“Want to tell me where we’re going?” Jeremy asked, as he followed the directions I had given him.
“Summerlin.”
He piloted his big black beast west on Tropicana, then south on Decatur. After a few blocks, we hit the 215, heading west, then north, around the city.
“A guy named Jimmy G has an Italian place there. He’s had his fingers on the pulse of this city for fifty years. If there’s even a hiccup, Jimmy hears about it.”
“A hiccup like someone going rogue and making his own book?” Jeremy asked.
“Perhaps.” My phone vibrated at my hip. Before I flipped it open, I glanced at the number—it put a smile on my heart. “Hey. Still slaving over a hot piano?”
Teddie laughed. “No, I’m at the hotel. I wanted to catch the end of the show.”
Once or twice a week, Teddie would watch his old show, the one he now produced. Quality control, he called it.
“How was it?” I asked. “Anything you need to fix?”
“Little things, but they can wait. Where are you?”
“On my way to Jimmy G’s. I’m riding shotgun in Jeremy’s Hummer, and I’m not properly accoutered—I need fatigues and an M16.”
“I can see you on the cover of Soldier of Fortune,’ Teddie said, joining the game. “The Big Boss would be thrilled. His big-shot hotel executive and right-hand man turned to a life as a mercenary, helping despots and third-world dictators.”
“If I’m ever forced to make a career move, I’ll keep it in mind. In the meantime, we’re on our way to see Jimmy G.”
“Where’s your car?”
“With the valet at the French Quarter.”
He whistled. “You’ve had an exciting evening. How was dear old Aunt Matilda?”
“She told me I looked cheap. I took it as a compliment.”
This bit of news elicited another laugh from Teddie. He had a nice laugh—of course, I was biased.
“You must be so proud,” he teased. “Look, why don’t I go get your car out of hock, then I’ll swing up to Summerlin and pick you up.”
“Deal. See you when you get here.” I closed the phone and leaned my head back.
I must’ve had a goofy grin on my face or something because Jeremy took one look at me and said, “Man, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.”
“That’s the pot and the kettle.”
“You have a point.” He took a right onto Summerlin Parkway, heading east toward town again. From our vantage point as we traversed the foothills of the Spring Mountains, the valley stretched before us. Like a sparkling blanket, the city covered the low-lying areas—the clustered bright lights of the Strip, a small vessel in the glittering sea. “Who is Jimmy G?” he asked.
“One of the old guard.” I pointed at the street sign announcing the next exit—Town Center. “Take the next exit, hang a right, you’ll see it.”
“I’ve been snooping around this burg for quite a while,” Jeremy said. “How come I haven’t heard of him?”
“You haven’t been properly introduced.”
“What?”
“The old guys don’t talk to anybody who hasn’t been vouched for by someone they trust,” I explained.
Jeremy turned into the parking lot. “Who’s going to vouch for me?”
“Me.”
A quick tour and we found a parking space—actually we found two spaces—the city planners hadn’t factored in Hummers when they approved the parking lot.
A neighborhood place, Jimmy G’s was upscale yet casual, mirroring the fancy neighborhoods surrounding it. Summerlin was the high-rent district. The folks here had more money than God, but they didn’t want to flaunt it... much. So Summerlin was an interesting island of attempted subtlety surrounded by a sea of gaudy excess.
This close to closing time, Jimmy’s place was almost empty. The restaurant, with its mauves and grays accented with shiny brass, was spit-and-polished for a new day. Like boats torpedoed at the pier and now listing to port or starboard, a few hard-core drinkers were anchored to the bar. At least one bottle of almost every conceivable brand of booze occupied the rows of shelves behind the counter.
On the top shelf, next to the expensive stuff, Jimmy had placed a picture of his daughter. Wearing a very small bikini, a fake tan, and a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder—her muscles oiled and bulging—Glinda stood on a podium and held a pose for the camera. She looked ready to bite off someone’s arm. Supposedly she was a natural bodybuilder, but I didn’t see anything natural about it.
Jimmy G held court at a small square table tucked in the corner of the bar between the baby grand and the front window. A small wiry guy, with dancing eyes and a ready smile, Jimmy clutched his signature glass of Pinot Noir.
A couple of old-timers sat in rapt attention as the natural storyteller regaled them with a tale they likely had heard before—one about the old days when he had owned a place near the Strip where all the big names used to eat a late dinner after their shows. No matter how many times I’d heard Jimmy’s stories, I’d gladly sit through them all again—there was an energy about him, an enthusiasm, that was impossible to resist.
A recent spate of bad health had doused his fire a bit, but from the looks of him, tonight was one of his better nights. I was flabergasted when he jumped to his feet, dodged the table, and gave me a big bear hug. The last time I saw him, he’d needed help to stand—multiple sclerosis is a horrible disease. “Death by inches,” Jimmy called it.
“Look at you!” I held the slight man at arm’s length. “You look fantastic!”
“So do you.” He gave me the once-over with a twinkling eye. “If I was twenty years younger . . .”
“If you were twenty years younger, you’d be the death of me and half the women in the Valley.” I took a seat at the nearest table. “Seriously, you’ve been transformed. Do you have a new girlfriend or what?”
He colored. His cheeks hadn’t held such a rosy glow in months. “It’s this new stuff my daughter has me on. You know how she’s into all this natural stuff. I don’t know what’s in it, and I don’t care. It’s a miracle, I can tell you that much”
I stepped aside and introduced Jeremy, who had been standing behind me.
Jeremy extended his hand. “Sir.”
Jimmy G eyed the Aussie, sized him up, then he took his hand. “I heard about you.”
“He’s straight up, Jimmy,” I said.
The older man let out a low whistle. “Son, if you got Lucky vouching for you... well, it don’t come any higher than that.” Jimmy motioned for us to sit at the nearest empty table. When we were seated and the bartender had put a fresh glass of wine in front of Jimmy, he continued. “Pretty late for a social visit.”
Jeremy leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, as I took the lead. “You heard about Numbers Neidermeyer?”
“Yeah.” Jimmy rolled the stem of his glass between his thumb and forefinger and pretended to be fascinated with the red liquid. “Can’t say it was a shame.” His head still tilted down, he glanced at me from under his eyebrows. “Mind you, I ain’t being uncharitable or nothing.”
“She had it coming,” I said, stating the obvious. I didn’t get any disagreement from the two men. “The street has it somebody was making private book—mainly on local fights,” I continued. “You know anything about that?”
“I heard a whisper.” The little man glanced at Jeremy, then his eyes drifted back to me. “I ain’t saying who it was—don’t know for a hundred percent—but there was big money in on it.”
“Movers and shakers?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Could you find out who was running the show?”
“Now that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.” Jimmy G gave me a shrewd look—the look of a gambler setting his price. “You’ll owe me.”
“I’ve always paid my markers.”
“That you have.” The little negotiator drained his glass in one
gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of
his hand, and gave me a grin. “This one’ll cost you big.”
“Not so big. I heard Scully Winter was involved.” I tossed off the line casually, as if I knew more than I did.
Jimmy’s eyes grew hard, then he spit on the ground. “Yeah, that foul wind blew in my direction, too.”
“I want to know who’s pulling the strings, and why Scully?” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms across my chest. “Think you can handle that?”
Jimmy G snorted. “Piece a cake. But remember, you’re gonna owe me.”
* * *
BUSINESS done, Jimmy looked as if he wanted to tell stories. I asked Jeremy to go check on Miss P at the office, giving him an excuse to escape. After he’d said his good-byes, I settled back with a glass of very nice Zin, as Jimmy G started in. I let him talk. My mind wandered a bit as I watched him gesturing, his eyes alight with wonderful memories.
Teddie had sounded like he was in one of his I-want-to-talk moods. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Who knew? Either way, I had a feeling we were going for a drive.
As if on cue and just as Jimmy ground to the end of his second story—or was it his third—I heard the familiar Porsche growl. Headlights flashed across the window. A car pulled up by the front door. Teddie didn’t kill the engine so I took my leave.
Jimmy gave me another hug. This time he held tight. “You be careful,” he said. “I don’t gotta tell you this is a nest of rattlesnakes.”
“I’ve waded around in the snake pit before.”
The little man shrugged, but I could see the worry he was trying to hide. “It’s your funeral.”
I really wished he hadn’t said that.
* * *
THANKFUL I didn’t have to drive, I folded myself into the passenger seat. Teddie greeted me with a kiss, which I lingered in, testing his mood as much as enjoying the sensations. The heat of his kiss seeped into me, making me all hot and melty inside. If he was mad or worried, he hid it well, although I detected an undercurrent of something. I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“I brought a blanket, a jacket for you, and a couple of cold Buds.” He said as he maneuvered through the parking lot and onto the street. He didn’t slow down as he hit the traffic circle. “How about we go up toward Red Rock?”
Now I knew for sure he had something on his mind. “Are you going to tell me what’s bugging you, or are you going to make me wait?” I closed my eyes and leaned my head back as he accelerated up the ramp and onto Summerlin Parkway, heading west.
“Waiting will do you good.”
No, waiting would just make me angry—I’m into immediate gratification—even when it comes to getting bad news.
Teddie knew that.
I got the distinct impression I was being punished.
MOST visitors to Vegas never think of renting a car, which is a shame. The Strip is but one Vegas Valley offering—Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area is another. Just to the west of town, the thirteen-mile paved loop wanders through pristine desert with its yuccas and scrub, past breathtaking red rock monoliths, and two-thousand-foot cliffs. Here you can see wildlife of a different sort—herds of wild burros, and, if you are very lucky, an occasional wild mustang.
A developer, in his infinite arrogance, bought the top of the mountain just to the southeast of the park entrance. He planned a whole community with thousands of houses, retail shops, and commercial properties—the whole enchilada. When the fair citizens of Vegas got wind of it, Mr. Developer found himself unable to get the requisite permits. Imagine that! Eleven mil right down the slop chute. It put a song in my heart, I can tell you that.
Since then, tacky had been confined to the Strip.
Of course, Red Rock was closed at this hour, but that didn’t matter. Teddie and I had a favorite place just outside the park. He turned off toward Calico Basin and bumped along on a fairly well-maintained oiled road for a half-mile or so. Finally he eased into the empty parking lot at the trailhead.
The night air had turned downright cold for a thin-blooded desert-dweller like me. I shrugged into the jacket, then we both scrambled up a boulder—a real challenge in my fuck-me shoes. Teddie spread the blanket, then settled in, his back propped against the rock behind. I felt the stored heat of the day still lingering in the hard surface as I curled in next to him, my head on his shoulder.
From the vantage point of our magical perch, we could see the whole of the Vegas Valley—a place of contrasts almost beyond comprehension. The city itself, blooming with life, glowed in the deep, lifeless void of the vast Mojave.
When I was a child and prone to fanciful imaginings, I thought Vegas was a lot like Berlin—each a city surrounded by its antithesis. I used to dream that I was an intrepid pilot flying a C-54, dropping essentials to the trapped citizenry of my fair city. I always saved them, each and every one. There was a reason I found my home in the customer relations office—now I saved people from their excesses and minor lapses in judgment.
Always the rescuer, never did I think I needed a line thrown to me... until Teddie came along with his rope.
Cuddled against him, his arms tight around me, I realized I had needed saving most of all.
Teddie rescued me from myself. Having left home at fifteen, I’d learned to rely on myself—trusting others didn’t come easily. In fact, I avoided it at all costs. Teddie had delivered me from a self-imposed exile of loneliness. Most days I was really glad he did, but I had a feeling today was not going to be one of them.
“Here’s your beer,” he said, clearly intent on dragging this thing out.
I thought for a moment before answering. Lets see. The two glasses of champagne were so long ago they didn’t count. A large tumbler of bourbon and a snifter of brandy with the Big Boss—those counted. A sip of a nasty martini? Didn’t count. Then a glass of smooth Zin. That counted. How did the saying go? Liquor then wine, you’ll be fine? So far, so good. But what about beer? I had no idea.
“Sure, why not?” If I was going before the firing squad, I needed liquid fortification.
After twisting off the cap, he handed me a longneck. “I got an interesting call this evening.”
“Who from?”
“Dig-Me O’Dell.”
“The music impresario?” I tried to keep my voice level, my curiosity appropriate. “The head of Smooth Sound Downtown Records?” I stuffed the bottle of beer in a crack in the rock. Then I worked my hand under his sweatshirt, splaying my fingers on his stomach. The heat of him radiated to my very core.
Teddie inhaled sharply; he felt it, too. Then he forced a laugh, the sound reverberating through his chest under my ear.
“You’re good, O’Toole. Really good. I almost believe you’re surprised.” He pulled my hand from under his shirt, then held it against his chest.
Okay, he didn’t want me touching him—not a good sign. I lifted my head and looked at him. In the dark, I couldn’t see him clearly enough to get a good read on exactly how angry he was. “I am surprised. Truly. I just . . .”
“You just what?”
“Nothing.” I returned my head to his shoulder. Lying would be so much easier if I didn’t look at him.
“It’s funny,” he said after a moment. “I write a few songs, talk about my dream to be a legitimate singer, make a CD for you, and six weeks later I’m getting a call from one of the big boys in the business.” Teddie must’ve felt me shiver because he reached across and pulled the blanket around me. “This has your fingerprints all over it.”
“Why would you think that? Somebody could’ve heard you in the bar or even taken in your show. They could’ve put a bug in Mr. O’Dell’s ear.”
“But they didn’t, did they?” His voice rode on an undercurrent of semi-contained anger. “Sweetheart, the man had my music.”
What in the heck was he mad about? “So? I really don’t know how Mr. O’Dell got that disc.” That was the truth. I had my suspicions, but I didn’t exactly know.
“Quit prevaricating.” Appare
ntly Teddie’s syllables multiplied when he was steamed. “Here’s how I think it went down. You copied the CD I gave you and sent it to your buddy the music agent. What’s her name?”
“One-Note Wylie.” I slapped a hand over my mouth, but it was too late—I’d already inserted my foot up to my ankle.
“Right, Ms. One-Note.” Teddie shifted, pulling me closer to him. “She passed the thing around L.A., and I ended up getting a call from Dig-Me O’Dell. How’m I doing?”
“Not bad.” When push came to shove, even to save myself, I couldn’t lie to Teddie. What I didn’t get at all was why he wasn’t doing handstands. Fool that I was, all of these revelations seemed like really good things. But what did I know? Not much, apparently. “What did Mr. O’Dell want?”
“He wants me on the first plane to L.A. in the morning to lay some tracks and play the rest of my stuff for him.”
“That’s terrific!” I pushed up to my elbow, narrowing my eyes at him, which I doubted he could see. “One would think you would be over the moon.”
“I am.” The words were flat, devoid of enthusiasm.
“Well, yippee. Alert the media.” I ran a hand through my hair, swiping it out of my eyes. ‘I’m having a little problem here. You sound like you’re ready to spit nails.”
“You got that right.” Teddie’s voice rose. “I knew you were one tough broad, but I had no idea the cojones you swing.”
“Don’t be foul,” I snapped, starting to see red. I would ‘ve pushed to my feet, but that didn’t seem wise considering I was sitting in the pitch-black dark, on a rock, wearing six-inch stilettos. Fighting with myself, I resisted the urge to fight ugly—especially after that tough broad remark. “Let me get this straight. You’ve spent your life building the foundation for a career in music—legitimate music. You get an enthusiastic call from one of the bigs in the business. And you’re pissed at me because I got the ball rolling?” Unable to control myself, I shouted the last bit.
Lucky Stiff (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 2) Page 6