Double Lucky (101 page)

“I get it,” Billy said. “Lucky an' Lennie would throw a shit fit.”

“You're not wrong about that. And…” She hesitated for a moment. “Venus is in town. I saw her earlier at Mood. She'll probably be at my party.”

“I saw her too. Ran into her outside the restaurant where Kev an' I were eating.”

“Kev's with you?”

“He came along for the ride. Don't worry, he's not gonna bother us. He's got his instructions.”

“It's not that I don't like him…” she said tentatively.

“Listen, Kev can be a big pain at times, but the thing about Kev is that he means well.”

“Did you
speak
to Venus?” Max asked curiously.

“Briefly. She hates me now.”

“She does?”

“Divorce brings out the bitch in everyone.”

“Y'know,” Max mused, turning over, “Venus has been my mom's best friend since I was a little kid.”

“You're
still
a little kid,” he teased, lazily tickling her stomach, thinking how luminous and pretty she was with her olive skin and brilliant green eyes. She wasn't just pretty, she was a beauty.

She squealed and rolled away from him.

He laughed and came after her, lowering his lean, bronzed body on top of her, slowly moving inside her until she sighed with pleasure.

Now she realized what Cookie meant when she carried on about how great it was doing the deed instead of holding back the main event.

Once again she realized she was glad she'd waited. Billy Melina was perfect, the birthday present of her dreams.

*   *   *

“Where's my little girl?” Gerald M. suddenly demanded, glancing around the crowded table at Mood. He was drinking Jack Daniel's and feeling no pain.

Frankie, who'd managed to insert himself between two buxom blondes, gave a casual shrug. “Dancin' her ass off,” he replied, although he had no idea where Cookie had vanished to, and he didn't much care. The blondes had already invited him to their suite, and he had plans to go, maybe take along Gerald M. if he was so inclined.

“Aren't you supposed to be
with
my little girl?” Gerald M. inquired, a belligerent look in his eyes. “She told me you drove here together.”

Cancel the blondes
, Frankie thought.
The dude's just remembered he has a daughter.

“That's right,” Frankie said, keeping it casual. “Only you know Cookie—she's a girl who likes t' do her own thing. I wouldn't want to hold her back.”

“Go find her,” Gerald M. said, scowling. “It's late. I don't like the idea of her wandering around on her own.”

“I'm sure she's fine,” Frankie said, left eye twitching.

Gerald M. gave him the Big Star look, a look that said
When I want something done—do it.

“Yeah,” Frankie said, reluctantly getting up. “Think I'll go find her now.”

*   *   *

When Lucky was intent on doing something, there was nothing and no one capable of stopping her. She lived by her own rules, and her rules were stringent.
Never fuck with a Santangelo
said it all.

Armand Jordan was fucking with her, and she would not have it. Oh no, shooting his mouth off that he was buying The Keys might be a minor infraction to some people, but to Lucky it was out-and-out war. She would not allow the fool to go around saying such things. She would put a stop to it instantly.

She made her way down to the private Santangelo parking basement, where she discovered that the attendant was asleep on the job. Instead of waking him, she reached her arm inside his cubicle to the board of keys and collected the ignition key for her Vegas car, a silver blue Aston Martin, making a mental note to have the attendant fired the next morning, unless of course he had a wife and family—in which case she might reconsider.

It felt invigorating to be doing something about Armand Jordan. She hadn't liked the man from the moment he'd set foot in her office that morning. Bad vibes. Very bad vibes.

Damn Jeffrey—he should've known better than to put her in the same room with him. But Jeffrey was going through a divorce, so he probably wasn't thinking straight. Divorces seemed to do that to people, even lawyers.

She drove her car up from the underground garage, adrenaline surging.

It didn't matter that it was almost one in the morning. In fact, it added to the drama.

Armand Jordan was about to find out that nobody fucked with a Santangelo. Nobody.

 

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Randy Sorrentino clumsily hauled his big muscled body off the lounger and tried to get his brain around what he should wear. His drug delivery uniform—a light sports jacket over a maroon shirt and pants? Or should he go for more casual wear, such as his prized Guns N' Roses sweatshirt from way back and torn jeans?

Randy Sorrentino did not believe in rushing; he believed in taking his time. His mind worked slowly, so rushing didn't do it for him. He liked to think things through before he left the safety of his apartment.

Earlier in the evening, Luscious had informed him that she wouldn't be dancing at Dirty Den's tonight. Instead she had a high-paying gig at the Cavendish Hotel, and she was taking along Seducta. Randy wasn't sure whether the high-paying gig was for stripping or hooking. He hadn't asked; he didn't need the details. If his girlfriend wanted to open her legs and invite strangers in for money, it was all right with him. As long as she didn't come trotting home with some other dude's stink on her. In the porn business he'd learned a lot about protection and personal hygiene, and thoughtfully he'd passed all the info along to Luscious, who swore she always made the john use a condom.

The money she brought in helped. Eventually they might want to buy a house, or maybe get hitched and start a family. But that was way off in their future. Right now it was all about enjoying themselves, and if there was one thing Randy excelled at, it was enjoying himself.

He considered Luscious's hurried words over the phone.
Get your ass over here. We got ourselves a live one.

That could mean anything.

An' bring the crack pipe, your piece, an' your big old self.

Was this for a party? Or was he supposed to make a sale?

Randy didn't like it when she called him old. He was only twenty-eight, and yeah, some people might consider him big—230 pounds of pure muscle—but he was also big in all the right places, something that had always helped him on his journey through life. It was the one thing he had over Mikey.

Thinking of Mikey, he considered whether he should bring him in on this. He had to admit that Mikey was the brains of the family, and he was the brawn. So if—as Luscious had said—they were about to make some real money, wasn't including Mikey the right thing to do?

Yeah, Mikey was the man.

Randy pulled up his pants and reached for the phone to summon his big brother.

*   *   *

Armand was slumped on the couch, his mind veering off in all different directions. He'd never combined alcohol and cocaine before, so he was feeling quite disoriented.

The whores weren't dancing, although the music continued, loud and raucous, the harsh beat throbbing through Armand's brain. One of the whores had fallen into a naked, drunken stupor on the couch. She was snoring, her mouth open.

“What's wrong with her?” he muttered to the skinny whore, who for some unknown reason was standing by the bar holding a phone, her scrawny tattooed body nude.

“Got someone on the way,” she informed him. “Someone who's gonna do whatever you need done.” After a crafty pause, she added, “For a price, of course.”

For a price.
Armand digested her words.
For a price.

What was this someone supposed to do for a price?

Then he remembered. They were going to blow Lucky Santangelo's brains out.

Yes, that was it.

And he would pay whatever it took.

*   *   *

Randy picked his brother up in his super-charged gold Dodge.

Mikey was standing outside his house, a sinister figure clad all in black, including oblique tinted sunglasses, which he wore day and night.

Mikey and Randy shared a mother, not a father. Mikey's dad, a hardened criminal, was doing life in prison, while Randy's dad—a former bodybuilder—sat at home picking up a disability pension.

Mikey was not big and tall like his younger brother; he was slight of build and less than five feet eight. To compensate, he wore black snakeskin cowboy boots with three-inch semi concealed heels and a secret compartment where he stashed a six-inch hunting knife.

“What's this shit all about?” Mikey asked as he climbed into the passenger seat.

“Sounds like it's somethin',” Randy said, revving the engine. “Luscious wouldn't steer us wrong.”

“She'd better not,” Mikey responded. “'Cause if she's wasting my time, I'm gonna slap her sideways till she can't see straight.”

 

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

“Is this seat taken?”

Denver didn't bother looking at the man who'd seated himself next to her at the blackjack table. She was fed up with being hit on—enough was enough. Besides, she was doing very nicely, accumulating a tidy pile of chips. Gambling was actually fun, although if she was truthful with herself, she knew she would sooner be with Bobby.

She placed her next bet and waited patiently for the dealer to slide the cards.

The dealer did so—and blackjack! She'd scored again.

“Nice one,” said the man seated beside her. She gave him a quick glance and realized it was Bobby.

“Thank you,” she said politely, acting as if they were total strangers.

“You're welcome,” he said, playing along.

A paunchy man in a Hawaiian shirt sitting two seats away made a triumphant gesture with his thumb and mumbled something about her killing them. “This little lady is picking all my cards,” he complained good-naturedly. “But she's way too pretty to get mad at.” He nodded at Bobby. “Maybe you'll change the balance.”

“I'll try,” Bobby said.

They played for fifteen more minutes, until Denver finally lost a bet.

Without looking at Bobby, she gathered up her chips and stood up. “Cashing out,” she said, tossing the dealer a generous tip.

“We'll miss you,” said Mister Hawaiian Shirt.

Bobby stood too. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, addressing Denver.

“Well…” she demurred.

“He's not a bad-looking guy; I say go for it,” Hawaiian Shirt encouraged. “That's unless he's married. You got to take a look-see at his ring finger. It's always a sure giveaway—you'll see the tan mark.”

Denver gave Bobby a solemn look. “
Are
you married?” she asked.

“Nope,” Bobby replied, equally serious. “Are you?”

“I recently divorced my third husband,” she said.

“Dangerous!” Hawaiian Shirt exclaimed.

“Thanks for all the encouragement,” Denver said, smiling at him. “I'll let you know how it turns out.”

Hawaiian Shirt nodded eagerly. He loved Vegas—there was always something going on.

“So,” Bobby said, still playing along as they walked toward a nearby lounge. “What brings you to Vegas?”

“Like I said, I recently divorced my third husband.”

“Did he do something to piss you off?”

“Danced with an ex.”

“Really?”

“It didn't sit well with me.”

“I guess it wouldn't. Although I'm sure it was perfectly innocent.”

“Maybe,” she said, shrugging. “Or maybe not.”

They reached the lounge and settled in at a corner table.

“What'll you have?” Bobby asked as a pretty waitress came over to take their order.

“A vodka martini,” Denver said, getting into their unexpected game. “Make it a dirty double.”

“A dirty double, huh?” Bobby said, raising an eyebrow. The Denver he knew was a white wine girl. But this wasn't Denver he was sitting with—this was a stranger, and he found himself getting quite turned on. “Okay then, make it a double vodka martini for the lady, and I'll have a beer,” he told the waitress.

“And why are
you
in Vegas?” Denver asked as the waitress moved away.

“Came here for a romantic weekend with my girlfriend, but we kinda got off track.”

“You did?”

“Shit happens.”

“How true.”

The drinks came and Denver downed her martini as if she were celebrating at a Russian wedding.

“Hey,” Bobby said, trying not to laugh. “Easy.”

“Some men think I am,” she murmured provocatively.

“What kind of men would they be?”

She gave a casual shrug. “Oh, I don't know … the adventurous kind.”

“I'm adventurous.”

“You are?”

“Certainly. Uh … how about coming upstairs to my room and I'll prove it to you.”

“Will your girlfriend be there?”

“My girlfriend's long gone.”

“You're sure?”

“Oh yeah, I'm dead sure.”

She gave him a bold look. “Then what are we waiting for?”

He threw money on the table, stood up, and offered her his hand. “Nothing I can think of,” he said.

*   *   *

Lucky did not want Armand Jordan to be forewarned that she was on her way to pay him a visit. Surprise was the name of the game. A nice big fat surprise.

It wouldn't be a physical confrontation, not like the time she'd visited an investor in one of the Santangelo hotels who'd refused to pay up. Ah yes, she'd visited him in the middle of the night while he was sleeping and held the cold steel of a knife next to his balls. The following day, the money was forthcoming.