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

by Deborah Coonts

“Taco, Tamale, Enchilada—I’m from the North, I can’t keep all that Mexican stuff straight.” The kid reddened. “You know, the fighter guy.”

  “She talked to Tortilla Padilla?” I pushed my plate away and concentrated on my coffee.

  “That’s the one. Tortilla! What a name!”

  “I don’t think it’s the one his mother picked. So Numbers talked to him right before she left or before that?”

  “He was the last person we could see that she talked to.”

  “And they found her at seven?” I’d seen her between two thirty and three thirty arguing with Jeremy, then heading into the casino. Where she went between then and four thirty would be mighty interesting.

  Romeo nodded, his mouth full. He swallowed then wiped his mouth with the napkin. His plate clean, he settled back with a contented sigh. “Good grub.”

  “If this place were all-you-can-eat, they’d lock the door whenever they saw you coming.” I nibbled on the corner of one slice of potato—grease and starch, the breakfast of champions. “Are you following any other leads?”

  “That’s sorta why I’m here.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him.

  Like an involuntary reflex, he reddened again—I liked that about him. “Look, you and I both know I’m new at this. But I’m smart enough to have figured out there are two sides to this city.

  They taught me at the Academy how to deal with one side. For the other side, I need a guide.”

  Cradling my coffee mug in both hands, I leaned back and let the kid talk. Already he was smarter—by far—than most of the Metro higher-ups.

  Romeo leaned forward. “That’s where you come in. You got a foot in both worlds. You’re my pipeline to the guys who’ve been here forever, and who know everything.”

  “They’re not too keen on talking to cops.”

  “I know,” he said, as he leaned toward me. “But they’ll talk to you.”

  * * *

  WHILE I waited for the bill, I sent Romeo off to start another day protecting the good citizens of Vegas from the evils of crime. Although I’d already planted a bug in Jimmy G’s ear, I let the kid assume I would be doing the favor for him.

  When the bill didn’t materialize because Shirley was swamped, I slapped enough money to cover our tab on the table, added a twenty, and said my good-byes.

  Still accustomed to the muted light of the interior, my eyes watered at the assault of the sun. Blinking furiously and shading my peepers, I almost missed the bit of paper stuck under one of the Porsche’s wipers. I pulled it out, opened the car door, and squeezed inside. My eyes no longer under direct assault, I looked at the scrap.

  It was a note.

  In crayon.

  Warning me off the Neidermeyer matter.

  I laughed out loud. Who were they kidding? Somebody had been watching too many television cop shows. When I met the ass who had written it—and I had no doubt I would—I’d tell him that crayon really diminished the threatening tone.

  Of course, Numbers Neidermeyer had ended up in pieces... I shrugged off the shiver that threatened to race down my spine.

  The note might have been a bit dramatic, but it told me one thing for sure—I had stepped on somebody’s toes. I had no idea who or how, but I was wandering in the right direction.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Romeo maneuvering his sedan out of a tight space. Without too much public humiliation I flagged him down.

  Looking like a kid taking the family station wagon out for a joy-ride, he eased the big car to a stop in front of me and rolled down the window. “What’s up?”

  I thrust the scrap of paper at him. “We’ve attracted somebody’s attention.”

  Careful to handle the note as little as possible, he grabbed a corner and held it up. Tilting his head to match the angle of the paper dangling from his fingers, he quickly scanned down the page. “Sounds like they mean business.”

  I made a rude sound. “I found the crayon to be particularly threatening.”

  Romeo looked up at me, his eyes telegraphing his concern. “Lucky, this is serious stuff. Somebody’s already been killed.”

  “Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself.” I squinted against the sun as I glanced around. Nobody was taking any interest in us. “Let me know if you pull any interesting prints off of that, okay?”

  “Sure.” The kid set the note on the seat beside him. “I know you’re pretty savvy, but watch your back, okay? Cocky can get you killed.”

  “I don’t like being made the fool,” I told him.

  “Just the same, I really don’t want to fish pieces of you out of the shark tank.”

  I seconded that.

  * * *

  THE office was empty when I showed up. I clicked on the lights, took the phone off call-forwarding, then headed for my little corner of the universe. I stowed my purse in the closet and settled myself behind a pile of paperwork on my desk. I was still staring at the pile trying to think of a way to get out of tackling it when I heard the outer office door burst open. A beat passed, then Miss Patterson appeared in my doorway. Today she wore black from head to toe, including the circles under her eyes.

  She tugged on the fingers of one black glove, removed it, then started on the other. “I couldn’t sleep. I felt useless at home. The walls were closing in.”

  She looked a mess, but I couldn’t send her away. “If it’s work you want . . .” I motioned to the pile of papers in front of me. “You can start with these.”

  After hanging her coat in the closet, she smoothed her blouse, then looked at me. “I’ve already been through them. That’s your pile.”

  How easily she doused my tiny flame of hope. “Silly me, I thought as the boss, I could delegate the grunt work.”

  “You want me to forge your signature?’’

  “Probably not a good thing.” Defeated, I leaned back in my chair. “Where’s the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock? Not getting into any more trouble, I hope?”

  “He went to fill up the car. He’ll be back in a bit.” She didn’t smile.

  “When he shows up, I’d like a word with him.”

  * * *

  WITH the stack of papers diminished by half, I was congratulating myself when my push-to-talk spoke my name. Excitement charged through me. I glanced at the number and frowned. My heart rate returned to normal. Security was calling. Ten thirty and I had yet to hear from Teddie. Out of sight and all of that, I guessed, but it still pricked.

  “Hey, Jer. Don’t they ever let you go home?”

  “I’m keeping your kinda hours, these days.” Jerry sounded as tired as I imagined he’d be. Security took the hit leading up to and during fight weekend—they had to clean up the messes.

  I merely had to smooth things over enough so we didn’t get sued... or land on the front page of the paper. “Don’t tell me the craziness is starting already.”

  “It’s in the air. I got a call from one of my guys in the Bazaar. Your new chef has arrived and he’s putting on quite a show.”

  * * *

  THREE minutes later—a new record—I joined the throng in front of the future home of Burger Palais—or so said the sign above the doorway. I narrowed my eyes—Burger Palais? That was so not going to happen.

  I muscled between two burly security guys. The crash of crockery punctuated an angry tirade of French streaming from the interior. I didn’t need a translator to catch the drift—invectives sounded the same in every language.

  Charging through the door, I didn’t stop until I skidded into the kitchen. “What the hell is going on in here?”

  All movement and sound stopped as heads swiveled in my direction. A man, presumably our chef, stared at me. The plate he’d been holding slipped though his fingers and shattered on the floor. Five of our kitchen staff, looking like rabbits cornered by a fox, huddled against the stove. Four other staff members stood by the prep table—they didn’t look nearly as traumatized. Presumably they were the imported staff and, as such, were more a
ccustomed to bad behavior from their boss.

  I pointed to one of our staff. “Go take down that sign out front. It’s tacky, and we do not do tacky at the Babylon.” That was a bit of a fabrication, but it sounded good, so I went with it. Then I turned my attention to our new burger-meister.

  I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe Paul Prudhomme motoring his bulk around on a little cart—but I certainly wasn’t expecting the incredibly good-looking man staring at me, his mouth set in a firm line.

  Trim and fit, our new chef had the whole European thing going on. Looking not at all like a chef, he was dressed in creased slacks that could only have been Italian—they hugged his every curve and bulge but somehow avoided being obscene. His silk shirt draped over broad shoulders and tapered to a teenager’s waist. A silk scarf knotted jauntily at his neck, his brown hair touching his collar, he looked like he’d stepped right off a yacht—except for the crimson complexion.

  Disdain was written on his face in a language anyone could understand as he gave me the once-over. “You will leave,” he announced in an imperious manner.

  Oh God, another delicious accent infusing sexiness and seduction into every word.

  “Leave. Now!”

  Okay, maybe not every word. I resisted rolling my eyes. Was boorish behavior a required course in culinary school? I didn’t know who he thought he was, but to me, he was just another in a long line of pompous Continental peacocks I’d had the misfortune to deal with.

  Broken shards of crockery crunched beneath my feet as I closed the distance between us until we stood toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye. “I most certainly will not leave.” My voice was low. “Get this straight. The Big Boss may have hired you, but it’s me you have to go through.”

  Although clearly taken aback, the burger-man didn’t give ground. “And you are?”

  “Your worst nightmare if you continue to channel Gordon Ramsay playing to the cameras.”

  “Gordon Ramsay? Who is—”

  I swept my arm, taking in the whole of the restaurant. “This restaurant belongs to the Babylon. The Babylon is my responsibility, and here are the rules.” I poked him in the chest for emphasis. “First, you will treat my staff as the professionals they are. Second, you will clean up this mess. Each plate missing from the inventory will be billed to you.” Our eyes locked. “And you will pay.”

  “Who are—” His face a mottled red, he looked ready to fillet me.

  I felt the same about him. “Then you will get to work. You promised the Big Boss you would be open by Saturday. I’ll have your head on a platter if you aren’t.”

  “I have never—”

  “You got it?”

  His eyes broke the lock with mine. He gave a curt motion to his staff, who again fell to work, hiding smirks. He clamped his mouth shut, then spun on his heel. He didn’t look back.

  On my mental scorecard, I chalked one up for my team even though I knew from past experience the war was far from over. A pity, too. I cocked my head as I watched him stalk away. He had a nice ass.

  Right then and there I realized trim-cut men’s pants were Italy’s legacy to womankind.

  Hey, if I quit looking, I’m dead, right?

  * * *

  AS promised, the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock perched in his normal position—one cheek on the corner of Miss P’s desk—when I returned. A month ago, I had taken the liberty of having maintenance stencil his name in gold where one half of his butt now resided. Both he and his squeeze had been pleased.

  Today, seeing them together made me feel alone. I felt a pity party of one coming on.

  “Jeremy, I want you to go to Security,” I said, pretending to be in charge. “See if you and Jerry can figure out where Ms. Neidermeyer went in this hotel between the time she was seen talking to you and four thirty, when she apparently left the hotel alone.”

  “So she didn’t leave right after talking to me?” Jeremy followed me into my office.

  I glanced at my phone... no missed calls. As I plopped myself on the couch against the window, I felt a black cloud settle over me. I redeposited the offending device in my pocket. “No. Romeo said the tapes showed her by herself, walking across the casino at four thirty.”

  “So that leaves a chunk of time unaccounted for.”

  “Right.” I motioned to the chair across from me. “Another thing...” I waited while Jeremy turned the chair to face me, then took his place in it.

  Today was the first day I’d ever seen him in blue jeans—although with their perfect crease and coupled with a starched button-down in a light shade of pink, they didn’t detract from his GQ image. Loafers with no socks completed the picture.

  “Who dressed you this morning? Ralph Lauren? Don’t you know it’s cold outside?”

  “Pardon?” He flashed his dimples at me.

  “Sorry.” I shook my head and took a deep breath. Like sand through my fingers, I felt self-control slipping away. Teddie had really done a number on me. No. I’d really done a number on myself. “My brain has several channels. Apparently my mouth dialed in the wrong one.”

  “Might be fun listening to the nonpublic commentary.”

  “For you, maybe.” I paled at the thought. “Trust me, the world is not ready.”

  He crossed one leg over the other, resting his ankle on the other knee. His foot bounced as he said, “So, you wanted to know... ?”

  “Night before last, when you were arguing with Ms. Neidermeyer, you told me you were following hunches. What were they?”

  “I was getting nowhere at the French Quarter, so I stepped back and looked at the big picture.” He paused and closed his eyes for a moment as if trying to conjure that night. “The only two real facts I had were that the betting anomalies all centered around the Friday night fights, and Numbers Neidermeyer was the foremost authority and the premier oddsmaker in that venue.”

  “So you looked for connections.”

  “I hadn’t even gotten that far. Like I do with everyone who shows up on my radar, I ran a background check on the cow.” He shifted his legs, crossing the other one. “I’ve been in the business a good while—I’ve got damned good sources. But with Ms. Neidermeyer, I came up cold.”

  “Cold?”

  “It’s like she never existed until she showed up in Vegas ten years ago as Evelyn Wabash Neidermeyer.”

  That was a mouthful—no wonder she went by Numbers. “Didn’t exist?”

  Jeremy shook his head. “And here’s the kicker. The real Evelyn Wabash Neidermeyer died in 1990.”

  Needing time for that little pearl to penetrate the gray matter, I leaned back and closed my eyes. “Could there have been more than one?”

  “I’ve checked all of that. There was only one.”

  “So who was she if she wasn’t a Neidermeyer?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve pulled every string I could reach trying to catch the scent. So far, I’m rolling craps.”

  “So you asked her?”

  He snorted. “Don’t be a stupid cow.”

  I raised my head and leveled my gaze on Jeremy. “I’m not the prettiest gal you’ll come across and probably not the brightest by a good margin, but, I warn you, the last person to call me a stupid cow was Billy Watkins in the seventh grade. I broke his nose and at least one other appendage.”

  “Sorry. Would you believe something got lost in the translation?”

  “I’ll buy that.” I’d probably buy just about anything the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock had to sell, but he didn’t need to know that. “So what was she so steamed about?”

  “She’d gotten wind I was asking around. She didn’t like it.”

  “I can see why. She was hiding a pretty big secret.” I gave Jeremy a stern look. “Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”

  “I didn’t know about the real Ms. Neidermeyer until a friend of mine called this morning. To be frank, when I came up cold, I thought I’d gotten some fact wrong or something. With computers, if you put garbage in, you get garbage out. It
’s happened before.” He gave me a rueful shrug. “I’m good, but I’m not perfect.”

  That sounded like a reasonable explanation rather than an excuse, so I let the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock off the hook. “Now that I think about it, why don’t you leave the security tapes and the unaccounted-for time to me.”

  “And what do you want me to do?”

  “I want to know who Numbers Neidermeyer really was, and why she landed in my town.”

  * * *

  MY little black cloud had morphed into a thumper of a headache behind my right eye, which did little to improve my mood. I listened to Jeremy say his good-byes to Miss P.

  I eased my left eye open and took a gander at the clock. Noon and still no word from Teddie. I snapped the eye shut again.

  “Are you okay?” Miss P asked, her voice emanating from the direction of the doorway.

  “Yes. No.” I stopped and regrouped. “Could you get me some aspirin, please?”

  In a jiffy she was back. “Here.”

  I pushed myself upright and reluctantly opened my eyes. Three Extra Strengths should do the trick. I washed them down with a slug of bottled water—I’d had way too much caffeine already.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “No.” My heart still ached, along with my head. And worries niggled for attention. “Teddie’s in California and I’m afraid he’s not coming back.” There, I’d said it.

  “California?”

  “He got a call late yesterday afternoon from Dig-Me O’Dell. Apparently, Teddie’s music shook L.A. like a high-Richter earthquake. They wanted him on the next plane.”

  “I see.” Miss P plopped down on the couch next to me. “No, I don’t see. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

  “Yes. No.” I sighed. “Okay, I clearly didn’t think it through.” I felt better with my eyes closed so I shut them again. “What if he doesn’t come back?”

  Miss Patterson knew me well enough to resist offering hollow assurances in an attempt to make me feel better. “We’re a real pair. Both worried sick.”