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

by Deborah Coonts

  One time I had remarked to Jordan that two such beautiful men not being interested in the female of the species was such a waste. Quick as a rattler, he’d fired back a line from our favorite movie, Victor-Victoria: “Honey, I can assure you it’s not wasted.”

  Well, maybe not to him, but as a card-carrying member of the World Association of Red-Blooded Women, I mourned the loss of two gorgeous hunks from the gene pool so much that, every time I saw the two of them, I felt like holding a candlelight vigil.

  “Have you been waiting long?” I asked, as I skidded to a stop beside Rudy.

  He gave me a look I’d last seen on a kid’s face when he was stumped in the last round of the National Spelling Bee. I had no idea such a simple question could be as hard as spelling appoggiatura or serrefine or gallinazo—or some other ridiculous word never used in polite conversation.

  Grabbing my arm, he pulled me into the mouth of a nearby hallway. “We need to talk.” He didn’t stop until we were at the very end, far from eavesdroppers, my arm still clutched tightly in his grasp. “I can’t do this.”

  Squelching my rising panic, I kept my face calm, my voice casual. “Can’t do what?”

  “This!” He gestured back toward the Temple of Love. “I can’t go through with it. I can’t let Jordan ruin his life for me.”

  So the great cosmic joker had appointed me the Swami of Love. Me, of all people! An emotional cripple who couldn’t tell the man who had stolen my heart that I loved him. I felt like an imposter pretending to be a surgeon, scalpel poised over the patient . . .

  I took my time choosing my words. “Seems to me that’s Jordan’s choice to make.”

  “But he’s giving up everything.” Rudy’s voice cracked.

  “No, he’s giving up a career. In exchange, he’s getting everything he’s ever wanted—the chance to live openly with you, the person he loves.”

  “You think?”

  I nodded.

  “How do you know?” Rudy asked, his voice a whisper.

  “He told me so. Right after I asked him if he was bat shit insane.”

  That got a fleeting grin from the nervous bride.

  “Rudy, what I know about love wouldn’t fill an index card... if you write big... in crayon. So keep that in mind when weighing what I tell you.” I pried his fingers from my arm, then put my arm around his shoulders as I led him back to civilization. “The people in our lives, our relationships, are the only things that really matter. Get those right, you get life right. The rest of the stuff is just details.”

  He’d calmed down a bit by the time we reached the doors to the Temple of Love, but his eyes still looked troubled.

  “You look like you could use a drink, relax a little.”

  “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. And what about our meeting?”

  “It’s five o’clock somewhere, and Delphinia will wait.” My arm still around his shoulders, I steered him further into the Babylon’s mall of shops and straight to the counter at the Daiquiri Den. “Let me buy you something fruity and sinful.” I kept my face passive.

  He narrowed his eyes at me, then grinned. “You’re lucky we’ve been friends forever or I’d have to spank you.”

  “Promises, promises.” I surveyed the drink menu even though I knew it by heart. “Pick your poison.”

  He chose a frozen piña colada.

  “The same, but make mine a virgin,” I said to the girl behind the counter. “I always like saying that—I don’t know why.”

  “I’m not even going to think about what that says about your sexual fantasies,” Rudy said, as he took his drink from the young woman. She gave him a shy smile.

  “Charge them to me, Gloria,” I said, when she handed me my drink.

  “You got it, Ms. O’Toole.”

  Rudy took a long gulp of his colada as we wandered back to the Temple of Love. “Everybody here knows who you are. What’s that like?” Rudy asked.

  “You’ll find out for yourself soon enough.”

  “Now there’s a sobering thought.” Forgoing the straw, Rudy tilted the glass and began chugging.

  * * *

  IN designing our wedding chapel, the Big Boss had hoped to recreate a true Babylonian temple, which I thought ill-advised. After all, the Babylonians were pagans and had a nasty habit of sacrificing women and small children. Waving away my concerns, the Big Boss reasoned that since most folks were a little unclear as to the identities of the first four presidents of our great country, they wouldn’t have a clue as to some of the less savory Babylonian religious practices. I couldn’t argue with him there, but the whole thing gave me the creeps. Each time I stepped through the door into the cool interior, I had to stifle the urge to look over my shoulder for a guy with a knife. Was that Freudian? Who knew?

  Built out of huge rectangular blocks of sandstone, The Temple of Love reminded me of that Egyptian temple someone had reconstructed at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, The Temple of Dendur. Massive in exterior appearance, both temples were small and intimate inside. Open flame sconces lined the walls, casting a warm glow. Urns of reeds softened the corners. Empty by design, the center of the room was a blank canvas to be painted with the desires of the marrying couple.

  A bundle of energy and discretion, Delphinia rushed to greet us. “Ms. O’Toole, good to see you.”

  Of medium height and weight, with limp brown hair brushing her shoulders, sensible shoes, and uninspired attire, Delphinia blended into the background and did little to inspire confidence—until she looked at you. The clearest violet, her eyes were the eyes of an old soul.

  “This is Mr. Gillespi.” I motioned to Rudy at my side, who was draining the last of his drink. “He’ll be making all of the arrangements.”

  Her pad at the ready, her pen poised, Delphinia asked, “So this is to be Sunday afternoon, correct?”

  Rudy nodded. “Five o’clock, if that’s possible.”

  “Of course.” Delphinia wrote the time on her pad. “And what is the name of the bride?”

  Rudy and I looked at each other. “That will remain confidential for now, but the paperwork will all be in order,” I said.

  The wedding planner didn’t miss a beat. “Okay, do you know what kind of wedding you would like? Elvis impersonator? Thematic? Lately, for some odd reason, vampires have been popular.” She looked at us over the rim of her glasses with those mesmerizing eyes. “I can tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a minister dressed as Dracula, complete with fake blood and fangs, trying to say, ‘Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today.’”

  Rudy swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. “It won’t actually be a wedding . . .” He trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

  “A commitment ceremony, perhaps?” Delphinia asked, her eyes full of understanding.

  “Yes, that’s it.” Rudy seemed to find his footing. “Since Nevada has constitutionally banned marriage between members of the same gender, we will have a ceremony here, then a legal union when and wherever it might actually be possible.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” Delphinia scratched a few notes. “And would you like your ceremony to be held here in the temple?”

  “No,” I interjected. “We’ll be having it in Mr. Rothstein’s apartment.”

  “I see.” If she was surprised, she didn’t show it.

  Out of the corner of his mouth, Rudy said, “The Big Boss agreed to that?”

  I shook my head. “He doesn’t know about it yet.”

  Both Delphinia and Rudy looked at me with owl eyes.

  “Oh ye of little faith,” I intoned. “Let me handle the where, you guys work on the when and the how.”

  The two of them fell deep into conversation about flowers. I set forth to nail down the Big Boss.

  * * *

  AFTER looking in all the usual places, querying his assistant, and rejecting the idea of calling my mother, I finally located my father in the Spa, finishing one of his thrice-weekly workouts with his personal train
er.

  His face red, he gave me a nod as he pounded out the last few reps of shoulder presses, then dropped the weights, which bounced off the rubber floor. Struggling to catch his breath, he wiped his face with a towel.

  “l can’t remember ever seeing you in here,” he said, squinting one eye as he looked up at me. He looked vigorous and alive—taut and tight in all the right places with not even the hint of a paunch. He could have passed for a man twenty years younger, in the prime of life—if you overlooked the angry red scar peeking out of the top of his shirt. Only a couple of months from open-heart surgery and the guy was throwing iron around like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  Had the doctor cleared him to exercise or was my father blithely ignoring medical wisdom? Since there wasn’t anything I could do about it, I really didn’t want to know. Problems I can’t fix make me as twitchy as a drunk with a bottle he can’t open.

  “Exercise makes me itch,” I said. I took his outstretched hand and pulled him to his feet. “Besides, one time, just for giggles, Miss Patterson strapped a pedometer on me. Fifteen miles—that’s what I cover in an average day.”

  “That’s activity, not exercise. You’ve got to get your heart rate up.” Thinking of Teddie, I said, “Oh, I get my heart pumping.” He shot me a sideways glance. “Sex doesn’t count.” “Where’s the justice in that?” I walked with him as he thanked his trainer, then pushed through the doors to the elevator. “Do you have a few minutes? I need to talk to you privately.”

  “Come on up with me. I have a massage scheduled, but the masseuse won’t be there until twelve. That gives us fifteen minutes. Is that enough?”

  “Sure.”

  He held the elevator door for me, then followed me inside, put his card in the slot and punched the button. “I heard you took a chunk out of your mother’s ass this morning.”

  I could see the reflection of his scowl as the doors closed. “She had it coming.”

  “Maybe so, but are you sure you weren’t a bit harsh?”

  Well-intentioned or not, I didn’t need my recently found father trying to broker peace between my mother and me. We’d been firing salvos across each other’s bows for a long time now. “Look,” I said, “let me save you the breath. I know Mother has a heart as big as all outdoors—she rescues everything and everybody—or at least tries to. However, she has an annoying habit of leaping without looking, and then expects me to clean up the mess. I’m trying to get her to pause before she takes that last step off the cliff, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And, to be honest, I’m almost as mad at myself as I am at her,” my reflection said to his. Talking in an elevator was always uncomfortable—too close to turn and look at the person, but awkward talking to a mirror image.

  “Do you really think either of us could have stopped her?” The elevator dinged and he motioned for me to walk ahead.

  “Probably not. She had the bit in her teeth.”

  “Your mother can handle herself; it’s the girl I’m worried about.” That’s my father, hard-boiled exterior, gooey middle.

  “Don’t be. I have it under control.” I cringed as I said it. Announcing control invited the Fates to throw curveballs.

  “I also caught Norm Clarke’s column,” my father said, deftly conceding defeat. “Are you and Teddie okay?”

  “Far as I know. I need more evidence than a picture taken in a public place, in front of a crowd, to convict him. Besides, people kiss me all the time. That doesn’t mean I’m groping them in the cloakroom. Teddie deserves the same latitude.”

  “I hope that boy knows what he’s got.”

  “If he doesn’t, he’s not the right guy for me.” The words were true, but as I said them, my heart cracked a little. I’m not sure I could handle Teddie disappointing me.

  “I also caught an innuendo in Norm’s column about you.” He pulled the towel from his neck and a bottle of water from the fridge in the bar. “Want one?”

  I shook my head.

  “Want to tell me about Jordan Marsh?”

  “That’s why I’m here, actually. I need your apartment for a wedding this Sunday afternoon.”

  His eyes grew wide as he tipped back his head, drained the water bottle, then wiped his mouth on the towel he still held in his other hand. “You and Teddie?”

  “No, Jordan Marsh.”

  He blinked at me a few times. “You and Jordan Marsh?”

  “No.” I paused before I let the cat out of the bag. Jordan had asked me to do this, but still... I was intensely aware that I was teetering at the point of no return. “Jordan Marsh and Rudy Gillespi.”

  “For real?” My father couldn’t hide his surprise.

  I nodded, then shrugged. “In a way, I’m responsible. Three years ago I introduced them and have been running cover ever since. It was nothing new—I’d been doing the same for Jordan long before that.”

  “And here I thought you’d been shagging the biggest heartthrob on the planet off and on for years.”

  “Really?” It was my turn to be surprised.

  “Everybody thought so,” he assured me.

  “I had no idea.” The blood drained from my head and I felt woozy. “My sex life is a topic of conversation?”

  “It is for your mother and me. I was speaking a bit broadly, but I doubt we were the only ones.”

  Oh, happy day.

  “Come. Sit.” He motioned to the couch in front of his wall of windows. He shook his head. “Jordan Marsh, gay? Who would have believed it?”

  * * *

  MY story complete and the Big Boss’s complicity gained with a promise to join him for cocktails later, I made my escape as the masseuse arrived. Blond, willowy, and young, she didn’t know it yet, but when my mother got a look at her she was as good as gone.

  I reviewed my morning as I rode down in the elevator. So far I’d rescued a virgin, threatened the district attorney, and set in motion events that would derail a stellar career—and the day wasn’t even half-over. Rather depressing, all things considered.

  There was only one thing to do—eat.

  The lunch crowd had yet to arrive in full force when I stepped in line at Nebuchadnezzar’s, the Babylon’s renowned buffet. I flashed my employee badge, grabbed a tray and plate, and then, like a kid in a candy store, made a reconnaissance of all the offerings. Never one to make snap decisions when it came to food, I loaded my plate with gustatory delights from five different continents, then took a seat at a two-top by the window.

  The fall day in full bloom, I watched golfers do what golfers do on the Babylon’s championship course as I tried to decide what foodstuff to attack first.

  My phone rang, catching me with a mouth full of ribs. I wiped one hand then flipped the thing open. “O’Toole.”

  Flash Gordon lived by the motto, “Why waste time being cordial when you can be efficient?” “I’m in your office, why aren’t you here?”

  “My office is just a front where I enslave others to do my work so I can shirk my duties and hide out in Nebuchadnezzar’s. Want some lunch?”

  “You’re buying,” she said, then the line went dead.

  * * *

  FLASH made it, well... in a flash. I had barely plowed through three ribs and had a fork poised over the potato salad when she arrived.

  She tossed her bag at my feet. “I found your Mary Swearingen Makepeace. You are so not gonna like it.” She pointed at my plate. “But first, I’ve gotta get me one of those. I’m wasting away standing here.”

  As she sashayed away, I narrowed my eyes at her full-sized behind. She didn’t seem in imminent danger of emaciation to me.

  Stuffed into a pair of painted-on jeans, she balanced on towering hot pink stilettos. Her lush figure cinched in by a tight belt, her double denvers threatening to bust loose from her tight white tee shirt with Bob Marley stenciled on the front, Flash turned every male head in the place.

  Like her wardrobe, everything about Flash Gordon was overstated, from her red hair to her fu
ll lips painted a pouty pink to her in-your-face personality. Hanging out with her was like being strapped to the back of a honeybee—exhilarating, nauseating, terrifying—and sometimes life-threatening. That girl had a nose for trouble.

  God knew what she’d dug up on Mary Swearingen Makepeace. Milking me like this meant she’d found something good. Her stonewalling would normally light my short fuse, but since I had food to keep me happy, I let her have her fun.

  I was busy stuffing a Chinese egg roll in my mouth when she returned. Two continents down, three to go, and I was already full. I couldn’t remember being this much off my feed before—except for that time I got food poisoning and darn near died.

  Flash plopped two fully laden plates on the table, then her heinie in the chair. “I’m a two-fisted eater. So sue me.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Not out loud.” She took a huge bite out of a hamburger, oozing cheese and mayo—a little splotch dribbled on her chin, but she didn’t notice—or, if she did, she didn’t care. With her mouth full, she leaned over and grabbed an egg roll off my plate, adding it to the pile on hers, then gave me a grin—hard to do with her mouth full.

  I narrowed my eyes at her—she knew I considered swiping other people’s food a capital offense.

  She swallowed the bite of hamburger, then grabbed a cube of watermelon off my plate and popped it into her mouth, her eyes dancing with glee as they challenged me.

  Pushing my plate out of her easy reach, I cleared the table in front of me.

  “Is that all you’re going to eat? Are you pregnant or something?” She eyed me, a look of horror on her face.

  Crossing my arms, I raised one eyebrow at her. When I pointed to her chin, she dabbed at it with her napkin.

  “Okay, okay.” She wolfed another bite of burger then started paraphrasing the notes she kept in her head, her mind like a steel trap. “Do you remember a guy named Joseph Ferenti?”

  “The name doesn’t strike a chord.”

  “He was a fight promoter out of Atlantic City—strictly smalltime. Twenty-five years ago he was put on trial here in Vegas on what the general consensus seemed to think were trumped-up charges.”