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

by Deborah Coonts

“Just two casualties on the rocky road to love.” I felt a bit guilty wallowing in self-pity—my worries didn’t include my love getting tossed into the slammer. “Can you and Brandy handle fight weekend by yourself? I’m seriously considering running away from home.”

  “You wouldn’t throw us to the wolves,” Miss P announced with conviction.

  “You sound pretty sure about that.” My assistant had a lot of faith in me, which I thought a bit misplaced. “Way back in my callow youth, before I became wedded to this job, when I actually used to have relationships, they were so much easier when I didn’t care. The sex was good and the guy mildly amusing. When it was over, so what? Sex and amusement are fairly common commodities.”

  “You know what they say about risk and reward.” Miss P might be above hollow assurances, but the same didn’t hold true with platitudes.

  “In every other aspect of life you can manage your risk,” I said, answering politely. “In love, it’s all or nothing—absolute bliss or total devastation—pretty scary stuff.”

  “Well then . . .” Miss P sat up and announced, “You know what they say about letting something go and, if it returns, it’s yours forever.”

  “That is such a crock.” I, too, sat up, but did so gingerly. My head didn’t fall off, so I risked opening my eyes.

  “I know, but it makes me feel better,” she said blithely as she stood, then grabbed my hand and pulled me up as well.

  “And what about the part of the saying that says if it doesn’t come back, you hunt it down and kill it? Does that make you feel better, too?” I rubbed my temple trying to erase the lingering vestiges of my headache.

  “Why do you think I have that Smith and Wesson by my bed?” she asked, smiling innocently.

  “Because it precludes that tawdry moment where you have to negotiate the price before you have the sex?”

  She gave me a look. “Come on. Let’s go drown our worries with a Diet Coke and a good hamburger.”

  “Diet Coke I can handle, but not a hamburger. Definitely, not a hamburger.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TWO bites into my tuna melt I was waylaid by my push-to-talk. It was just going to be one of those days.

  “O’Toole.”

  “Hey, Gorgeous, miss me?”

  Teddie! The sound of his voice warmed me all over. “Miss you? Why would you think that?”

  “Because I started missing you the moment the elevator doors closed behind me.”

  “I can work with that.” Nodding to Miss Patterson, I excused myself and stepped through the outer doors into an adjacent garden area where I could talk freely—and giggle without risking ridicule. “How’s the City of Angels?”

  “The angels have fled. Sin is making a comeback.” Teddie laughed at either an unspoken observation or a private memory.

  I didn’t know which and didn’t have the guts to ask. Of course, he’d only been there half a day. How much trouble could he have gotten into? I didn’t have the guts to ask that, either. “I’m not surprised—Hollywood is the perfect confluence of too much money and too little sense.”

  “No kidding.” This time, when Teddie laughed, I knew why. “Remind me to tell you about the new trend in recreational sex. They call them polyamorous parties.”

  “Do I really want to know? Casual sex gives me hives. And remember that whole visual thing I have going on?” Were we flirting or bantering? Never having had much experience with the former, I couldn’t distinguish between the two. Maybe sleeping with someone turned banter into flirting? Who knew? Whatever it was, there was a comfort... an unanticipated feeling of connection. I liked it. “And, since we call the same address home, I have the right to ask how you came by this juicy tidbit.”

  “I was invited to one, but I respectfully declined.”

  “Wise fellow.” I switched the phone to my other hand as I bent to retrieve a piece of trash from under a rose bush. “Monogamy will enhance your longevity.”

  “Then I will live to a ripe old age.” He didn’t try to hide the warmth in his voice.

  “How’s the music?” Half-oblivious to my surroundings, I wandered over to a trashcan and deposited my offering. “In contrast to their filmmaking cousins, do the jingle writers have any sense?”

  “I don’t know about sense, but they love my music.” The excitement bubbled in Teddie’s voice. “When I first got here, I wasn’t sure how the whole thing was gonna go. Your Ms. One-Note met my plane and gave me the rundown. It seems it’s easier to break into the business if you write songs for specific people or if you perform your own stuff. Apparently, crooners are considered one-trick ponies and are a ha’penny a dozen.”

  “So you got it covered either way.” Teddie could certainly sing all his original songs, and I also knew he had composed some pieces with certain voices in mind.

  “The response to my stuff was great when I sang it straight. But, when I started imitating certain celebs singing the songs I had written for them, man, the whole vibe changed. Magic happened. Dig-Me started calling in other folks to listen, then they called more people. Pretty soon I was playing to quite an audience. It’s so much easier to feed off that energy than to try to create it with only a piano and a mike. It was amazing! I wish you’d been here.”

  I could picture it—Teddie channeling Mariah, Madonna, Ne-Yo, Akon, Tim McGraw, Streisand, Sinatra... he even did a pretty fair Johnny Mathis. And his Liberace would put you under the table. Of course, Liberace didn’t really sing, but that didn’t stop Teddie—he had the man down cold. My love had yet to realize he was a born performer—”the roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd” was in his blood.

  “I’m sure you wowed them.”

  “Don’t know about that—they’re pretty tough. But, they are bringing in Reza Pashiri this afternoon. She’s looking for an opening act. Then there’s some event tonight. They want me to run through a few numbers.”

  “Intoxicating.”

  “It’s more than I could ever have hoped for.” Teddies voice sobered. “And I have you to thank.”

  Little did he know, but I was feeling real conflicted about that right now. “I opened a door, you stepped through and grabbed them by the throats,” I said.

  “I wish you were here,” he said simply.

  As a wave of nauseating jealousy roiled around in my stomach, I seconded that notion. “Teddie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You are coming home, aren’t you?” I hated myself the minute I said the words.

  “Of course. That’s where my stuff is.”

  His attempt at humor hit a sour note. “Break a leg, or whatever they say to ivory tinklers. Let me know how it goes.”

  “Lucky,” he said, his voice no longer bantering, “I’ll see you soon. Count on it.”

  The sad thing about all of this was the guy really got me. I wondered how much of me he would take when he left.

  * * *

  AN empty plate sat in front of Miss P when I returned.

  “Sorry,” I said as I plopped into my chair, fresh out of good humor. No longer hungry, I pushed my plate away as I settled back. I grabbed my glass of Diet Coke and stared into the murky depths trying to divine the future. If it works with tea leaves . . .

  “Teddie ‘s news wasn’t good?”

  I looked up from my Coke into the troubled eyes of my friend. “Ignore me, I’m just having a poor-pitiful-me attack. His news was great... for him. The Great Teddie Divine is cutting a wide swath through Hollywood. He’s even being considered as the opening act for Reza Pashiri.”

  “Doesn’t she go on tour for years at a time?”

  I nodded, but refused to say the words. If I spoke them aloud, then all of this would be real.

  Miss Patterson leaned back, a stunned look on her face as the ramifications hit home. Apparently she couldn’t find an appropriate platitude, so she sat there in disbelief.

  After a morose minute or two, which seemed like an eternity as I pondered my future long-distance bill, eve
n I was getting tired of my act. I slapped my hands down on the table and pushed myself to my feet. “Enough of this. The future will take care of itself.” I reached down and pulled Miss P to her feet. “In case you’ve forgotten, our job is the present, which is about to take off at a dead run. I suggest we get a head start.”

  * * *

  GETTING a head start had been a good idea—unfortunately, we were too late. The day had galloped off without us. Brandy had a phone at each ear and a bland expression on her face when Miss P and I strolled through the door.

  Young, tall, with brown hair, blue eyes, a wide smile that made you grin in spite of yourself, and a body that doubtlessly fired male fantasies, Brandy had seized her responsibilities as my second assistant like a mongrel grabbing a bone.

  She’d been parking cars at the Athena when, by sheer luck, I’d found her. Our paths had crossed before—she had shown herself a diligent and clever student in a class I taught at the University of Nevada Las Vegas School of Hotel Management. I had admired her even more when I learned of her family life—her parents were both deaf and had never learned to read, making education a difficult and lonely path for their sole offspring. Due to her background as a cage dancer, Brandy had found it difficult to get a suit-and-tie job. I don’t suffer from the heightened sensibilities that infect the management of other major hotel groups in town. Brandy was my kind of gal.

  Like proud parents, Miss Patterson and I crossed our arms, leaned against the glass window separating our office from a plunge to certain death in the lobby below, and watched our protege handle a sticky problem.

  “Yessir. I understand, Sir. I am so sorry, Sir. Could you please hold?” Brandy said into one receiver then pressed the hold button. Into the other receiver she said, “Paolo, Mr. Hollywood Asshole is in the bar near the security entrance to concourses C and D. At least, that’s where he thinks he is. He’s not speaking in complete sentences and he’s starting to sound like he has rocks in his mouth. I doubt if he can stand unassisted, much less walk. Is Filip with you?” Brandy nodded while she listened, then continued, “Good. Get your butts over there and get him out the back door before somebody with a camera finds him.”

  She took the first phone off Hold. “Sir, our staff is three minutes away. Again, I’m sorry for the mix-up... . Very good, Sir... Yes, we have a suite with a bar full of Patron Añejo awaiting your arrival.”

  She paused for another moment, listening. “No, Sir, no female chasers. Those will be up to you.” She slammed both receivers into their respective cradles, then gave us a grin.

  “Impressive.” I levered myself away from the window. “Which Hollywood asshole are we dealing with? An important orifice or a minor sphincter?”

  “An important orifice—Spin Monkey Red, our DJ for Saturday night.”

  “I didn’t think he was coming until Friday?”

  “That was the plan, but he got his days mixed up and there was something about a bust-up with his girlfriend of the week.” Brandy shook her head. “He really wasn’t making much sense.”

  With a name like Spin Monkey Red, sense wasn’t a trait I expected him to have, but my assistant apparently had a slightly higher expectation.

  “When no one was at the airport to meet him, he headed for the bar. The bartender called us.” Brandy blew a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “We found him. Paolo is praying the guy doesn’t lose his liquid lunch in the back of the limo.”

  “Hazards of his chosen profession.”

  My very naive and inexperienced assistant grimaced. “I’m so glad it’s not part of mine. Vomit makes me sick.”

  Miss Patterson shot me a grin. I gave her an almost imperceptible shake of the head in response. The young Miss Brandy Alexander had a rude awakening coming—the laws of biology dictated that when one overindulged, the body responded. If Vegas was about anything, it was about excesses of all kinds. And our job was to deal with the sometimes not-so-pretty ramifications. But now was not the time to dump reality into the girl’s lap.

  “He’s Filip’s problem now,” Brandy said, and settled back in her chair, a look of self-satisfaction on her face.

  Filip was one of our VIP hosts. Even though not terribly experienced, he had been around the block enough to know how to corral a shellacked mini-luminary.

  “But it’s not even one o’clock,” my new assistant said. “How can the guy be drunk already?”

  “Not already. Still.” I picked up a small pile of phone messages with my name scribbled at the top and said as I leafed through them, “If experience has taught me anything, the guy is still on last night s bender. Once here, he’ll hit the hay until about midnight, then start all over again. Unless he gets arrested, I’m not sure he’ll even notice he’s not in L.A. anymore.”

  When the outer door opened, all three of us swiveled our heads to get a look at our visitor.

  A young man slouched in. His hair stood from his head in a multicolored, foot-tall Mohawk that faded from black to shades of red and pink, with orange and purple thrown in for good measure. He wore numerous rings in each earlobe, a ring through his nose, and a look of youthful disdain on his face. Hollow-chested and wearing a dirty white muscle shirt with jeans slung low across his narrow hips, flip-flops, and brilliantly hued snakes and other reptiles tattooed from wrist to shoulder on each arm, he glanced at Brandy, gestured with his head toward the hallway, then left without saying a word. Rising from her chair, the young woman blushed as she rushed out the door.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  Miss Patterson shrugged.

  We made small talk while furtively glancing at the youngsters out in the hall. Their conversation animated, I couldn’t imagine what the two of them would have in common—my designer-addicted assistant and her... my vocabulary failed me as to what the young man was or what he could do for a living. Or, for that matter, why such a brilliant, beautiful girl like the young Miss Alexander would come when so rudely summoned. So, I remained mute.

  When Brandy returned, Miss P and I pretended to be knee-deep in work, without the slightest interest in the young man. But I couldn’t pull it off. “Okay, who was that?”

  Brandy moved some papers around on her desk so she wouldn’t have to look at us. “Just a guy I know.”

  “Surprisingly, that much we could figure out on our own.”

  This time, she looked up. I sensed a bit of defiance there. “He’s a nice guy, okay? We hang out sometimes, no big deal.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s in between jobs right now.”

  “No surprise there,” I shot back. “Unless he’s really good with Harleys, I’d say his prospects for gainful employment on this planet are slim.”

  Brandy frowned. “I would think you of all people wouldn’t be judgmental.”

  “I’m not judging him, I’m merely pointing out the obvious. Look around you. How many of the guys working here look like your friend?”

  “Not many,” she mumbled.

  “Try, none.” I parked a hip on her desk. “Brandy, remember, you are in management at one of the premier resort properties in the world, and you earned it. You don’t park cars anymore. When you move up, sometimes you leave people behind.”

  “I didn’t know your influence extended to my choice of partners.” Brandy’s voice was hard. Foolish and young, she had spunk, and I liked that.

  “It doesn’t. I only own your soul. Your personal life is yours to keep. Believe me, I have enough trouble with my own.” Levering myself back to my feet, I turned to Miss Patterson. “Take a run through Babel, will you? Make sure they’ve got the step-and-repeat where we want it and the red carpet is enough of a stroll that all the shutterbugs will have ample opportunity to capture the celeb of their choice.”

  The step-and-repeat was the banner with the names of all the sponsors of the opening night of Babel, our rooftop club/lounge. One of the games we played in Vegas was to make sure that the celebrities we had paid for were photographed o
nly at our club and in front of the step-and-repeat. Heads would roll if one of our high-priced hosts ended up in the paper at a competitor’s club—my head being at the top of the list.

  “They were hanging the banner this morning.” Miss P turned for the door. “I’ll make sure it’s the way you like it.”

  Brandy’s face had cleared. Now she looked like a puppy ready for a bone, so I gave her one. “Get Mr. Padilla on the phone. I’d like to stop by to see him for a few minutes at his convenience, but preferably sooner rather than later.”

  I heard her pick up the phone and ask the operator to be connected as I strolled into my office. Already staggering under the burden of the impending weekend, I groaned at the mess of papers still covering the beautiful black walnut desk. As I rounded my desk, I saw one perfect red rose with a note attached lying across the seat of my chair. I picked it up, held it to my nose, and inhaled. Ah, the unmistakable scent of a fresh flower grown in the desert sun. No hothouse rose from this sender.

  The message, in a flowing script I knew well, put a smile on my heart. “Think of me and know I’m thinking of you. Miss you more than you know.”

  The guy was definitely a keeper. If only keeping him was within my power.

  Inhaling the strong scent again, I strolled back into the outer office. Brandy was off the phone. “How did this flower get into my chair?”

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.” She grinned at me. “I caught Mr. Padilla having breakfast in his suite—apparently he’s on a different schedule than the rest of us. He said now would be perfect.”

  “Great.”

  “Oh, and Jerry asked if you could swing by Security. Apparently he has some information you wanted. He said it would only take a minute.”

  “Call him. Tell him I’m on my way. Then tell Mr. Padilla I’ll be there within the half hour.” I took the efficient note out of my voice. “And, for future reference, while it might be true and somewhat appealing to refer to our guests as assholes, when you are on the phone with them there is a risk that you might not have gotten their call put properly on hold. If that happens... trust me, the ensuing fallout is not worth the momentary pleasure of calling a spade, a spade.”