Lucky Bastard (11 page)

“Apparently you’ve engaged in some forms of…recreation.”

She paused, a quizzical look on her face.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Mona, the horizontal cha-cha?” Miss Olefson gave a surprisingly throaty laugh.

Mona’s face reddened a little. “Well, one can’t do that
all
the time.”

I’m not sure that had been her opinion when she ran the brothel, but I didn’t point that out. I had no intention of being perforated with a pair of sugar tongs today. “Mother, in a few short months, you are going to be busier than a bookie during March Madness. I think you’ll have plenty to do when the baby comes.”

“I’m not talking about busywork. I’m referring to something more intellectual. Mrs. Olefson and I have decided to go into business together.”

“Doing what?” I eyed her warily as I relished another large gulp of tea. Somehow I just couldn’t get past the words
Mona
and
intellectual
in the same sentence.

“Phone sex.”

My tea spewed out my nose.
“What?”
I reached for a linen napkin. Blotting at the tea dripping down my face, I worked at composing myself. “How?”

“A nine-hundred number through the main switchboard should do it.” Mona had done her homework.

“You want the Babylon to be a conduit for nine-hundred-number phone sex?” My blood pressure didn’t even spike—I must be dead. Either that or I had been inoculated against clear idiocy. Regardless, I found it next to impossible to work up a good case of red ass. Which was a good thing. I had a feeling it would be like yelling at a couple of two-year-olds—I’d wear myself out and end up with a mess I didn’t want to clean up.

Mona mistook my silence for complicity and drove right into the impending storm. “Here, let us show you.”

Like children practicing for the school play, each woman pretended to hold a phone to her ear. Then Mona whispered, “I’ll be the john.”

Mrs. Olefson, her eyes as big a saucers, nodded, her perfectly coiffed white curls bouncing. She worried a finger through her pearl choker, twisting it.

“Ring, ring,” Mona said.

“Hulloooo.” Mrs. Olefson’s lowered her voice at least an octave, infusing it with warm, sultry undertones. “Honey, who do you want me to be tonight?”

Like a passenger in a car watching the accident in slow motion, I was powerless to stop the scene unfolding in front of me. I bit down hard on the inside of my mouth and turned toward Mona, waiting expectantly. The price of admission to this show had been cheap, so I might as well enjoy it—before I shut it down.

“I’m a fireman,” Mona growled. “I need a hose handler.”

My cup rattled in its saucer.

Mrs. Olefson held her imaginary phone away from her ear and whispered, “Is this where I tell you what I’m wearing?”

Mona rolled her eyes and hissed, “Just like we practiced. You remember.”

“I’m not sure if I’m dressed properly…to be a hose handler, I mean.” Again that sexy voice.

If I closed my eyes. If I didn’t know she’d grown up long before Las Vegas had…

“Tell me what you’re wearing.” Mona’s fireman needed work.

“Well, I’m not wearing any underwear.” Mrs. Olefson couldn’t quite get the note of incredulity out of her voice. I’m certain the woman had never gone commando—the premise clearly confused her.

“Tell me more,” Mona encouraged. Then she turned to me and whispered. “The delivery needs a bit of work, but the voice is great, don’t you think?”

“Words fail me, Mother.”

“Well,” Mrs. Olefson dropped her voice, “I’m wearing a black lace nightie my husband gave me—”

“No,” Mona corrected. “No husbands. Remember?”

“No husbands?” Mrs. Olefson crinkled her brow and snatched a glance at Ollie hanging over the fireplace.

The laugh, so long held in my belly burst forth. Struggling to catch my breath, I swiped at the tears. Then I dabbed at my nose, which had started to run. Mona glared at me, which made me laugh harder.

Mrs. Olefson hung up her imaginary phone. “I really suck at this.”

That pronouncement cracked Mona’s stern veneer. Laughter started slowly, then built, doubling her over. Mrs. Olefson remained above the fray, serving us all fresh cups of tea and gracing us with a beatific smile.

Finally I thought I could hazard a conversation without convulsing. “Mother, what ever gave you the idea?”

“Sex is all I know.”

Well, that little bit of honesty was a showstopper.

“Mother.” I put my cup and saucer on the silver tray, then rose. “You know that’s not true. But we need to go, I’m sorry. I need your help.”

When I asked for help, which was usually the last act of a desperate woman, Mona was front and center, no questions asked. We made our exit with appropriate thank-yous and promises to come back soon.

Once safely in the elevator, I punched the button for the Penthouse, then turned to face my mother’s questioning stare.

I proceeded to fill her in on my morning.

She listened without interruption, nodded once as the elevator doors opened, then hooked her arm through mine and gave me a comforting squeeze. “We’ll get through this. Your father and Shady Slim…”

“I know. Two horses cut from the same herd.”

Delivering bad news always tied me in knots. Delivering bad news to my father made me feel sick, like the condemned, blindfolded, back against the wall, the acrid taste of my last cigarette lining my mouth like cotton. Of course, smoking was probably the world’s only vice I had managed to escape, but I was pleased with the analogy, so I went with it.

Even with Mona providing for-once-silent support, dread coalesced into a cold ball in the pit of my stomach. Sweat trickled down my sides. A case of serious brain freeze paralyzed my thoughts as words left me. After all this time, I should be used to it—as the chief problem-solver at the Babylon, bad news was a big part of my vocabulary. And the Big Boss handled it better than most—at least, up to this point he’d resisted shooting the messenger. Even still, I’m pretty much of a happy-ending kind of gal.

As the elevator slowed, I straightened then smoothed my slacks and retucked my shirt. I buttoned one more button at the top, I don’t really know why.

As the doors opened, I took a deep breath, which wasn’t as steadying as I’d hoped. Motioning for Mona to precede me, I let her step out to take the first bullet. Through the years I’d gotten used to stepping out of the elevator right into the middle of my father’s great room. Three thousand square feet of luxury, the space felt warm and inviting despite its high ceilings and walls of windows. Leather upholstered walls and rich mahogany floors lent a richness further enhanced by brass sconces casting diffused light. Richly hued Persian rugs, hand knotted in the finest tradition, each with a cluster of furniture fashioned from exotic woods and covered with hides from successful safaris, provided cozy entertainment areas—assuming one could get over the fact that some poor beast paid the ultimate sacrifice so your butt could be coddled, something I could never do. I preferred the overstuffed couch by the window. Paintings, lesser works by the great masters from the Big Boss’s handpicked collection, dotted the walls, each perfectly lit.

“Albert,” Mona called. When no one answered, she headed toward the hallway leading to their private wing. “Let me check our room. Make yourself at home, honey. Of course, I don’t need to tell you that.”

Bright sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows that defined the room on two sides. Lured by the view, and comforted by the fact the room appeared empty, I wandered to the windows. The Las Vegas Strip stretched at my feet and angled toward the horizon. To the west, the Spring Mountains hunkered down, a ragged scratch defining the horizon. Carol Lombard had lost her life in a plane crash in those mountains. Clark Gable had never recovered from the loss. Ever the romantic, I thought about the tragedy more than I would admit to.

My stomach told me it was long past feeding time but I wasn’t certain. My stomach often led me astray. The bagel had done nothing but stoke the fire in the hunger machine. Clearly, I needed food, but I also needed to find my father.

Preoccupied and in desperate need of a moment of peace, I stared at my city, its lights now dimmed in deference to the sun. Daytime wasn’t Vegas’s best time. Sunlight doused the neon magic and made everything appear…normal, mundane even, as if the city turned in on itself, regenerating, restoring, awaiting the rebirth of nightfall.

Shutting my eyes, I took a deep, quieting breath.

My mother returned, shaking her head. “I don’t know where he is.” She settled on the couch. Patting the cushion next to her she said, “Come sit. You look exhausted. Rest for a minute. Your father usually comes to check on me about this time of day, after his lunch meetings.”

Her suggestion was a good one. I settled into the couch’s soft embrace. Leaning my head back, I closed my eyes. We fell into a thoughtful silence.

Somewhere I had heard about a relaxation technique where you concentrated on relaxing one muscle at a time. They may have kicked me out of yoga class, but I wasn’t above trying some of the stuff on my own. First my neck. I rolled my shoulders and turned my head slowly from side to side. The tension eased. Only a bit, but I’d take it. Now my breathing. I slowed the rhythm, willing my body to relax. In. Out. The world retreated.

The sound of the elevator whirring to life penetrated my consciousness, hitting me like a Taser. My father. Shady Slim Grady.

When the doors to the elevator opened, I was standing in front of them. My father looked up, surprise on his face. Before he could say anything I stuck out my hand. “Your wallet?”

“What?” He gave me a half laugh as if he thought I was joking.

“Can I have your wallet, please?”

He reached into his hip pocket with two fingers, a sardonic grin, and no questions. After extracting the worn leather billfold, he handed it to me.

I opened it, plucked out a hundred dollar bill, and handed both back to him. “Make me something.”

He kept the bill in his hand as he stuffed the wallet back into his pocket. The amusement in his eyes disappeared as he looked at me. “That bad, huh?”

I nodded as I took his arm, leading him over to the couch. Mona patted the spot where her feet had been. “Sit by me, Albert.”

He did as she asked. “What’ll it be? An elephant for luck?” he asked.

“Luck is always in short supply.” And Shady Slim’s had run out, but I didn’t add that part.

With Mona absentmindedly kneading his shoulders, my father began to crease and fold the money, his fingers working the paper with the quiet sureness of years of practice. Instead of worry beads, the Big Boss turned to origami to ease the tension, to take his mind off unpleasantness. As he folded, refolded, and creased a small form took shape. This miniature elephant would have its trunk raised…for luck.

With one hand he grabbed mine, opened it, and dropped the tiny shape into my palm. With both hands he closed my fingers over it and held them there. “The two most important people to me are in this room, alive and well, so don’t look so stricken. Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

“It’s Shady Slim. He’s dead. I’m so sorry.”

A tic worked in my father’s jaw as his face clouded. Mona reached for his hand and squeezed, her eyes reflecting his pain. He worked his hand from hers then patted it as he rose. I stepped out of his way. As he moved to stare out the window, I stepped in beside him.

“Heart attack?” he asked after a few moments. Shady Slim had been asking for one for years. Everyone, including Slim, had known it was a matter of when, not if.

“Don’t know. There weren’t any obvious signs of foul play.” I left out the part about him dying on the throne. Somehow I didn’t think my father needed to be burdened with that bit of indignity. “Romeo questioned everyone. There will be an autopsy, but with budget cuts and the fact that no foul play is indicated, it could be a while before we have any results. I’ll let you know when I hear.”

“Arrangements will need to be made.”

“I mentioned that to Miss Becky-Sue.”

My father flinched. “Slim always said he wanted to be buried here. I think he has a plot at Palm Mortuary. He said no funeral.”

“No funeral?”

My father shook his head then gave me a faint grin. “No, Slim wanted a party. He didn’t want anybody going all soft and weepy. I believe that’s how he put it.”

“A wake?”

“From the sounds of it, he envisioned something bigger, something definitively Vegas.”

A themed party in lieu of a funeral?

My father sounded hopeful, but not certain. “I think it’s called a Celebration of Life.”

But of course.

***

The increasing energy level in the lobby assaulted me as the elevators deposited me in the middle of the fray. With long strides, I covered the vast marble expanse taking in every detail while pretending not to. The lines in front of each registration station were several customers deep but moving quickly. With ready smiles, bellmen jumped in to help with baggage. Cocktail waitresses in their tiny togas with gold braided cord, balanced on stilettos while darting in and out, supplying the oil that kept the squeal out of the Babylon’s finely tuned engine. Clusters of admirers gathered under the flocks of blown-glass hummingbirds adorning the ceiling. Others wandered, window-shopping, holding hands, relaxing. A gallery of spectators ringed the large windows in front of the ski slope and rewarded a successful run with raised glasses and a cheer. A spectacular wipeout earned a collective groan and cringe.

Midafternoon was well under way. No wonder my stomach was staging a revolt. Liquid refreshment before dawn and one bagel slathered in a cholesterol-raising amount of butter was hardly sufficient sustenance—at least for this body.

Something told me there was a yummy, juicy, gourmet...French…hamburger in my very near future. The lone bright spot in a deadly day. I’d been sidestepping Jean-Charles’s issue of an appropriate kitchen—it was time we came to some sort of resolution, although I had no idea what. But first I probably ought to put in an appearance at the office and at least pretend I was in charge. And there was Dane…

Feeling the need to move, I took the stairs, two at a time, to the mezzanine. Miss P didn’t give me a glance when I burst through the office door. Her eyes were riveted to the six-foot-four, two hundred and twenty-five pound hunk holding down a corner of her desk—the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock. For a nanosecond, envy perched on my shoulder. To have a guy like that. I could almost resort to mooning, too…almost. He bent down and whispered in her ear, making her blush, then giggle. Mooning, blushing, and giggling—the woman had no shame! I should be so lucky….

As a challenge to females everywhere, Jeremy had been graced with light brown hair, brown eyes flecked with gold, a ready smile hanging like a hammock between a pair of the deepest dimples, and a body begging to be…Well, I slammed my mind closed on that visual. Suffice it to say he was the kind of male populating women’s fantasies since the beginning of time. I wasn’t immune. I could easily picture Jeremy in a kilt wielding a broadsword, or astride a white steed. But he was Miss P’s knight, and there are certain boundaries no friend would ever cross. Especially not this friend.

“Jeremy, great. I need to talk to you,” I said, as I breezed by on my way to my office. Two steps through the door, I realized it wasn’t my office anymore—it was Miss P’s. But she was sitting at her former position out front, which was where Brandy should be. Old habits are hard to break. And I had a hard enough time keeping up without my staff playing musical desks. I backtracked and this time, under the amused expressions of Miss P and Jeremy, stepped through the makeshift doorway to my new office—or what would someday be my new office, perhaps not in my lifetime the way things were going, but someday.

Miss P followed me with notepad in hand and Jeremy on her heels.

“Take a seat.” I motioned to a tarp-covered form against the wall as I settled into my desk chair. Early this morning, which now seemed a lifetime ago, I had uncovered my desk. Like powdery snow, a fine layer of white now dusted the rich burled walnut.

A cloud of fine grit floated and danced in the shafts of light that filtered through the doorway and shone weakly from the lone overhead lightbulb as Jeremy folded back the cloth over the couch. Miss P sank into the soft cushions as Jeremy straddled the arm, folding one leg over the other so his ankle balanced on his other knee. Holding his leg in both hands, his foot bounced as he glanced around the construction zone.

“I love what you’ve done to the place,” he said, his dimples deepening. What is it about an Australian accent that runs through a woman like molten chocolate?

“Nothing like that personal touch,” I said as I tried to marshal my thoughts—the morning had left me reeling. Two dead bodies are two more than I’m used to dealing with.

Leaning forward, I placed my hands on my desk, idly swiping at the dust. Then, focusing on a point on the wall—not making eye contact somehow made the telling easier—I summarized the events of the morning. Miss P scribbled notes. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jeremy staring at me intently, a small frown marring his otherwise perfect visage, but neither interrupted me as I filled them in on the dead woman on the car—Dane’s wife—the poker game and my Poker Room showdown with the Stoneman.

After I finished, the two of them stared at me with owl eyes. Jeremy was the first to break the silence. “Hooley-dooley, Dane has a wife.” He reached across the space between us and grabbed my hand. “Lucky, you have to believe me, I had no idea.”

“You work together.”

“He was a right-up guy.”

I looked at him and wanted to believe him. “That’s like telling me he slaps his wife around a bit, but he’s really a great guy.”

Jeremy’s eyes widened and he started to say something, but I silenced him with a raised hand. “Don’t mind me. I’m not exactly feeling kindly toward the Y-chromosome set these days. Nothing personal.”

He gave me a wink. “Of course not.”

Dane was a championship liar and men historically weren’t great at ferretting out the bad apples in their barrel, so I let Jeremy off the hook. “I need you to find a needle in a haystack: an optician somewhere in this town willing to fit red contact lenses. I know Sylvie could’ve gotten those things anywhere, but, if we’re lucky…” I let the thought hang.

“That all?” he asked with just a hint of sarcasm, which made me grin.

“Child’s play for a man of your skills.” Nervous energy overflowing, I picked up a pencil and began tapping a rhythm on the desk. Irritating I know, but it was a far sight better than wringing necks or shooting someone and I figured Jeremy and Miss P would get that. “I have no idea what to make of any of this. I need you to get me a toehold, at least.”

“What can I do?” Miss P asked.

“Someone hung a banner outside the Ferrari dealership—a hand-lettered, butcher-paper sign designed to block the camera recording the traffic in and out of the showroom. Security says the work order came from this office.”

Miss P’s eyebrows snapped into a disapproving line.

“Could you follow up on that?”

Miss P, familiar with my order-framed-as-a-question style, didn’t bother to answer. “Then get Flash on the phone,” I went on. “Somehow we’ve managed to keep Shady Slim under wraps, so give it to her. Tell her to handle it appropriately—she’ll know what you mean. It’s sorta interesting Miss Becky-Sue hasn’t tried to sell the story to
People
or something.”