Double Lucky (107 page)

“Well, it's
my
idea, and
I'm
doing it.”

 

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

The pain hit Armand in the pit of his stomach. It startled him, almost made him gag. Not quite, for he had no time to give in to pain. He was enjoying himself too much. He had never experienced such joyous feelings. He was wrapped in a warm cloak of bliss, which might have had a little something to do with the speedball Randy had shared with him—the lethal combination of heroin and cocaine.

Randy and Seducta were his best friends in the world. They cared about him in ways that were so endearing. Seducta had taken her top off again, and he snuggled his face against her mammoth breasts. She reminded him of his mother—dear, sweet Peggy.

Randy snorted coke off her nipples.

Armand smiled. They were sharing. This was exactly the way it should be.

And then suddenly, there was Lucky Santangelo staring down at him. Words were coming out of her mouth, but he couldn't hear them.

He decided that Lucky was beautiful too. She was his friend. He didn't want her dead, he didn't want anyone dead. They would own The Keys together and exist in perfect harmony.

The pain hit Armand again. He screamed and doubled over. Then everything faded to black.

*   *   *

“For God's sake, someone call 911!” Lucky yelled, wondering how she'd gotten caught up in this situation. She was supposed to be reaming Armand a new asshole, not saving his sorry life. How had this happened?

Randy staggered to his feet. He was almost as out of it as Armand, but self-preservation kicked in, and it occurred to him that he'd better get out. He looked around for Luscious.

“Jesus Christ!” Lucky exclaimed, reaching for her cell. “This man could be dying and you can't even make a phone call. What kind of people are you?”

Seducta giggled hysterically. “Fun people,” she said, her voice a drowsy slur, white powder decorating her nose. “Arnie loves us.”

“While Arnie might love you, he could be dying, you stupid cow,” Lucky said, calling 911 and requesting an ambulance.

“Where's Mikey?” Seducta asked, her face crumbling, mascara smudged under her eyes.

Randy flexed his considerable muscles. “Where's the fuckin' money?” he wanted to know.

“You people are the dregs,” Lucky said, feeling Armand's wrist to see if he had a pulse. He did.

“We gotta get t' fuck away from this shit,” Randy said, suddenly realizing that trouble was looming.

“That's right, run,” Lucky said. “You pathetic pieces of crap.”

“Where's Mikey?” Seducta whined for the second time. “I want my Mikey.”

*   *   *

Ten minutes after speaking to Lennie, Danny checked his messages. Sure enough, there was one from Lucky.

He could've kicked himself, for Danny prided himself on always being available to his boss. He quickly scanned her text and experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Armand Jordan is going around boasting that The Keys is his. Off to Cavendish to confront. Care to join?

Yes, he would love to have joined if only he'd known. It was all Buff's fault, flirting with the bartender, taking his mind off work. Threesomes. Ha! Who needed them?

He called Lennie and filled him in on the situation, telling him about the unfortunate morning meeting and what a chauvinistic pig Armand was.

“And you let Lucky go over there alone?” Lennie said, his voice heated.

“I didn't know!” Danny replied, duly chastised. “Besides, have you ever tried stopping Lucky from doing anything? You know it's impossible.”

“I'm on my way to the Cavendish,” Lennie said.

“I'll meet you there,” Danny said.

To hell with Buff and the bartender. Lucky was his priority.

*   *   *

“So!” Ellie exclaimed. “Lots of activity at the party house.”

“Aren't you supposed to be concentrating on Billy an' the girl?”

“I've got more than enough pix of them together. Anyway, they're back in the villa. Whaddya want me to do, crawl through the keyhole?”

“Don't be facetious.”

“Big words coming from a little guy.”

“I might be on the short side, but haven't you heard about large surprises comin' in small packages?”

“Lost on me, Kev,” Ellie said, shaking her head. “I told you—I'm gay.”

“I could turn you.”

“Confident, aren't we?”

“Wanna give it a go?”

“No thank you.”

“Can't blame a dude for tryin'.”

“However,” Ellie said with a wicked smile, “if you were to suddenly change into Billy Melina…”

“Fuck
you!
” Kev said. Why was everything always about Billy?

“No chance,” Ellie said, laughing. “Not unless you cut off your dick and call yourself Daisy!”

*   *   *

Danny met Lennie at the top of the pathway that led to the villas. “Villa number four,” he said, all business. “Apparently there've been complaints about the noise coming from there.”

“Noise?”

“Music. My friend at the desk says there must be a party going on. One more complaint and they're sending security.”

“Why haven't they done so already?”

“They don't like messing with the high rollers,” Danny explained. “Bad for business.”

“So you think Lucky walked in on a party?” Lennie said.

Danny shrugged. “I don't know. Armand Jordan didn't strike me as a party animal, unless it involves hookers.”

“Why does Lucky do this?” Lennie questioned.

“Do what?”

“Walk herself into situations she can't control.”

“She's
your
wife.”

“Thanks, Danny,” Lennie said dryly. “I think I know that.”

“I'm sure she's fine,” Danny said.

*   *   *

Fouad hurried down the pathway toward the villas. He had a bad feeling in his gut. Something wasn't right, he knew it. Leaving Armand alone to do whatever he felt like doing was not wise. Armand was too volatile a personality—he had to have some restraints. Fouad had always been the voice of reason, a calming influence. The truth was, Armand needed him.

It was cold out and quite dark, but Fouad could hear loud music ahead of him, and he was sure it must be coming from Armand's villa.

As he got nearer, he suddenly encountered two people, a man wearing sunglasses at night and a skinny, raggedy-looking woman. Fouad might have passed them with a polite nod of acknowledgement, except for one thing. Between the two of them they were lugging one of Armand's distinctive Louis Vuitton suitcases—his initials on the handle.

Immediately, Fouad knew. It had to be the suitcase packed with money that Armand always insisted on bringing to Vegas. Over $750,000 in cash.

“Excuse me,” Fouad said.

Mikey stopped for a moment. “What?” he snarled.

“I think you have something that doesn't belong to you.”

 

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

On the stroke of midnight, Mr. O arrived in Las Vegas by private plane. A rented town car waited for him at a prearranged spot, the keys under the floor mat as he'd requested.

Mr. O could have been a
GQ
model or a famous actor. He was black and beautiful, a cross between Denzel Washington and Blair Underwood. However, Mr. O had chosen a different profession—a profession that would last as long as he wanted. A profession that paid him top dollar, because he was the best at what he did.

Mr. O was a mechanic. A hit man. A solver of anyone's problem—as long as the price was right.

Mr. O was the best at what he did. And only the best hired him.

This was not the first job he was about to do for Martin Constantine, and it would not be the last.

Mr. O always took care of business.

 

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Mikey was not about to accept shit from anyone. He'd had a trying evening, and now he was all set to take off with the prize—a suitcase stuffed full of Benjamins. The last thing Mikey needed was some random ass wipe stopping him and telling him that the suitcase was not his.

Luscious hovered next to him, a shivery presence in her tiny skirt and top. She wouldn't be any help in an argument; she was already a hindrance.

Mikey had decided that when they reached Randy's car, he'd send her back, ostensibly to get the others, then he'd drive off into the night, leaving them all behind. They were a worthless crew—including his big ox of a brother. The truth was, he had no use for any of them.

Mikey took a long steady look at the man confronting him. He did not seem like a threat; he seemed nervous, which was good, because Mikey enjoyed making people nervous.

“You wanna get outta my way, sport?” he said, standing very still. “I won this suitcase legitimate, so back t' fuck off.”

“Yeah,” Luscious said, joining in, her tinny little voice getting on his nerves. “Back t' fuck off.”

Mikey shot her a scathing glare. What were they—a comedy duo?

“I'm afraid I shall have to confirm that with the prince,” Fouad said, asserting his authority, although his hands were trembling and he wasn't sure if he could handle this.

“Prince?” Luscious squeaked.

“This is a gamblin' town,” Mikey said flatly. “I won this fair an' square. You don't hav'ta check with no one.”

“I'm afraid I do,” Fouad said, standing his ground.

There was a long moment of silence, then, in a sudden fit of temper, Mikey reached down into his boot and slid out the six-inch hunting knife. He'd had enough jacking around; it was time to go. “Is this what you're lookin' for?” he yelled at Fouad. “You wanna get yourself cut, mothafucker? Is that what ya want?”

“The suitcase does not belong to you,” Fouad said, his throat so dry that he could barely speak. “Kindly leave it and get away from here.”

“You dumb
fuck,
” Mikey snarled, plunging the knife into Fouad's chest. “You dumb, cocksuckin' fuck!”

Fouad staggered slightly, thought about his wife and children for a brief second, then fell to the ground.

*   *   *

Standing at the window, Max and Billy watched in horror as the man with the suitcase produced a knife and began stabbing the other man.

“Oh my God!” Max yelled, panicking. “We've got to do something.”

“I'll call security,” Billy said quickly.

“No, no it'll be too late,” Max urged. “We have to help now.”

*   *   *

Lucky decided there was nothing she could do for Armand except wait for the paramedics. Then she heard yelling, so she ran outside in time to observe Mikey, in a frenzy, stabbing Fouad, who was now on the ground.

She didn't hesitate. Grabbing Mikey's right arm, she twisted it back until she forced him to drop the knife.

Mikey turned on her in a deadly fury. “You fuckin' bitch,” he screamed, kicking and punching her. “I'll fuckin' kill you.”

“Oh my God!” Max cried out, still by the window. “It's my mom. We've got to help her!” She ran outside and, without thinking, pounced on Mikey's back, clinging tightly around his neck and scratching his face, while Lucky attempted to pick herself up and reach the knife.

With a roar of anger, Mikey sent Max flying, then swooped down and grabbed the knife before Lucky could get to it. At which point Billy joined the fray, springing into action-hero mode, a role he'd played many times on the big screen. He'd had a few fights in his time, and he knew that the best line of defense was attack, so he directed a vicious kick at Mikey's balls.

Mikey doubled over for a few seconds before letting out another powerful yell and striking out with the knife, catching Billy down the side of his cheek.

Blood flowed.

By this time, Lucky was up, and only thinking of protecting her daughter. She had no idea where Max had come from or what she was doing here, but it didn't matter. All Lucky wanted was to get Max away from the violence, somewhere safe.

“Get out of here!” she yelled at Max. “Run! Go get help!”

“I can't leave Billy,” Max cried, sinking to the ground and cradling Billy's head in her lap, attempting to staunch the flow of blood. “He's hurt. Oh my God! He's bleeding.”

Fouad was also on the ground, moaning, while Luscious stood to one side—transfixed. Was it? Could it be? Was she looking at Billy Melina, the movie star?

Mikey possessed the strength of a bull. His adrenaline was running strong. Three down. All that was left was the woman, and she wasn't backing away. Oh no. She was staring at him like a black widow spider waiting to pounce.

He had a strong urge to cut the bitch, cut her good. But even more important was taking off with the suitcase.

Where the fuck was Randy?

“Randy!” He roared his brother's name, and the big oaf came lumbering out of the villa, buttoning up his pants.

“What the fuck,” Randy mumbled, taking in the chaos.

“We're gettin' outta here,” Mikey commanded. “Pick up the fuckin' suitcase, an' let's go.”

Lucky stood back and watched them, savvy enough to realize there was nothing she could do, although if she'd had a gun she would not have hesitated to use it. They were the dregs. Criminal dregs. And they were stupid too. She knew without a doubt that they'd be caught within twenty-four hours.

“So long, bitch,” Mikey said, throwing her a triumphant look. “Whoever t' fuck you are.”

The fight was over. The Sorrentino brothers were on their way, Luscious trailing behind them, Seducta left snoring on the couch inside the villa.

As soon as they were gone, Lucky took stock of the situation. The sudden violence was over. In spite of everything, Max seemed to be okay. Fouad was not so good, and Billy was still bleeding.