Double Lucky (90 page)

Gino made it easy for her. Fifteen minutes into the dinner, he experienced a major sneezing fit and blew his nose into a napkin. Usually Peggy considered men who did that social outcasts, but tonight she was thrilled.

However, there was a problem—how to maneuver the soiled napkin into her purse before the waiter came over and spirited it away?

Like a true amateur detective, the answer came to her. Without even thinking about it, she nudged her martini glass so that its contents spilled across the table and onto Gino's lap. Confusion ensued, during which Peggy managed to stuff the napkin into her purse. Mission accomplished!

Peggy experienced a moment of deep satisfaction, and even deeper excitement. After all these years wondering who Armand's real father was, soon the suspense would be over.

Earlier that evening she'd visited the computer center at her hotel and Googled Joe Piscarelli. He too was still alive, and had obviously prospered, for he owned a chain of car dealerships and several gentlemen's clubs. Joe was not as old as Gino Santangelo—nor was he buried in the desert as she'd imagined. Obviously he'd gotten over his criminal tendencies and gone legitimate. He was now a married man with two grown children and two successful businesses.

Peggy had not yet decided how she would approach him and obtain a DNA sample. Right now, Gino was all she could manage.

*   *   *

The girl's name was Luscious. She was twenty-two and well jaded for one so young. She'd been around the block countless times, and it showed. Once the prettiest girl in high school in spite of a pronounced overbite, she was now a strung-out erotic dancer and sometime hooker with a criminal boyfriend and her own rap sheet for a variety of offenses ranging from shoplifting to prostitution and two DUIs. Luscious (formerly Sara Smitton from Oklahoma) could care less that she had a rap sheet. Her main concern was keeping the attention of her boyfriend, Randy—a former pro wrestler, con man, petty thug, and porn star. Unfortunately for Luscious, Randy possessed a wandering cock—which she didn't mind when he was using his impressive instrument for work. But she got royally pissed off when she suspected said impressive cock was going elsewhere.

Luscious and Randy. A true Vegas couple, always trying to wriggle out of debt and better themselves, only getting nowhere in a hurry.

Recently things had been looking up. Randy had gone into business with his ex-con older brother, Mikey, and started dealing drugs. Mikey procured the product, and Randy was the deliveryman, which suited him fine. Deliver the order, collect the cash, split it with Mikey, and voilà—money in his pocket.

But all was not so fine as far as Luscious was concerned. She suspected that Randy had a hard-on for Mikey's wife—a fellow dancer who went by the name of Seducta Sinn (formerly Norma Wilkas from Chicago). Luscious considered Seducta major white trash with her enormous fake tits and out-of-control big ass. They performed alongside each other at Dirty Den's, and often vied to see who could score the biggest tips. Even though they were banging brothers, in Luscious's eyes that did not make them friends. However, when Dirty Den himself offered her five hundred bucks to service a john at the Cavendish Hotel, and another five hundred to take along a “friend,” Luscious immediately thought of Seducta. Why not? Fantastic money and a chance to see what tricks Seducta possessed that she didn't.

Naturally, Seducta was up for the gig; she was always complaining that she and Mikey were one step away from the poorhouse.

Lying douche,
Luscious thought. She was sure that Mikey was cheating Randy out of his fair share of the drug money. Mikey was a slippery character, and Luscious didn't trust him at all. Nor did she trust Seducta, but Randy insisted that Mikey was family and would never cheat him.

Luscious knew a thing or two about family. A mother strung out on crack, a stepfather who was always trying to slip her his limp cock, and an uncle who'd raped her repeatedly when she was twelve.

Family indeed. Luscious knew more about family than anyone. They'd stab you in the back and bury the corpse if they thought they could get away with it.

*   *   *

Armand placed a $10,000 bet on number 11. The roulette wheel spun around and 11 came up. He let his original bet ride, and 11 came up a second time.

He'd won $340,000 in less than ten minutes. Time to walk away.

Or stay.

It didn't matter. The money wasn't important; it meant nothing to him. His mind was racing. How could he go about hiring a hit man? Was it like in the movies?

No. Of course it wasn't. He had to be careful and think this through.

He was in Vegas. Anything could be arranged in Vegas.

How much for a hit?

The money was of no consequence. Finding the right person to take care of it was all that mattered.

Where was Fouad? Not that Fouad would approve; he was no longer the loyal lackey Armand depended on. Fouad was a weakling who couldn't arrange anything.

Armand needed another hit of coke. After taking a gulp of scotch from the glass a scantily clad cocktail waitress handed him, he threw a large tip at the croupier and got up. Just as he was about to leave, a girl approached him, a pretty girl in an all-American way. She had long golden-red hair and exceptionally high cheekbones, and acted extremely confident as she slid onto the seat next to him. “Armand,” she said, greeting him as if they were old friends. “Long time no see. Are you here for the fights?”

“What fights?” he mumbled.

“Oh please!” The girl gave a tinkly laugh. “I'm sure you have the best seats in the house.”

He had no idea who she was, but she obviously knew him.

“Not here for the fights,” he said, getting up from the roulette table.

“You know,” the girl said, lowering her voice and leaning toward him, “I thought we had a good time together, and yet you never called.”

“Ah…” he said, trying to recall through a haze of too much coke where it was he'd had her—New York? London? Vegas? Or maybe she was one of the imported call girls who'd been flown in for the king's birthday in Akramshar. “Did I pay you?”

“Pay me?” she said, an uncomfortable expression crossing her face. “Why would you pay me?”

“Remind me,” he said gruffly. “What's your name?”

Instead of being insulted, she seemed relieved. “Ah, so many women, such a short memory,” she trilled. “Annabelle. Annabelle Maestro.”

And then it came to him. Annabelle, the daughter of Hollywood movie stars, one of them brutally murdered. She'd written a book about it, and how—for a time—she'd acted as a madam in New York, and for the right price sold herself on occasion.

Sure, he remembered her now. They'd met at a dinner party in New York and he'd had her in the bathroom between courses. She hadn't minded when he'd ravished her against the cold marble of the vanity. And the next night he'd taken her to the opening of a play, then back to his apartment, where once again the somewhat raunchy sex was consensual.

As far as he could recall, she was up for anything, so of course he hadn't called her. Where was the kick if he couldn't humiliate her? He hadn't paid her either. She was obviously under the impression that he didn't know about her past.

The woman was a reformed whore. The best kind. Maybe she could help him find what he was looking for.

“Would you care to join me for a drink, Annabelle?” he asked, turning to her with a plastered-on smile.

She nodded eagerly.

He had plans for this one.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Although Denver liked M.J., she wasn't that comfortable with his young, overly ambitious wife, Cassie. The girl couldn't stop talking about herself and her burgeoning career—which as far as Denver could decipher, had failed to take off. She'd had one shot at making a record and a few singing gigs in hotel lounges, but Cassie kept on boasting about how she was about to sign with a new agent, a man who'd promised he could jump-start a fabulous career, making her into the next Rihanna.

This girl has no intention of staying pregnant,
Denver thought.
This girl has major ambition on her mind, certainly not babies.

“I'm younger than Katy Perry,” Cassie mused. “
Way
prettier than Ke$ha. And way hotter than Taylor Swift. Which means my chance of making it to the top is
huge
. Right, baby?” she said, turning to M.J., finally acknowledging his existence.

M.J. nodded, although he didn't look too happy about his young wife's enthusiasm for a career that had yet to happen.

Denver could understand why. Surely he knew that there was no way he could persuade Cassie to change her mind about getting an abortion. She shot a quick glance at Bobby. His expression was impartial. One thing about Bobby—he was not into confrontations unless there was no other way. “I'm going to the ladies' room,” she said, rising from the table.

“Me too!” Cassie squeaked, jumping to her feet.

“Talk to her,” Bobby mouthed to Denver.

Right, so
that's
why she was in Vegas, to induce a would-be pop star into giving up her dreams and having a baby.

Cassie beat her to it. As soon as they reached the powder room, she threw her sparkly purse on the counter, turned to Denver, and said, “Can you keep a secret?”

Oh no!
Denver thought.
Please don't make me your confidante.

But Cassie was determined. “Can you?” she repeated.

“Uh, not so hot with secrets,” Denver managed, quickly ducking into a stall to escape.

Cassie was waiting when she emerged, standing at the counter applying cherry-red lip gloss with her finger. “You're so lucky to be with a dude like Bobby.” Cassie sighed. “All the girls in the club are crazy for him.”

“Good to know,” Denver said, washing her hands while wondering who “all the girls in the club” were. Customers? Staff? What the hell?

“My friend Lindy, well, she says Bobby's into you 'cause you're so smart.”

“Also good to know,” Denver said dryly.

“I bet he's a total stud in bed.”

“Excuse me?”

“Is he?”

“I don't think that's anyone's business except mine.”

Cassie giggled. “You're such a lady! I guess that's another reason Bobby likes you. Y'know, he has a big rep for lovin' an' leavin', but you're hangin' in there.”

Jesus Christ!
Denver thought.
Why do I have to stand here listening to some young girl telling me what a stud Bobby is and how lucky I am to have him. How about he's lucky to have me?

“I'll see you back inside,” Denver said, preparing for a quick exit.

“Wait!” Cassie implored. “I need your help.”

“Help?”

“Well, kinda. Y'see, it's like this…”

And the story of her pregnancy came tumbling out—all about how there was no way she could have the baby, and M.J. was being stubborn, and what was she supposed to do?

“Look, I'm not a marriage counselor,” Denver said patiently. “However, it seems to me you've got a choice here—have the baby and keep M.J., or go the career route.”

“I know,” Cassie agreed. “But all I want is for M.J. to get it. I can have a baby anytime—the career thing is right now.
Why
doesn't he get it?”

“You should speak to your mom,” Denver suggested. “I'm sure she'll advise you.”

“Done that,” Cassie replied with a careless shrug. “My mom doesn't care.”

“Come
on
. I'm sure she does.”

“No,” Cassie said, shaking her head. “She'd like me
not
to have a kid. She's only thirty-five an' isn't ready to be a grandma.”

“Well,” Denver said briskly. “I wish I could help you, but unfortunately I can't. All I can say is follow your inner self and work out what you want most.”

“Got it!” Cassie said cheerfully. “Knew you could solve it for me.”

Denver frowned.

As far as she was concerned, she hadn't solved anything.

*   *   *

“I think we gotta hit a strip club,” Kev announced as they exited Asian Fusion.

“No way,” Billy replied, standing still for a minute. “You think I wanna be all over TMZ with a bunch of strippers tellin' everyone how much I tipped?”

“Where's TMZ?” Kev said, playing dumb. “Don't see 'em hidin' under a palm tree waitin' to pounce, do you?”

“Trust me. They're everywhere,” Billy assured him, itching to try to reach Max again. The fact that she wasn't picking up her phone was becoming an obsession. He'd flown to Vegas, for crissakes, screwed up his entire weekend, and now she wasn't answering her damn cell. Could it be that she was purposely blowing him off?

“What're you so edgy about?” Kev questioned. “
I'll
protect you from the paps. I'm an expert at runnin' interference.”

“Yeah?” Billy said shortly. “Then where were you when I was gettin' attacked in the casino earlier?”

“Those were
fans
,” Kev said, as if that explained everything. “Fuckin' fans who worship at your cock.”

“Knock it off, Kev.”

“You could've had any one of 'em. You know it, and so do I.”

“Thanks,” Billy said caustically. “I think my tastes run a little higher than that.”

“Not the Billy I know,” Kev said with a knowing leer. “Back in the day you would've fucked a log if it winked at you.”

Kev was starting to get on his nerves. “Back in the day,” indeed. Didn't Kev get it? Things had changed. He'd forgotten how jarring his old friend could be.

They lingered outside Asian Fusion too long, because before he could even think of escaping, Venus stalked out in full star glory, trailed by Jorge and her two bodyguards. Alex had lingered behind, attempting to hook up with the waitress.