Lucky Catch

by Deborah Coonts

  “Of course.” I put my head back on his shoulder. “How could you have known?”

  “Okay.” Romeo stepped in. “I buy Fiona, the truffle thing, and Peccorino, but why Gregor?”

  “That’s easy,” Jeremy stepped in. He gave me a glance. “Allow me?”

  “The floor is yours.”

  “He made too much of a stink. He wouldn’t let the truffle thing go. He filed an insurance claim, thereby triggering another investigation—the insurance blokes would never pay that kind of money without their own investigator looking into the theft.”

  “And Chitza couldn’t risk someone else poking around. Her deception was wearing thin, anyway.”

  “And he made a good patsy. But I also suspect, though I can’t prove it yet, that she lent him the money to buy the truffle, knowing Fiona and Adone wouldn’t be able to resist taking it, leaving Jean-Charles in a very public predicament,” I said, and gave Jean-Charles a look. “But you were working with Homeland Security all along, weren’t you?”

  “Not at first. Then I was more under suspicion. And the police, I am not too sure how they will react if they have the chips. I didn’t trust them, but I knew some answers were there. That’s why I had to get Chantal to help . . . to get the chips in your hands. Once there, I knew they’d get to Homeland Security or the police, you would know what to do. We were able to triangulate this location, once we got past Mr. Peccorino’s lock.”

  I looked at Jean-Charles for a moment and then asked the last question I was pretty sure I knew the answer to. “And the original truffle?”

  He gave me one of his patented Gallic shrugs. “Under lock and key.”

  “It never left your walk-in, did it?”

  “Non.”

  We stepped to one side to let a phalanx of Metro officers through. Romeo peeled off, joining them. My story was done—the rest was up to the white hats to prove.

  But, there’d be no more murders tonight.

  “Shoot.” I slid to a stop, jerking Jean-Charles to a stop as well. The men behind us managed to avoid a collision, but I don’t know how. “What time is it?”

  “Sevenish. A bit after.” Jeremy looked at me liked I’d lost it. “Why?”

  “There’ll be one more murder if I don’t get to Drink and Drag in a hurry.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Ferrari turned heads even in Vegas. Even in downtown Vegas under the canopy of lights on Fremont Street.

  With minutes to spare—the traffic had been as thick as one of the shakes at Heart Attack Grill—I slid to a stop in front of Neonopolis, a previously ill-advised commercial real estate project that was undergoing a resurgence. A surprised valet leaped out of the way.

  “What a wuss,” I remarked to Jean-Charles, who still held on to the handhold with a white-knuckled grip. “I would’ve missed him by a couple of inches, at least.”

  Opening the door, I unfolded myself from the car. For a moment, I thought Jean-Charles would remain, transfixed by fear, and I’d have to pry his fingers from the grip. But he followed me out of the car. Crisis averted.

  I tossed the valet the keys with a smile. “Keep it out front, okay?” I didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, with Jean-Charles on my heels, I bolted for the stairs.

  Some sort of evangelical spiritual thing was going on in the courtyard, which somehow seemed appropriate. Everybody could find what they were looking for in Vegas—the trick was knowing where to look.

  Drink and Drag was up three flights of stairs on the top floor.

  On the brink of apoplexy at the top of the stairs, I smiled at the lady at the door. “Hey, Julius, how’re they hangin’?”

  “Tucked tight, Lucky.” With long, black hair, unmarred olive skin, and eyes that tilted up at the corners, in her white tank top and tiny short-shorts, she was the envy of females far and wide. But she wasn’t . . . female, that is. “Her” name was Julius Green and he held a management position at one of the larger Strip properties.

  I shot Julius an appreciative glance. “Tucked tight? So I see. What I would do to have your ass.”

  “Honey, you can have my ass anytime.” Julius gave me a provocative waggle of his perfectly plucked and arched eyebrows. “And any other body part you might find intriguing.”

  Unsure of the appropriate response, I laughed. Safer that way. A man whose manhood was not compromised by wearing women’s clothing had none of the familiar inhibitions. I didn’t see any upside in testing the boundaries.

  “You two be safe in there—the place is jammed with all manner of nasties.” Julius shot me a beatific smile.

  He waved us inside, past the sign that said closed for a political private party. Yes, Mona was holding what I surmised just might be the very first fundraiser at a drag venue. And, going with my whole everyone-has-a-place-in-Vegas philosophy, this seemed appropriate, too.

  Vegas not only tolerated nonconformists, we welcomed them with open arms. Considering my lineage, I thought that a good thing.

  Pushing my way into the darkness, I realized just how right Julius was. People, in every sort of dress-up and dress-down, packed the large space. Spotlights highlighted young men in very brief boxer briefs dancing on several raised platforms dividing the area to the right. Clusters gathered at each platform like supplicants bowing to a god. The thirsty gathered three-deep around the U-shaped bar. The bartenders were either dancers awaiting their turn under the lights, or men in drag, slender, beautiful . . . feminine, prettier women than most of us born with our plumbing on the inside.

  As I scanned the crowd looking for my parents, I realized I had lost Jean-Charles—he had not followed me. Across the crowd, I saw he was still deep in conversation with Julius. Backtracking, I grabbed his hand. “I’m sorry, Julius, for dragging him away. Pun intended.”

  Julius groaned, which made me proud. “Honey, you need to work on your material. But your guy here is a hottie.” He gave Jean-Charles a lascivious look. “And that accent! You better watch him inside.” While most drag queens weren’t gay, they just liked wearing women’s clothing, Drink and Drag welcomed one and all, so Julius’s warning was not to be ignored. However, I felt sure Jean-Charles didn’t need my protection.

  I pulled my chef’s hand. “Come on, the show’s about to start. And if I’m to live to see tomorrow, I better make my presence known to my mother.” I raised my voice to be heard over the music booming from the rear of the space where the dance floor was open to any and all—even those of us not dressed only in underwear. Of course, if patrons stripped down to their skivvies, they could bowl for free in the bowling alley along the far wall, to the left of the bar.

  This place was such a metaphor for Vegas: if you couldn’t find something to suit your fancy, then . . . well, you were to be pitied.

  Hand in hand, as we wormed our way through the throng toward the front, my normal height advantage dwindled to none. Me in flats in a sea of men wearing five-inch stilettos had me feeling positively Lilliputian. Okay, overstatement—but I felt normal. For a moment, considering the crowd, I wondered what feeling normal here meant, but I really didn’t think I should overthink it. So I went with it—sort of like accepting that, in Vegas, the land of tiny blond women, I had to shop for clothing in the transvestite section—they had my size, but finding my style was problematic. One of life’s little challenges.

  Tonight, the challenge was proving to be a bit larger. The people were packed in like cattle off to the processing plant—an uncomfortable analogy that was probably more appropriate than I liked. Mona, the Pied Piper of Las Vegas. She crooked her finger, and we all did her bidding. Too bad that wasn’t part of the gene sequence she contributed to my DNA. She’d be up front, near the narrow raised walkway used as a stage between the bar and the bowling alley.

  We’d made it halfway when the few lights dimmed, and the dancers stopped and jumped down from their platforms as the intro to “Coming Out” blared through the speakers.

  “Hurry,” I shouted to Jean-Charles as I
tugged on his hand. We arrived at my mother’s side as Teddie and Jordan sashayed onto the stage. Teddie scanned the crowd. Catching my eye, he gave me a look that was easy to read. Warm, inviting, a shy smile.

  My heart tripped.

  Mona reached over and squeezed my hand as wolf whistles and cheers greeted our performers. She was decked out in the only thing that still fit—a flowing white peasant skirt and a large pink caftan—her jewels, and a look of peace and joy that was transcendent. My father, casual in pleated slacks and a button-down, leaned around his wife and gave me a thumbs-up.

  Our performers, in full makeup, styled coiffures, jewelry gaudy enough to make Elizabeth Taylor drool, and beaded gowns—Teddie’s was his Cher dress, an off-the-shoulder, silver-sequined sheath with an indecent slit up one side—bowed low, as the crowd went wild. I glanced around. Everyone knew Teddie—I could see they were happy to have him home and back in a dress—personally, I had mixed emotions about the dress part.

  As recognition dawned that Teddie’s partner was none other than Jordan Marsh, the place erupted. Joining in, I gave Jean-Charles a wicked grin, then stuck my two little fingers in my mouth and whistled as loud as I could.

  His reaction to the show was a bit less enthusiastic. “Is that the man who used to be your lover?” he shouted in my ear. “The one who made the ass of himself in my kitchen?”

  I shrugged and nodded.

  Jean-Charles turned back to the show with renewed interest. I wondered what was going through his head, but I figured it really wasn’t my business. Life would be what it would be. I needed to let go and let it happen.

  I turned back to the show. Teddie and Jordan were a great team—the Dream Team of Female Impersonation, God help them both. And God help me—I had to negotiate the deal to bring Teddie back to the Babylon and to convince Jordan to join him. What a coup that would be! And after tonight, I had a feeling their price just skyrocketed. Ah, the thrill of the chase! I could pull it off, I knew I could . . . and wouldn’t it be fun?

  Bucked with life. Cheering and laughing from the sheer joy of being alive, I hooked my arm through Jean-Charles’s—I’d been doing that a lot this evening. He squeezed my hand, and his smile warmed my heart.

  Turning to my mother, I gave her a grin. But the stricken look on her face froze the blood in my veins.

  “What?” I mouthed to her.

  Her eyes as big as saucers, she looked down.

  I followed her gaze.

  A pool of liquid between her feet.

  I looked up into her eyes, realization dawning.

  She held her belly with both hands and smiled. “The babies are coming.”

  A NEW BEGINNING

  Also by Deborah Coonts

  Lucky Now And Then

  Also by Deborah Coonts

  Wanna Get Lucky?

  "Paints a dead-on portrait of Las Vegas that is somehow dark, outrageous, and hilarious at the same time. Lucky O’Toole is wise, witty, and brimming with cheery cynicism. Wanna Get Lucky? goes down faster than an ice-cold Bombay martini—very dry, of course, and with a twist." --Douglas Preston, New York Times bestselling author of Blasphemy

  Lucky Stiff

  Amid the chaos of fight weekend, the hiring of an eccentric new French chef, and her madam mother's intentions to auction off a young woman’s virginity, Lucky is drawn into a deadly game where no one is what they seem, a game that will end only when she discovers who made fish-food out of Numbers Neidermeyer.

  Lucky O’Toole and Fabulous Las Vegas—life doesn’t get any better.

  So Damn Lucky

  "Lucky’s latest lark brims with the over-the-top ridiculousness that I love about Vegas. Fans of the series will fall in love all over again, and new readers will look forward to her next escapade."

  --Publishers Weekly on So Damn Lucky

  Lucky Bastard

  Lucky O’Toole, the newly promoted vice president of Customer Relations for the Babylon, Las Vegas's primo Strip property, has never met a problem she couldn't handle. But when a young woman is found dead, sprawled across the hood of a new, bright red Ferrari California in the Babylon's on-site dealership, a Jimmy Choo stiletto stuck in her carotid, Lucky's skills are maxed out.

  NOVELLAS

  Lucky in Love

  Lucky O’Toole, the vice president of Customer Relations for the Babylon, one of Las Vegas’s most over-the-top strip properties, is seriously regretting booking a reality television show, The Forever Game, in the hotel’s small theater.

  Lucky Bang

  Missing dynamite, an old grudge, and whispers from the past, force Lucky to delve into dark secrets best left alone. And when her father disappears, things become personal.

  About the Author

  My mother tells me I was born a very long time ago, but I’m not so sure—my mother can’t be trusted. These things I do know: I was raised in Texas on barbeque, Mexican food and beer. I currently reside in Las Vegas, where my friends assure me I cannot get into too much trouble. Silly people. I am the author of WANNA GET LUCKY? (A NY Times Notable Crime Novel for 2010 and double RITA™ Finalist), LUCKY STIFF, SO DAMN LUCKY (a national bestseller), LUCKY BASTARD and four digital novellas, LUCKY IN LOVE, LUCKY BANG and LUCKY NOW AND THEN, Parts One and Two. The fifth novel in the series, LUCKY CATCH, is coming in July. I can usually be found at the bar, but also at www.deborahcoonts.com.

  Acknowledgements

  Like the shifting sands of the Mojave, the publishing business is changing by the hour. So too the experience of bringing a story to market. Yet, amid all of this confusion, the act of infusing life into a story remains one of the heart, unchanged, constant.

  And the people who populate my world, who love me in spite of myself, who support, encourage, commiserate, inspire, who critique, brainstorm and applaud and who buy wine … they remain the bedrock upon which I find the courage and the fortitude to keep writing these stories. The mention they receive here can’t possibly compensate for all they do, all they give, but perhaps it’s a start.

  A heartfelt thank you to:

  My kids: TYLER and LISA COONTS. They remind me everyday that no matter how the stories do, or don’t do, life is perfect. Being a mom—there is nothing better. Being their mom is heaven on earth.

  My writer friends: BARB NICKLESS, MARIA FAULCONER, NANCY MARTIN, ALLISON BRENNAN, DIANE MOTT DAVIDSON, PIERRE O’ROURKE. You make me laugh, you hold my hand, you kick my ass, and because of each of you, I am a better writer and a better person.

  JERRY LAMBERT: For your smile, your sincere friendship, and for pimping my books out to everyone you know… and for the great hair cuts

  SCOTT LARGENT: For your calm kindness and warm heart. And for insight into the commercial cooking world. If I got things wrong, it’s not your fault…it’s mine entirely. And remember, this whole adventure began with the smoking gun… that part is your fault.

  ALEX RAMSEY: You inspire me. You challenge me. You are always there. No one can ask for more. I am blessed.

  JEN TALTY: For all the hard work and brilliance. For making my books better. For showing me the way. You’ve restored my hope in the future of storytelling. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for working with me, for caring so much.

  BOB MAYER: For charting your own course in the publishing business, then for shining the light, illuminating the path ahead, and for allowing the rest of us to follow your lead. Thank you (and JEN TALTY) for accepting me into the COOL GUS PUBLISHING fold. I’m am thrilled to be a part of the future of publishing and am honored to be a member of such a great team.

  And, finally, and very importantly, to BOB GARDERE, you are the missing piece that fills the hole in my heart.

  Copyright

  http://coolgus.com

  Copyright © 2014 Deborah Coonts

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance of fictional characters to actual persons living or dead, bu
siness establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author and publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Books may be purchased for educational, business, or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Jennifer Talty at Cool Gus Publishing 585-703-5969 or contact us at www.coolgus.com.

  ISBN-13: 978-1500194529 (library edition)

  ISBN 978-162125828 (trade paperback edition)

  ISBN 978-162125811 (digital edition)