Lucky Bang (7 page)

"Father, I was four when Boogie the Bomber got his balls busted. I can't imagine what beef he has with me. Besides, it's not me Boogie is after."

"Jimmy can handle himself."

"Not Jimmy." I waited until he turned to look at me. "There's someone else Boogie has a beef with, at least according to Jimmy."

"Who?"

"You."

"Me?" My father shot me a half-assed smirk. "Tell him to take a number."

"My point exactly."

***

After my father left, I lingered at the window, this time with a glass of Wild Turkey. Perhaps it was a delayed life-passing-before-my-eyes experience in the wake of a near-death experience, or maybe just the echoes of emptiness pinging off the walls of my heart, but demons assaulted me. And what was that whole weird thing with my father? Usually not one to beat around the bush, he'd left me with the feeling so much had been left unsaid—that I'd gotten only one piece of the whole picture. He expected me to read the subtext when he knew better than anyone that I was a big-print kind of gal.

So how did one protect themselves from unknown evils? Who knew? The whole thought left me curiously defeated. A Pollyanna to the last, I'd always lived each day, seized each moment. When had that changed? If I was honest with myself—not one of my best things—I'd probably have to say the whole down-in-the-mouth Lucky showed up when Teddie left. The fact that he had so much power over me should probably disgust me. But that's what happens when you give someone your heart, right?

Short on answers but long on questions, I succumbed to the bone-bending weariness washing through me. Tossing back the last of my drink—this time getting the anticipated high-octane hit—I put the empty glass on the bar, then headed toward the bedroom. While it was a nice place to sleep, it wasn't home. All my things were still packed away in the boxes stacked against the wall.

A metaphor for my life.

I wondered what I was waiting for.

***

The Fourth of July in Vegas—a giant citywide party.

To be honest, it was my favorite holiday—even above New Year's Eve. Less structured, less controlled, the Fourth allowed for a bit more individual expression. All the major properties on the Strip participated. Some had private fireworks shows choreographed to a headliner concert. Some had public displays of pyrotechnic excess. All had pool parties with celebrity hosts. And for those of us riding herd on the whole thing, sleep would be at a premium.

Somehow, I was the first to arrive at the office. The ongoing construction in my new corner of this command center obviated the need for a lock and key. Anyone could step through the gaping hole that would someday be an appropriate private entrance—or so they promised, but I had my doubts. Flicking the lights on as I wandering into my old office space, I found myself still curiously wired even after only four hours of fitful shut-eye. Bucked with life, I stuffed my Birkin in a drawer, then locked it and pocketed the key.

Before I lost my nerve, and bracing for the always colorful greeting I knew would be forthcoming, I whisked off the cover on the large birdcage in the corner next to the picture window overlooking the lobby below.

Newton, my multicolored, foul-mouthed Macaw didn't disappoint. "Bitch! Slap you! Slap you bad!"

"Glad you remember me, Bird." I grabbed a slice of browned apple from the plate next to the cage and stuck it through the bars, taking care not to offer the bird any of my delicate flesh—he had a hard time discerning between the tasty and the tender.

After eyeing me, he slid warily across the bar toward the delicacy. With a "Fuck you," he snagged the morsel, then promptly retreated to the other side of the cage to savor it. At least my relationship with the bird was straightforward—I fed him, he tolerated me, sorta like a lot of marriages I'd witnessed. Maybe that explained my difficulty with commitment.

With the bird fed and mollified for the moment, I busied myself with coffee preparations—Don Francisco Vanilla Nut, my caffeine delivery vehicle of choice. Cupping my hands around the warm mug, I inhaled the aroma, then took my first tentative sip as I wandered into the war zone. After flipping on the light, I peeled back the plastic sheet protecting my desk and chair, and settled in.

I was still anticipating my second jolt of java when an angry male voice shattered my
joie de vivre
. "Lucky, you damn well better be in here!"

Coffee flew as I jumped at the shout. Thankfully, I managed to avoid staining my white shirt and slacks, but the papers on my desk took a direct hit. Grabbing a paint cloth, I dabbed at the liquid pool.

Xavier Sang, all five feet and a couple inches of wiry male, stuck his head through the doorway. "You and me, girl, we gotta chat."

With his straight hair dyed an unnatural shade of bright red and hanging across his forehead, the clean flat planes of his face unmarred by even the hint of a beard, his eyes dark and slanted to give him just the hint of exotic, Xavier looked more like a kid heading to UNLV than the master miracle worker he was. The latest in a long line of a very prominent Chinese family who made their fortune working magic with gunpowder, he was my big bang expert. I'd always wanted to ask him about his name—Xavier wasn't exactly a common choice for the Number One Son—but I'd never worked up the nerve to be that rude.

"Oh good," he remarked as he stepped over a paint can, then plopped down in a chair across from me—he didn't bother removing the tarp. "You really
are
here."

"Not yet fully caffeinated, that would be overstating." I dabbed at the last of the coffee-stained papers—something about a new fire ordinance in effect for the upcoming celebratory displays. After the fire at the Monte Carlo, we'd had one heck of a time getting the county to once again allow fireworks from the rooftops.

Xavier steepled his fingers as he pressed them to his lips. "What's the other guy look like?"

"What?" I tossed the rag in a box that served as my trash bin.

When he lowered his hands, I could see his smile. "That's quite a shiner you've got. I hope you gave as good as you got."

"Have you ever known me not to?" I raised a finger, putting him on mute for a moment, and grabbed my now empty mug. My body squealed in protest as I pushed myself to my feet, but I ignored it. "I'll be right back. You want some?"

He shook his head. "I've already had enough to throw a lesser man into A-fib."

"No worries. I passed my last CPR course with flying colors…on the third try. I only broke a few ribs on the dummy." After refilling my cup and getting reestablished behind my desk, I took a sip, bracing myself to dive into the day. "Okay, what's got your knickers in a twist this morning?"

"You know how we carefully count and report all the major explosives we have?" He paused.

I guess he expected a response. "Yup."

"And you know how we're supposed to report anything that's missing?" Again a pause.

"Yup."

"Like to the ATF?"

This time I didn't wait for the prompt—I'm a quick study. "Yup. Can we get to the point?"

"Some big stuff has gone missing."

I set my mug down. "What?"

"I need to show you."

***

The sun was just high enough to bathe the rooftop in light, which was a good thing. Normally a minefield of knee-knockers, pipes, and electrical boxes, rooftop navigation was much less perilous in the daylight, especially now with all the mortar racks and wires as we busily prepared for the fireworks display tonight. Each individual tube would launch an aerial shell, some of them almost two feet in diameter, with precisely timed fuses. This year, the whole thing would be choreographed to the current hits by the Thump Dogs—the latest 'new, hot thing' and our entertainment option for the weekend. Xavier's team of experts scurried mounting shells, running wires, testing fuses. Precisely timed, intricately planned, tested, then retested, the show would be controlled from an electrical console that looked like the cockpit of a 747. Loudspeakers mounted on stalks behind the command center would pipe the music in so the operators could check the display timing. As I looked at the whole setup, all I could think of was if God had a sense of humor, all she had to do was get a wild hair and rain on my parade. Precip wasn't in the forecast, but this being July, a rogue monsoonal flow could strike at any time.

Woefully inadequate in the weather-control department, I abdicated responsibility for the weather. Simple mundane human problems were proving to be taxing enough as it was.

On the far side of the roof, an empty electrical shed had been converted into a secure housing for the pyrotechnics. The door hung on one hinge. The latch, with the lock still through it, was bent and mangled.

Bracing my hands on my hips and squinting my eyes against the assault of the summer sun, I surveyed the damage. "You didn't touch anything, did you?"

Xavier stood at my shoulder. "No, just poked my head inside."

"And the police and the ATF? Are they on their way?"

"Not yet."

Closing one eye, I tried to get a bead on him. "Why not?"

"We have a bit of a problem." He shifted from one foot to the other as he avoided my eyes.

"Lay it out. How big?"

"Class A." He ducked through the doorway and motioned me to follow.

I knelt next to him in the far corner. "You guys had Class A explosives up here? What the hell were you thinking?"

"The dynamite wasn't ours. I didn't even know the sticks were there until they were gone."

My voice stepped back from the edge of hysteria. "Dynamite."

"Old stuff, too." Xavier pointed to several dark spots on the concrete floor. "The nitro's leaking out pretty good."

"If you didn't know they were there, how'd you know they were gone?"

"One of my guys told me. And I thought about you being up close and personal with some similar stuff. Too much to be a coincidence." Xavier grabbed my arm and leaned in. "Find Frenchie Nixon. He'll rabbit once the Feds start sniffing around."

"Frenchie Nixon?" My voice rose an octave or two. "You hired that clepto?"

My bang man shrugged. "When it comes to rigging, he's the best in the business. Besides, he paid his debt to society. How was I to know he'd pinch some bang sticks and store them here?"

***

Some days it just didn't pay to be alive.

Today was shaping up to be one of them. I'd left Xavier to handle Romeo and the ATF guys, which wasn't all that nice considering the bang man had given me a head start.

Frenchie Nixon.

Under normal circumstances, that slimeball was someone I'd rather see through a long-range scope mounted on a rifle with my finger on the trigger and no witnesses. You see, Frenchie has a problem—he likes to steal stuff.

Our paths had crossed when I'd been head of housekeeping at one of the Big Boss's first properties downtown. Frenchie had been on the engineering staff. While he'd been a whiz at fixing stuff, he also had been really good at swiping it when we weren't looking. Televisions, radios, light fixtures, you name it. Even if it was nailed down or screwed into the studs in the wall, he'd take it. When he was caught, he had three or four huge storage units full of the stuff. And that was the real curious thing—he didn't take it to sell it. No, he took it to just have it.

But I knew he wasn't above unloading it when the heat was on.

And sitting on a cache of Class A explosives had to be a hot seat, especially in this day and age where folks saw terrorists under every rock. I'd just bet Frenchie was sweating bullets. In fact, I was banking on it.

Dane caught me striding across the lobby. "You have that look in your eye." He fell into step beside me.

"You mean bordering on the brink of homicide?"

He shot me a grin that lit his eyes. "Care to elaborate?"

"If you want to join me, I'll fill you in on the way."

"Not fair. You know I can't resist an invitation to a future crime."

The Ferrari was waiting at the curb, engine running, top down. The valet wiped away a drop of drool as he grinned and opened the driver-side door for me with a flourish. Men used to drool over me, now it was my car—I tried not to be bothered by that. Of course, I was well beyond wanting to turn the heads of nineteen-year-olds. At least that's what I told myself.

With several axes to grind, I stomped on the accelerator and squealed down the drive, then turned north on the Strip.

Dane had a white-knuckled grip on the handhold. "Feel better?"

"Not yet." I took a left on Sahara and tried not to look at the shuttered hotel by the same name. I guessed there were heydays for each of the properties, but I hated it when one had run its course and was relegated to a memory. Wheeling onto the north on-ramp to the 15, I let the horses run, savoring the hit of speed-induced adrenaline.

"If you weren't such an awesome gal, I'd still be tempted to hang with you just for your Italian iron."

I shot him a narrow-eyed look. "This is probably not the time to jerk my chain."

"It's the only time—you're unarmed."

Shielding my bruised ribs, I fought the laugh burbling up inside me. Losing the fight, I winced in anticipatory pain but relished the joy.

Life, a constant struggle to find the balance between happy and sad, good and bad. But heck, if it was easy, everybody would do it.

"You want to tell me where we're going?"

"Payless Pawn shop."

Dane swiveled to look at me. "Payless? Why would anyone take their junk to a place that advertises they pay less?"

"I'm guessing that, in an attempt to appeal to the retail side, they didn't consider the wholesale side. These guys aren't rocket scientists." The wind whistled past us bringing tears to my eyes. The engine behind my shoulders growled and vibrated, resonating through me. I smiled because I couldn't help myself.