Lucky Stiff (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 2)

by Deborah Coonts

  Miss Patterson, my co-conspirator, shook her head. “Not yet.”

  I rose and rooted around in my closet. Dinner at the Big Boss’s required more than tattered jeans and Teddie’s sweatshirt. Several outfits covered in plastic hung in the very back—this wasn’t the first time I’d found myself short on time and in need of an appropriate costume. “Heard anything out of Mr. Padilla’s camp?”

  “Not a word. For a big-time fighter he has the smallest entourage I’ve ever seen. And they don’t ask for anything.” Miss Patterson finally settled back in the chair. “The staff really likes him. He doesn’t gamble, he doesn’t drink, he’s approachable and friendly, and he tips big. I heard the employees were thinking of adopting him.”

  “An interesting idea, but I don’t think it’s possible.” When she was looking the other way, I snuck a peek at Miss Patterson. Worry still lurked under that brave face she wore. “What about hiring him to teach our other important guests how to behave?”

  “You have anyone specific in mind?”

  “The whole Hollywood crowd for starters,” I said. “You’d think etiquette and class died with Fred Astaire.”

  “Frankly, I don’t think Mr. Padilla wants to leave,” Miss P noted.

  Tiny Tortilla Padilla had been in residence in the Kasbah, our high-roller apartments, for a month now. I’d checked on him a couple of times, but he was amazingly maintenance-free.

  “With a staff-to-guest ratio of five to one, I can understand his reluctance to return to the real world.” I ducked into Miss Patterson’s vestibule, then stepped behind the partition separating it from a miniscule kitchen area. My office had a wall of windows overlooking the lobby—I’m not shy, but I draw the line at stripping for the guests. “Doesn’t he have a bunch of kids?” I raised my voice so it would carry to my office.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Somebody ought to tell him what causes that,” I said, but didn’t get even a chuckle from my audience of one.

  Keeping in mind I would be calling on Aunt Matilda after dinner, I chose a pair of tight suede pencil pants in a muted shade of olive, a silk tunic in peach and gold cut to the very edge of decency, and strappy, gold knock-me-down-and-fuck-me shoes.

  Miss Patterson was suitably impressed when I reappeared. “Wow. What’s the occasion? You and Teddie going partying at Babel?”

  “I wish.” Babel was our new lounge. Technically it had been open for six weeks, working out the kinks. Don’t even ask me how much of a problem the clear retractable cover for the pool had been. Finally we had given up and turned the pool into a giant aquarium with a permanent clear cover that served as our dance floor. We’d stocked the thing with all manner of flesh-eating pretties from the deep—which, come to think of it, made it sort of creepy in light of the late Ms. Neidermeyer. Officially, the grand opening bash was this weekend, when the Hollywood crowd would be fully represented. “I have a date with your squeeze after dinner.” I told her. “We’re going on a fact-finding mission.”

  “Ms. Neidermeyer?” A little concern crept into Miss P’s voice.

  “Worried?” I shot her a lopsided grin.

  “Don’t be a dill.”

  * * *

  THE Big Boss’s apartment occupied the top floor—the fifty-second—of one wing of the hotel. My magic card, inserted in the appropriate slot, released the elevator to take me there. The doors opened, depositing me in the middle of the living room.

  Teak flooring imported from somewhere in Indonesia and burnished to a rich sheen covered the entire three-thousand square feet. Hand-knotted rugs from the Middle East, each populated with a cluster of sturdy furniture made from the hides of different beasts and woods from different continents, dotted the expanse. Brass sconces cast a muted glow on leather-finished walls. Lesser original works by the Grand Masters, smaller pieces from the Big Boss’s extensive art collection, hung reverently in appropriately lighted spots. A fire danced in the moveable fireplace, which tonight was placed next to the dining table—set for two.

  The Big Boss stood at the bar, his profile outlined by the lights of the Strip shining through the windows behind him. A short man with salt and pepper hair, he wore his ubiquitous suit, perfectly tailored to his trim frame. Tonight’s suit was gunmetal gray, his shirt white, his tie violet. Very old school, he secured his collar with a gold collar bar encrusted with pave diamonds. “You want the usual?”

  “Please.” I watched him work—a maestro with various weird and wonderful healing waters. Frankly, I didn’t need the usual, Wild Turkey 101 neat. My stomach was already punishing me for two glasses of champagne in the hot tub. What I needed was food. But nobody, me included, said No to the Big Boss.

  The world knew the Big Boss as Albert Rothstein, a Las Vegas legend. He hired me when I was fifteen and had lied about my age. At the time, I didn’t know he was also my father. I didn’t learn that little tidbit until a couple of months ago when he decided to come clean. It had taken a near-fatal heart condition and impending major surgery for him to find the need to tell me.

  When I was very young, he and my mother had reluctantly parted ways—a golden boy in the casino business would never have been allowed to marry a hooker. The choice had been simple—a good career with infinite possibilities, or squalor with a former prostitute and an illegitimate kid. Since my parents had nothing, they made the obvious choice. And they’d carried a torch for each other ever since.

  When I thought about it, it made me sad—all that time lost. However, from all appearances, now that the cat was out of the bag (at least among the family), they were making up for lost time. I really didn’t want to know. I loved them both, but I didn’t want the details of their sex life. Even at my age, the thought of my parents in flagrante delicto left me queasy.

  After the Big Boss dropped the bombshell, my life had gone on pretty much the same. I insisted nobody be told about our familial ties—I just wanted to be the same Lucky I’d always been. I wanted my colleagues to treat me as they always had. I did not want to morph into “The Boss’s Daughter.” As far as I could tell, our secret was safe with the four of us—my parents, Teddie, and me.

  As if my hunger had summoned him, the elevator dinged its arrival and a black-and-white-clad waiter stepped out, pushing a cart laden with covered dishes. I felt like attacking, but instead, like a shark circling its prey, I prowled the edge of the room pretending to be interested in the art on the walls, although I’d seen it all a million times.

  On the verge of succumbing to my stomach s primal call and chasing the waiter into the kitchen, something caught my eye. Various small origami creatures frolicked on a small side table—a herd of tiny elephants, a couple of dogs, a cat, and a bird—all made out of folded one-hundred-dollar bills. Smiling, I picked up one I couldn’t identify and held it aloft, turning it around.

  “That’s supposed to be a swan,” the Big Boss said as he took a spot at my elbow. He handed me my drink—a Double Old Fashioned Glass filled with three fingers of amber liquid. “I haven’t perfected the folds, yet. Damned arthritis isn’t making it any easier.”

  Up until a few months ago, I didn’t think any disease was bold enough to attack the Big Boss. Heart trouble had opened the door and apparently arthritis had charged through.

  “Life’s a bitch and then you die.” I hid my grin behind my glass as I took a sip. Like molten lava, the bourbon scorched a path down my throat, making my eyes water.

  “And to think I hoped a daughter would brighten my old age,” he countered, his voice muted so only I could hear, as he placed a hand in the small of my back, urging me toward the table. “Hungry?”

  “Famished.” I let my father steer me to my appointed chair, which he pulled out for me.

  He took the one opposite. An imperceptible nod from the Big Boss, and the waiter served us both the salad course, doffing the covers with a flourish. Baby spinach, pine nuts, goat cheese, avocado, and poached pears, all drizzled with balsamic vinaigrette—the salad was my favorite and
a staple on the menu at Tigris, the Babylon’s five-star eatery. The Big Boss didn’t miss a trick.

  The waiter repaired to the kitchen, leaving us alone.

  I had just snagged two rolls from a silver basket in the middle of the table when my mother, Mona, dressed to kill in a tight blue suit, hot-pink lacy cami, and five-inch heels, charged out of the hallway leading from the private areas of the apartment. Her stilettos clacked on the hardwood as she hurried in our direction. She fiddled with an earring as she gave me the once-over.

  “It’s nice to see my daughter isn’t suffering from an eating disorder.” Her long brown hair was pulled tastefully back, a few tendrils softly framed her face, hiding remnants of her plastic surgery addiction. Her makeup, perfectly understated as usual, hid the rest. Tall and trim—a perfect size six—she looked twenty, if a day.

  A pox on her.

  “Eating disorders are all about control,” I shot back, my mouth full of roll. “I traded the illusion of control for self-gratification years ago.”

  The Big Boss choked then reached for his water glass as his face turned red.

  My mother leveled her sternest gaze on me—a look that used to terrify me. “Really, darling, carbs are the food of the Devil. Just wait, once you hit forty, your hips will be as big as a house.”

  “How sad you’re not joining us, Mother. My well of guilt is getting kinda low.”

  “Tempting, dear, but I have a previous engagement. I’m holding a press conference.”

  “What?” My father and I said in unison.

  “A young woman approached me last week. She is absolutely gorgeous, but her family is poor as church mice. And, the best thing... she’s a virgin.” My mother acted as if this were normal dinner conversation.

  My father and I could only stare.

  “And,” my mother continued, clearly warming to the subject, “she wants me to auction her virginity.”

  “No way!” my father roared, as he jumped to his feet. “You are not going to—”

  “Don’t be silly.” Mother put a slender hand in the middle of his chest and daintily pressed him back into his chair. “Of course I am! Think of the publicity. It’ll hit the Internet like wildfire.”

  Mother had a point. “She’s twenty-one?” I asked, the businesswoman in me overriding good taste.

  “I have a certified birth certificate.”

  Unable to resist, I asked, “I assume you have a certified virgin certificate as well?”

  She gave me a crisp nod and a do-you-think-I’m-stupid look. “Morris Feldman did the exam.”

  I shuddered. Dr. Feldman was the reason all of my doctors would now and for evermore be females. “You have it in writing?”

  “Sworn, signed, and notarized.”

  Like a fan at a tennis match watching a rapid-fire rally, my father’s head swiveled as he glowered first at one of us, then the other, then back again. After a few exchanges, he found his bellow. “Have you both lost your minds?”

  My mother waved the fingers of one hand at us. “Ta-ta. Have a lovely dinner.”

  I grinned as she sashayed to the elevator and disappeared inside.

  My grin vanished as I looked at my father across the table. His face bright red, he looked as if he might stroke out at any minute.

  “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t encourage her.” I tried to adopt my most contrite expression, but my grin kept threatening to burst through. “I can’t help myself—it’s an ingrained habit.”

  “You and your mother are going to be the death of me.” His mottled complexion faded a bit. He shook his head. “Why I even told you about your parentage! And I demanded Mona be a presence in my life again!”

  “I don’t know what you were thinking.”

  “I thought my days were over. I certainly wasn’t considering the mess I was creating if I survived.” A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. His complexion was returning to normal.

  “You had died once that day already,” I noted. Satisfied I didn’t need to call the paramedics, I again dove into my salad.

  “Who can do anything about your mother?” he said aloud. “I don’t know why I even try. She’s going to do what she wants.”

  “She always has,” I agreed. I mopped my empty salad plate with the last remnant of a roll. “So what did you call this meeting for?”

  Seamlessly, the Big Boss shifted gears. “I’ve done as you asked—I’ve hired a new chef to develop a premier restaurant atop the Athena.”

  The Athena was an aging Las Vegas grande dame that had seen better times. The Big Boss and his money people had acquired her after Irv Gittings, the previous owner of the Athena, had conspired to frame the Big Boss for murder. The Big Boss was still licking his chops over that one. I had to admit, seeing Irv Gittings in an orange jumpsuit had done wonders for me as well.

  “Tell me about him.” I breathed deep as the waiter appeared from his hiding place behind closed doors in the kitchen. With a flourish, he delivered a plateful of roast duckling with Madeira sauce, asparagus with hollandaise, and herbed rice, setting it in front of me after removing the salad plate. I forced myself to wait until my father had been served and had taken his first bite, then I attacked my meal with relish.

  The Big Boss had done his homework. As I ate, he regaled me with minutia about the Frenchman—where his parents were raised, where he attended école maternelle, école primaire, and Lycée. I had no idea the Big Boss knew so much French—either that or he was pretending, but you couldn’t prove it by me.

  Warming to the subject, he continued the story. However, when the Big Boss started telling about a pretty little au pair and the young Frenchman’s subsequent loss of his virginity—clearly the Big Boss had split more than one bottle of wine with the guy or the Frenchman was more forthcoming than most men I knew, I drew the line.

  “Boss,” I interrupted. “We aren’t hiring him for breeding purposes.”

  “What?” His face started getting splotchy again.

  “Just his name and his cooking credentials will do.”

  “Insubordinate. Ungrateful,” he muttered, while he concentrated on his dinner. A minute passed before he began again. “His name is Jean-Charles Bouclet. He’s your age, give or take. He studied at La Sorbonne and Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, then apprenticed under several famous chefs—Daniel Boulud being one of them. After opening his own restaurant in New York last fall, he’s the gastronome extraordinaire of the culinary world—the toast of those in the know. It’s quite a coup for us to get his Vegas location.”

  “And what did you promise him?”

  “I guaranteed him enough hotel comps that his restaurant will be successful even if not one customer opens their wallet.”

  “Pretty pricy bait.” I dabbed at the corner of my mouth with my napkin as I wondered when the Vegas hotel business had quit being about good service and gambling. Now it was all about celebrities—Hollywood types and gastronomic types.

  “He’ll be worth it. The buzz is already starting.” The Big Boss looked at me as if he read my thoughts.

  “The reopening of the Athena is still a year or more away.” I pointed out. “I’ve been more concerned with filling the restaurant space in the Bazaar.” We’d recently closed an Italian place that wasn’t pulling its weight in our retail area. Boarded-up space gave the wrong impression.

  “That’s the best part. Jean-Charles has agreed to take over that space—he’s doing a high-end burger bar. He said he always wanted to play around with the American hamburger.”

  “As long as he understands horsemeat is illegal for human consumption in this country.”

  The Big Boss gave me The Look. “He said he could be open by Saturday with a limited menu.”

  “Really?”

  “He’s bringing a skeleton staff with him—enough to get started,” my father said. “He’ll handpick the rest from our employees. I want you to handle the transition and see that he has everything he needs.”

  “Sure.” Hadn’t
my father ever heard about the straw and the camel’s back? I wondered if cloning myself was a viable option.

  “Is everything set for the opening of Babel on Saturday?” The Big Boss pushed his plate away, then rose and stepped to the bar. “The headliner... remind me who she is again?” He poured us both a healthy snifter of Napoleon brandy.

  “Reza Pashiri, an Indian import known the world over as simply Za. Apparently she has The Sound, whatever that is. Regardless, she’s the hottest pop-tart on the planet right now.” I sipped my brandy. From what I’d heard, little Miss Za was going to be a pain in za kaboodle. She liked handsome men or beautiful women, depending on her mood. Her suite had been feng shuied, the air ducts taped, the fridge stocked with Fiji water and Polish vodka, and the beds made with twelve-hundred-count cotton and goose down.

  “I’m sending the plane to pick her up at the Ontario Airport Friday,” I explained.

  “Oh.” The Boss was as clueless about these things as I was. “Is she the only one?”

  “No. We also have engaged the hottest DJ and multiple lesser luminaries.” I thought the fact that disc jockeys now rose to the ranks of stardom was the first sign of the apocalypse, but in a culture that could worship talent-free heiresses, why should I be surprised?

  I joined the Big Boss at the window, where we both reveled in the light show of the Strip.

  “I remember when we could get Frank and Dino and Sammy with a promise of a good time. Now that isn’t enough.” The Big Boss sounded tired. The doctors said his heart was healing, but it was a long road back.

  “A serious six figures and you’re in the ballpark.”

  His face wore a sad look. Frank Sinatra for nothing back then, versus the flavor of the month for serious green now. Somehow, pandering to the icons of pop culture felt demeaning.