Double Lucky (68 page)

“He is
so
not,” Cookie argued. “You don't know him.”

“I've known him longer than you, thankyouverymuch,” Max retaliated.

“Not in the way
I
know him,” Cookie said with a secretive smile.

“Don't tell me you had sex again?” Max said, hoping she was wrong but sure that she wasn't.

“Wouldn't
you
like to know.” Cookie giggled.

“Not really,” Max said, hurrying over to the window to make sure the two young housekeepers got into the cab she'd ordered to take them to their families. She'd instructed them not to return until noon the next day, and she'd given them each fifty bucks cash, plus cab fare, to make sure they understood. The older sister had been worried about Lucky finding out, but Max had assured the girl in her best high school Spanish that Lucky would never know.

Once the housekeepers were gone, the three of them hurried downstairs and began unloading the booze from Max's car and lugging it out to the bar by the swimming pool.

“Who's going to make everyone drinks?” Cookie asked, filling the outdoor fridge with bottles of beer. “Frankie kinda suggested we could borrow one of his bartenders. Whaddya think?”

“So you
did
invite him?” Max said, turning on her accusingly.

“Told you I was,” Cookie said.

“But we didn't agree,” Max objected. “Seems you're forgetting it's
my
party.”

“Get over it,” Cookie snapped. “You're just jealous 'cause I'm getting it an' you're not.”

“That's crap,” Max said, although maybe she was a little bit put out that for Cookie, sex seemed so uncomplicated. “And by the way, you stink of weed.”

“Want some?” Cookie offered, digging into her purse.

“I do,” Harry said, darting forward with an eager gleam in his eyes.

Max threw him a withering look. “No thanks,” she said to Cookie. “And no bartender either. Everyone can help themselves. I'm dropping by the market and buying a ton of plastic glasses we can throw away later.”

Cookie yawned, feigning boredom. “Whatever,” she muttered. “It's
your
party.”

“Okay, girls,” Harry said, thinking it was time he butted in. “We've got work to do. Let's get to it.”

*   *   *

The hostage situation worked itself out, and Leon was by Denver's desk early in the morning. For several weeks he'd been tracking a dealer who'd been selling his wares to a local high school, and he was close to making an arrest. But they both knew it wasn't the small-time dealer he was out to nail, it was the supplier, so his plan was to not Mirandize the guy, to get him to talk, then set him free.

Denver was in on the plan, and she fully approved. Getting the big-time supplier into court was their ultimate goal, then, after a triumphant victory, throwing him into jail, where he belonged. She couldn't wait to get in on the action.

“What didja do last night?” Leon wanted to know, hovering by her desk.

“Nothing much,” Denver replied. “And you?”

“Went on a date with a Cuban girl who was into having sex in the elevator of her apartment house.”

“Excuse me?” Denver said, raising an eyebrow.

Leon laughed. “She was one of those danger freaks. Y'know, let's see if we can get ourselves caught.”

“Lovely.”

“I hadda say no, an' then she blew me off.”

“In the sexual sense?”

“I wish,” he said, laughing again. “Bitch called me chicken an' told me to get out.”

“Because you wouldn't have sex with her in an elevator?”

“You think I wanna get arrested for indecent exposure? I can see myself comin' up in court with
you
prosecuting my ass.”

“If that ever happens, I'll be gentle,” she promised, smiling.

“Bullshit!”

They both laughed.

“Seriously, Denver,” Leon said. “I gotta say I like workin' with you. You're kinda one of the boys.”

“I am?” she said, taking it as a compliment.

“Yeah. All the guys think so, an' believe me, that's high praise.”

“Well … I'm not sure what to say.”

“You don't hav'ta say nothin'.”

“Then I won't.”

Leon circled her desk. “Y'know, this weekend, my partner, Phil, an' his wife are throwin' a barbecue. Nothin' fancy, but a lot of the guys are goin', an' I thought you might wanna tag along. Get t' know everyone.”

“That's so nice of you, Leon, but this weekend I'll be in Vegas with my, uh … boyfriend.” She felt stupid saying the word
boyfriend,
but that's exactly what Bobby was. Anyway, she needed to let Leon know she was taken, even though she was sure he already knew.

“Vegas, huh?” Leon said, hiding his disappointment. “Now, doncha go runnin' off an' sealin' the deal in one of those Elvis impersonator weddin' chapels.”

“I promise I won't.”

“Then I guess I'm gonna hav'ta let you go.”

“I have your permission, do I?” she said, amused.

“Yeah, Denver. Put it all on lucky seven, an' don't come back without a big score.”

“Yes
sir!
”

Her cell rang. It was Bobby. Leon took the hint and left.

“Where were you last night?” she asked. “I couldn't hear a word you said.”

“Long boring story,” Bobby replied, deciding he didn't need to mention the strip club. “Those Russian investors I told you about dragged everything out, and I ended up having to stay in Vegas.”

“Poor you.”

“Got on a plane early this morning, and just landed in New York.” A beat. “But never mind about me. How are
you?
”

“Lonely.”

“That's what I like to hear.”

“Missing you.”

“Even better.”

“When will you be back?”

“Thursday night. Then Friday we'll fly to Vegas. Please tell me you're saying yes.”

Alternatives: Visiting Sam on a movie set. Attending a cop barbecue with Leon. Seems like no contest.
“I'm saying yes, Bobby,” she said softly.

“That's my girl. I'll call you later. Have a good one.”

*   *   *

Checking out a couple of gossip sites on his computer, Frankie was delighted to find several shots of himself and Cookie leaning all over each other at River. She looked hot, kind of like a young Janet Jackson.

He quickly scanned the copy:

Eighteen-year-old Cookie, daughter of soul icon Gerald M., getting thisclose with her new boyfriend, Frankie Romano, at his club, River.

Perfect! Exactly what he'd planned. He'd given access to a paparazzo, who'd gotten the shots in the club and then sold them. Of course, Rick Greco would be pissed that they'd called River his club, but hey—he
was
the front man.
He
was the one bringing the crowd in. Yeah! They all loved Frankie Romano. He knew how to satisfy everyone's decadent cravings. Nothing bad about
that
.

Unbeknownst to Rick, Frankie had a secret to assuring happy repeat customers, and that secret was a lucrative drug business he ran on the side. Coke, pills, Ecstasy, crystal meth, pot. You name it, Frankie could supply it. His rich and famous customers loved the convenience of having a virtual pharmacy at their disposal. Frankie had all his connections down, and now he was starting to make real money.

Too bad Rick hadn't made him a full partner; he might've considered sharing.

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

After spending some time with his father, who was resting before the next day's wildly extravagant birthday festivities, Armand returned to his palace and the family he had not yet seen.

This time Soraya was waiting to greet him. They had been married for eleven years, and he had to admit that from the fifteen-year-old girl he'd wed, Soraya had turned into a striking woman. She was tall and slender, with a sweep of long, straight black hair and large sad eyes. Her body was covered by the traditional burqa.

He found himself wondering what this woman he hardly knew would look like in Western clothes, and if, when he wasn't around, she actually wore them. The truth was he didn't care, even though she had given birth to four children—
his
children.

Soraya rarely spoke when she was in his presence, only answered him when he directed a question at her.

“Where is Tariq?” he asked, naming his only son.

“I will fetch him if you wish,” Soraya replied.

He'd noticed that she never looked him directly in the eyes; she avoided any kind of contact, including physical. He'd stopped sleeping with her several visits ago. He had no desire for yet another daughter, and it seemed that every time he touched her, she ended up pregnant. Not that sleeping with her gave him any enjoyment. The few times he'd had sex with her, she'd lain beneath him like a stone statue, unmoving and unresponsive.

So be it. There were many women who would do anything he requested—no request too bizarre. Only yesterday in London he'd had two women crawling around his suite on all fours wearing leather dog collars, serving him dinner and then pleasuring each other for his amusement, while he sat back and snorted coke until he got bored and sent the whores away.

Soraya left the room and returned with Tariq, a tall, skinny boy of eleven. The boy was clad in an American Lakers T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers.

Armand was incensed. “Why is Tariq dressed like this?” he demanded. “It is disrespectful to me. Have him change immediately.”

“Yes,” Soraya murmured, shooing her son from the room.

“When I come here,” Armand said, his voice a harsh command, “I expect obedience and respect. Do you understand me?”

Soraya hung her head, still refusing to look at him.

Armand didn't care. When the king died and he inherited what was his, perhaps he would abandon Akramshar and never come back. For it was not his country, not his home. America was his home. And Soraya and her brood were not his family.

*   *   *

King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan embraced tradition—his own personal tradition. Every year it was the same thing: an elaborate parade put on by his legions of grandchildren, of whom he was extremely proud, followed by a public proclamation to the citizens of Akramshar, who revered their generous king. Then there was a series of more private celebrations. First a massive feast of roasted lamb, goat, and various other animals. The men on one side of the huge tent erected for the festivities, the women and children on the other. For entertainment, a dozen or so plump belly dancers jiggled their wares for several hours, until eventually the women and children were sent away and a parade of exquisite Eastern European women appeared, dressed in tight, low-cut cocktail dresses, with soaring high heels on their bare legs, and an abundance of makeup.

The women formed a line, and the king chose the ones he wished to sit with him and his sons. Later the king would pair off with a woman or three of his choice, and after he had chosen, it was his sons' turns to pick whomever they wanted. Since Armand was not the eldest son, he had to wait. This infuriated him. He felt that because of his business dealings with his father, he should be next. But tradition ruled. When his time came, he selected a sultry honey-blonde from Ukraine. She reminded him of Nona Constantine, and he enjoyed reliving the ravishing of Nona. The high-class call girl didn't complain, but she was paid a small fortune not to, so Armand had his fun with her, humiliating her in every possible way. When he finally dismissed her, he could see the hatred in her eyes. It did not bother him. She was a paid whore; why would he care?

Year after year, the king's celebrations were a repeat performance. And the next morning Armand was on a plane out of there, back to civilization; back to the life he preferred.

Good-bye, Akramshar.

Good-bye, Soraya.

Good-bye to the family he'd never wanted.

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Driving along Pico on her way home from work, Denver checked in with Carolyn. She was curious to find out what had taken place on Carolyn's date with a woman. It seemed such a random thing for her to do—changing sides for no particular reason.

“Is Bobby in town?” Carolyn asked.

“No. He's in New York,” Denver replied, pulling up to a red light. “Why?”

“'Cause I was thinking you might feel like picking up a Chinese chicken salad from Chin Chin and coming over.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Denver said, happy to do so. She hadn't felt like spending yet another evening home alone, and although she wasn't really into babies, she had to admit that Andy was extremely adorable.

Sam had called and left a message. She hadn't called him back; she didn't want to encourage him. After all, she'd told him she was still involved—sort of. Maybe he hadn't taken her as seriously as he should've.

After stopping by Chin Chin, she headed straight for Carolyn's house.

Carolyn was sitting out in her back garden, Andy balanced on her knee. The two of them made a perfect picture, straight out of
Modern Mother
magazine.

Denver wondered whether her friend was thinking of going back to work anytime soon. Andy's dad, the cheating Senator Stoneman, was certainly not sending her any child support. Who knew if he was even aware that he had a son? And since Carolyn's parents had split up, they were probably not prepared to give financial aid to their daughter forever. Besides, Denver reckoned it would be therapeutic for Carolyn to find a job and put all the Washington trauma behind her.

“Hey,” she said lightly. “I left the food in the kitchen. Don't you ever lock your front door? I walked right in.”