at the half-paneled walls of light oak and matching desk, the shelves of golf and real estate trophies, photos of the agent with famous clients, the view of the desert beyond the large plate-glass window.
“Such a pleasure to meet you, young man. I am a huge Sinners fan. I think you’re going to help the team to another Super Bowl. I’ll put my money on that,” Lovell said with the easy way of the born salesman softening up the client with chitchat.
Finally, Howdy took a good look at the man, scanning for any family resemblance. Both were tall and blue-eyed, though Lovell wore stylish glasses, hiding his behind a slight tint in the lenses. Fortyish and graying, the real estate agent’s hairline receded deeply leaving only a small patch on his forehead, a little island holding out against an encroaching bald spot. He might once have been an athlete, but the beef had turned to lard and hung over the alligator belt cinching in a red golf shirt with another reptile emblazoned on the pocket. Noticing his patter fell flat, Robson Lovell turned to Cassie.
“I can imagine this stunning young lady sunning herself beside her very own pool with a built-in Jacuzzi and fire pots to illuminate nighttime parties. Wouldn’t she be superb in a setting like that?” He brought his vision back to Howdy.
“Actually, we don’t need a house. I have a ranch in Oklahoma and a condo in New Orleans.”
“A man of your stature can always use another place to relax. Maybe a penthouse. Vegas can offer whatever you want. Why, your quarterback, Joe Dean Billodeaux used to come here to unwind all the time. He got married right here.”
“Yes, I know.” Joe hadn’t been back since because Nell didn’t consider it a good place for children, but why bother to rub that in when Lovell was about to hear worse news. “Do you recall your father dating a woman named Mariah Coy?”
“I could hardly forget. Being twenty-one at the time, we were close to the same age, decades closer than my father. I had a little crush on her, you could say. I thought she’d be Dad’s fourth wife, but his golf game got the best of him. One good tantrum after a bogey, and he
dropped dead on the green just like that.” Lovell snapped his fingers, obviously not suffering from years of mourning for his daddy.
“I finished my business degree and took over the company. Those were the days, yes, they were.” Lovell steepled his fingers as if imagining skyscrapers rising from the desert soil, all of them paying off in huge commissions for land. “Hard times now, but we’ve branched out into billboards and signage. Las Vegas always needs billboards. Lovell Real Estate is doing fine. You can put your trust in us if you are looking for an investment.”
“No, I came here looking for my mother, Mariah Coy, not an investment.”
“Well then,” Lovell sighed in disappointment. “She went away after Dad’s death. The ex-wives weren’t about to share the wealth any more than they had to. Dad followed a pattern, you might say. He kept each wife around ten years, then traded them in for younger, bustier models. Had a child by each one. I’ve got two half-sisters. He left me the business and my sisters other assets, mostly cash and stocks. Old Chet always said not a one of his ex-wives would remarry as long as they could continue to soak him for alimony. Maybe Mariah went on to better things. She had talent. In fact, I heard she’s singing again in one of the places downtown. I should look her up. I’m divorced myself, maybe…”
“Mariah was pregnant with me when your father died. He paid for her hospital expenses in advance and did intend to marry her. She says I might be your half-brother.” Howdy stood, preparing for outrage, anger or insult, but that is not what he got. Instead, Lovell’s face lit with elation.
“I always wanted a brother instead of those two harpy sisters, gold diggers exactly like their mothers. My brother is Howdy McCoy, ace kicker for the Sinners. How great is that! I played a little football in college myself. Must run in the genes.” Lovell sucked in his gut and pushed out of his chair.
Before Howdy could prepare for the onslaught, his maybe brother surged around the desk and embraced him in a comradely hug. “Bro!” Robson Lovell said. The unexpected contact dried the spit in Howdy’s mouth and prevented the rest of the story from passing through his lips.