Lucky Bang (3 page)

"In the seventies, the corporations moved in. There was a huge push to move the Family out. We all knew that's how it'd have to go if we really hoped to put Vegas on the map." Clearly on edge, my father again reached for his wallet, extracted another bill, then stuffed his wallet back in his pocket. Drawing on a lifetime of memory, he began working the bill as he talked. "Jimmy's place was doing real good. A high-class joint, you know?"

At his glance, I nodded.

"A lot of money was at stake in polishing Vegas' image. The dirty history was swept under the rug, until the Union moved in." Absentmindedly, he folded and refolded, his fingers dancing to a memory.

"The Culinary Union?"

"Yeah, they tried to fill the power vacuum left when the Family got escorted out of town. As you can imagine, the business owners wanted no part of the Union. To them, it was just more of the same."

"A poor substitute for the Mob."

"Yeah." My father gave me a rueful smile, then took a quick glance at the figure forming as he worked. "At least with the Mob, they took care of their own. You knew what the rules were, and the price for breaking them. With the corporations and the Union, it was warfare—a game with no rules."

"But the Union won," I said, mainly for Mona's benefit.

"A lot of blood was spilt," my father continued, a lost, angry look in his eyes."The Union had these thugs that would bomb restaurants that refused to become unionized. It was an ugly time in this town."

"And Boogie Fleischman? What role did he play?"

"He found his calling: he loved blowing things up. Got pretty cocky about it, as I recall."

"And that night at Jimmy's, was the bomb his?"

"They didn't pin that one on him, but we were pretty sure it was." My father glanced at me, then his eyes skittered away. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was nervous. He pretended to be absorbed in the tiny figure in his hands, putting the finishing touches on a swan with a graceful, arched neck. Taking one of Mona's hands, he pressed it into her palm, then closed her fingers over it.

"Why didn't they pin it on him?"

"He had an airtight alibi."

"What?"

My father didn't meet my eyes. "I don't know, but it stuck."

"But he was sent up, right?"

"Lesser charges, another incident."

My feet stopped swinging as I stilled. "Then why were you sure the bomb had been his?"

"A few bits of the bomb were found in the wreckage. Parts of a wind-up clock, pieces of a secondary trigger." He rubbed his eyes, then took a deep breath. "Making a bomb is an art. The folks that do it usually have some particular background or knowledge that shapes how they fashion the device. With Boogie, he only knew one way."

"Unique, like a signature?"

"Exactly."

"Ah, the punch line." I leaned back against the wall, once again glad the wheels on the gurney had been locked.

They both looked at me owl-eyed. Silence stretched between us.

"Today's bomb and the other one, all those years ago; they were exactly the same," I said with a little more bravado than I felt.

My father stared me down. "Are you sure?"

"An old wind-up clock that probably hasn't been for sale for decades. Seriously old dynamite."

"Boogie paid his debt and went back east, last I heard." My father sounded like he was working real hard to sell the story. But to me or to himself? I didn't know. "He didn't have anything to do with this, Lucky."

"Why are you so sure?" I pressed. Mona was right; something was definitely going on with the Big Boss. Behind the paternal façade, he looked tired. And angry.

My father started to answer, then clamped his mouth shut at the sound of the doors opening one more time. This time, they admitted Romeo with my EMT Galahad on his heels.

As they approached, my father leaned in close. "We need to talk. Soon." He touched my face, a lost look in his eyes, then he stepped back, turning a smile toward the two men hurrying in our direction.

Romeo, his clothes rumpled but his face bright, looked a whole lot better than I thought he should. Apparently he could take bombs and late nights in stride far better than I. His sandy hair was cut short and gelled with not a hair out of place…well, except for the cowlick at the crown of his head, which so far had defied every styling substance short of Super Glue. His blue eyes clear. A bounce in his step. A ready smile creasing skin otherwise unmarred by the passage of time. Looking at him, I had a glimmer of why people would mortgage their souls for a brief taste of lost youth.

After nodding a greeting to my parents, the young and way too perky detective hooked a thumb over his shoulder as he stopped in front of me. "The ATF guys are chomping at the bit to talk to you."

"I can't tell you how good that makes me feel."

"Bombings attract a lot of attention, and you're the only one who got a look at the device."

"Besides the one who put it there." I gave him the best stern look I could muster. "Speaking of which, shouldn't you be out chasing leads or something?"

"I'm working on it." Romeo didn't seem to buy my act. "There's precious little to go on. Jimmy didn't have any video, so we're trying to get a bead on what folks saw."

"Or thought they saw."

"Eyewitnesses aren't the most reliable," the young detective agreed. "So you can understand why ATF wants to get your take."

"I have a head injury, haven't you heard?" I pointed toward radiology. "I'm waiting for them to diagnose the extent."

Romeo smiled. "Nice try."

"I could use some help here," I said to the EMT. "I still don't know your name."

"Nick." He flashed those dimples.

I was so glad I wasn't hooked up to one of those heart rate machines or the thing would be having a coronary about now.

"And I'll be glad to testify to your instability if you'll go out to dinner with me. The detective here told me you were flying solo." He colored a bit at my scowl.

Romeo, on the other hand, seemed unfazed.

"Sweetheart," I cooed to the young detective. "I don't need you pimping me out." He just gave me an open, innocent look, making me smile.

My mother, who had grabbed my hand again, cutting off the blood flow, leaned in and whispered so everyone could hear, "Honey, he's yummy."

None of this seemed to knock Nick off base. Not even his introduction to my parents. Either he was clueless or supremely secure. Perhaps he merited some study. As I opened my mouth to respond to his invitation, the doors behind me slammed open, making me swallow my words.

The orderly, who had abandoned me a lifetime ago, stepped into the group and announced, "They're ready for you."

As he reached to wheel me away, I gathered my dignity—hard to do in my current attire—and announced, "Well, today's the day we finally find out if I really do have mush for brains."

***

By the time I'd been stitched up, declared of sound mind and body, and given my discharge papers, the energy in the hospital was at an ebb—daytime bombings under control, nighttime stabbings and overdoses still to come. Thankfully, my father had taken Mona home, relieving me of the energy drain. Romeo had left, presumably to tilt at windmills and right wrongs, keeping the world as we know it status quo for yet another day.

My clothes had been stuffed into a sack and unceremoniously thrown into a corner of my emergency room cubicle. Weariness crept through me—the aftermath of an overdose of adrenaline—as I pulled my Dana Buchman slacks and matching sweater in a deep midnight blue from the bag. Crumpled, peppered with holes, and reeking of smoke, they were all I had. It took me three tries to get my foot fully through the left pant leg without it coming out the large tear in the knee. Then I pulled my sweater on over my head—a bra seemed beyond my capabilities at the moment so I left it in the bag. Reaching into the bottom, I came up empty—no shoes. And as I recall, they'd been my favorite Ferragamos, also in blue. I'd had them resoled seven times. Or was it eight? Not that it really mattered. Finally covered, but still far from presentable, I scrawled my name on a stack of release forms left by the attending physician and padded toward the exit.

Paxton Dane pushed himself upright and into my consciousness. How had I missed him holding up the wall next to the nurse's station? He ambled in my direction. "Man, you look like forty miles of bad road."

Too bad I couldn't say the same about him. Several inches over six feet, with wide shoulders tapering to a boyish waist, dark wavy hair, emerald green eyes, cheekbones so sharp they looked carved out of stone, and a ready grin, he was spit-and-polished in his creased 501s and starched button down. Normally, his presence made me wary. Not only did he ooze some sort of male pheromone or something—which ought to be illegal around women in my weakened state—he also had a penchant for bending the truth. However, tonight I'd never been so happy see a friendly face. A former co-worker and rebuffed suitor, I thought we now had weathered the rocky road to friendship. His smile gave me a hint he agreed.

"What are you doing here?"

"Trying to get a jump-start on my damsel-in-distress quota."

"I'm honored to be the beneficiary of such self-aggrandizement." I took his proffered arm, looping mine through it. "It's been a less-than-stellar day."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," he said as he steered me away from the front entrance. "You don't want to go out that way."

"What about the ATF guys? I heard they were looking for me."

"They agreed to meet you in your office. The packs of bloodhounds feasting on small children and old people around here scared them off. My truck's in the garage on the other side of the hospital."

I happily leaned on Dane as I let him lead me through the labyrinth of UMC. We both knew the drill—the reporters would be corralled out front, while we sneaked out the back. "The newshounds are waiting to tear out my throat, are they?"

"Or anoint you queen for a day. Nice touch saving the kid."

"You know me, anything for good copy."

"Seriously." His grip tightened on my arm. "Good job."

I felt heat rise in my cheeks. Praise made me uncomfortable. Praise for doing something I should have done made me mad.

Thankfully, we were saved from embarrassment by Jimmy G barreling around the corner. He almost took us both out before he skidded to a stop.

"Lucky, man, where they been hidin' you?" He looked like he was loaded for bear. "I've been lookin' for you all over. This guy out there," Jimmy, his face a mask of indignation, hooked his thumb over his shoulder, "he was talkin' to me like, you know, all highfalutin, like he had more degrees than a thermometer, you know? But he was tellin' me something ain't right with your head."

Dane managed to keep a straight face. I, on the other hand, lost that battle. "Jimmy, you know I come from a long line of nutcases. If somebody knocked some sense into me, it'd be a good thing."

Jimmy pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and dabbed at his forehead. "True."

I tried to scare him with a frown—I don't think I pulled it off. "You could argue a bit, just to make me feel good, you know."

Jimmy seemed to ponder that concept as Dane and I gathered him in our wake and we hurried through the hospital to the garage. Dane's F-150 languished across two parking spaces. A crew cab with four doors and a full eight-foot bed, it also stuck out so far that cars could barely squeeze around it. But in desperate need of a ride and a knight in shining armor, I decided now wasn't the time to point out his lack of consideration for the other drivers.

The three of us piled in, Jimmy riding shotgun while I hunkered down in the back, making sure to keep out of sight even though this game of cat and mouse with the reporters was more for show than substance. After all, being the mouthpiece of the Babylon, I was pretty easy to find. But if I could lure them to my turf, then I held the upper hand… in theory.

Ducking as Dane pulled out of the garage, I asked Jimmy, "What's left of your place?"

He swiveled around to look at me.

"Look out front, Jimmy," Dane barked. "We don't want them to see Lucky in the back."

The little man whirled around like he'd been bitten on the ass by a rattler. As he stared straight ahead, he pulled down the visor in front of him. His eyes flicked to the mirror as he talked. "It's like almost stranger than those books, you know?"

"Books?" Sometimes Jimmy's circuitous train of thought had me making nothing but left turns. I racked my brain. "You mean fiction?"

"Yeah, yeah. Stranger than fiction." He shook his head, "Those folks who make that stuff up. They gotta be touched, you know?"

"Borderline personality disorder… all of them."

Jimmy turned around to look at me. "Really?"

"Jimmy!" Dane barked again. "Out the front. Lucky's not here."

"Well, technically, I'm here, but I'm not
all
here."

I could see the smile in Dane's eyes when he looked at me in the rearview mirror. "Jimmy, now that we've established that writers are nuts and truth is really stranger than fiction, why don't you give it to me straight?"

"That bomb." He said the word 'bomb' with such reverence it gave me the chills. "That bomb didn't pack the punch it was meant to."

"So I have to turn in my hero badge?" I asked, not sure how I felt about that. It was sorta fun being held up as a paragon of virtue—of course it couldn't last, but I'd ride that horse as long as I could.

"They gave you a medal? Really?" Jimmy sounded awestruck.

"Kidding."

"Oh, right." He didn't sound too pleased that my sarcasm had done a flyby.

Couldn't say I blamed him. I even irritated myself on occasion so I sympathized.

"I was saying," Jimmy groused, "according to the ATF guys, it looked like the bomb was made with some old stuff."