Lucky Catch (31 page)

Romeo squinted down the aisle at Mona’s booth, then swallowed hard. “Are those girls . . . ?”

“Working girls? Looks that way.” I recognized a couple of them from Mona’s Place, the Best Whorehouse in Nevada, to hear Mother tell it. “But today, hopefully, they are more interested in toms than johns, and there isn’t a pastry in sight.”

“Pastry?” Romeo clearly had not made it onto the party bus.

“I heard rumors of a bake sale.”

“Offending Brownies the world over.”

“Well.” I elbowed him. “You may go sample their wares, but I need to talk to a chef about dinner.”

* * *

Chef Omer was exactly where I’d hoped to find him—in the kitchen at Tigris, going through paperwork, preparing for the day. Tigris didn’t open until five o’clock, although the bar opened earlier. Even still, the kitchen staff was busy unloading produce, fish, poultry, and other ingredients for tonight’s selected repast. Like most of the top chefs, Chef Omer created a menu each day based on the availability of only the freshest, most succulent foodstuffs.

The aroma of fresh coffee filled the kitchen. Even though I knew his taste ran to thick Turkish coffee whose merits eluded me, I poured myself a thimbleful of the viscous fluid into a mug Desperate for the caffeine hit, any delivery vehicle would do. I did cut it with a serious amount of half-and-half, but I resisted the sugar on principle—drawing lines gave me the illusion of control.

After savoring a java jolt, I straddled a stool across from the chef, then tapped my fingers on the stainless steel countertop before I drew his attention. When he looked at me, his scowl was already in place, and, from the looks of it, well entrenched.

He brightened a bit when he recognized me, but a bit of anger still puckered the skin between his eyebrows. “Lucky. Twice in less than a week..”

“Did I catch you at a bad time? You look preoccupied.”

He shook his head, and his readers slipped down on his nose. He fixed his glare over them. “It’s nothing, really. The paperwork on my shipments is off—something doesn’t add up. Not to mention, the quality is slipping. Trying to provide the best culinary experience in this . . . wasteland . . . is a challenge.”

“I think I can explain some of that. But maybe you ought to try the food market in the garage. I’ve been told they have primo stuff.”

That stopped Chef Omer cold. “What?” His tone turned icy.

“The food market in the garage. I’m taking it you don’t know about it?”

“Show me,” he said with a growl. “And you’d better call Security.”

J
erry
and two well-armed guards met us at the garage elevators. As head of Security, Jerry’s job was the mirror half of mine, but today, he looked way better than I felt. That struck me as unfair.

Tall and lean, dark skinned, clean-shaven (both cheeks and head), Jerry wore his ubiquitous suit pants, minus the jacket, and a starched button-down—today’s was pink. It took a self-assured man to wear pink in Vegas where sexual orientations blended until boundaries were often erased. No socks with the loafers and the normal hunk of Rolex gold on his left wrist completed the picture of perfection.

All business, he flashed me a grim smile. “I checked the video feeds. Apparently, the guy has set up on the seventh floor today. He’s quite clever.” Jerry punched the up button. “He uses his panel truck to shield his activity from the cameras. We never would’ve noticed him if you hadn’t told us what to look for.”

As the elevator dinged and the doors opened, the men motioned me in first, then followed.

I took my spot in the middle of the car, turning to face the doors. “How’d you find him, then?”

“Too hard to explain right now, but we look for patterns.”

With the guards positioning themselves behind, Chef Omer and Jerry bracketed me. Chef stared upward, an angry flush climbing his cheeks as his lips moved in silent conversation. Jerry and I stared at each other’s reflection in the smooth metal of the elevator doors as we rode up. “Speaking of video, did you have time to check with your contacts at the news stations?”

“After you called me, I hit every one. Even though they were all running footage at the Big Dig, none of them had any angle that showed the cockpit of the crane, before or after the accident. They were focused on the show. Just like they told Romeo.”

“I thought maybe one of them might have been running some B-roll. It was a long shot.”

The elevator dinged our arrival. Tapping my thigh, coiled like a racehorse poised to leap out of the starting gate, I waited for the elevator doors to open.

As I moved to slip through the opening, a meaty hand from behind stopped me. “Let us handle this, Ms. O’Toole. It’s our job.”

“Our job,” Jerry scoffed. “Hell, it’s our asses. I don’t want to be the one who lets you get perforated—the Big Boss would give me a pair of cement boots and toss me into Lake Mead.” Jerry, with the guards on his heels, bolted though the widening opening and ran.

“Not to worry,” I shouted after him. “After ten years of serious drought, the lake is probably only waist-deep.”

Red-faced, Omer glanced at me. Bowing slightly, he motioned for me to precede him. I gladly obliged. In light of his bulk and already elevated blood pressure, I followed the security trio, but set a more sedate pace.

Up ahead of us, around the corner out of sight, an engine revved. Gears ground. Shouts. Jerry’s voice. “Stop.”

Tires squealed. A shot. Then another.

I pressed Omer in between two parked cars. “Get down,” I barked, then paused to make sure he would do as I said. Then I ran.

The truck careened around the corner. Going too fast, the top-heavy cargo van listed sideways, caught by centrifugal force. Time slowed. For a moment, it looked like force would win, but at the last moment, when the truck had tipped to an almost impossible angle, the tires grabbed. The truck settled back onto all fours with a lurch and a bounce. The driver overcompensated. Swerving, he glanced off several cars on the far side with an ear-splitting screech of metal on metal. The acrid smell of burned rubber billowed with the smoke from the spinning tires. The impact slowed the truck, steadying it. The driver regained control.

The engine whined as he stepped on it.

The truck heading down the ramp. Me heading up.

We met halfway.

Dead center, I stood my ground.

Several heart-stopping moments. Narrowing my eyes, I stared through the windshield. I never thought he would stop—I just hoped for a glance.

At the last minute, I dove to the left.

I landed on the hood of a Mercedes Roadster, then rolled off. Landing with a thud, I felt my breath rush out of me as I absorbed the blow. Gasping for air, I saw stars as I fought to regain composure.

The sound of the engine still screamed, tires squealed, but the noise faded. Voices, shouts filtered in. Tinged with panic, they called my name. Slowly, the world came back, my sight, which had pinpointed, broadened to full spectrum.

“Over here.” I struggled to stand.

Jerry and the guards, running out of control down the ramp, veered in my direction. They gathered around me. “Are you all right?” Jerry asked. Smoothing the hair out of my face, he took a good look.

“Pissed as hell, but otherwise fine.” I whirled around to look behind me. “Chef Omer?” I put a bracing hand out as my world spun. Adrenaline surged, bringing the world into focus. “Chef Omer?”

No answer. Jerry and I locked eyes, then we both took off. A little slower, I was on his heels.

We met Chef Omer huffing and puffing back up the ramp on the floor below. He mopped his face with a soggy handkerchief.

“Thank God.” I slowed to a walk.

Relief flooded his face. Pausing, he leaned against a car and waited for us. “I tried, but I couldn’t see a face.”

“Me, either.” I shook my head as I stopped in front of him. “I got a clear look, but couldn’t make anything out. Damn.”

Looking angry, but unruffled, Jerry pulled out his push-to-talk and keyed Security. He barked some orders, then waited. I worked to get my heart rate under control and assess the damage. Not too bad—only a smudge on my pants, but they were dark enough to hide it well.

Chef Omer looked a bit ragged. Despite his dabbing with the cloth in his hand, water ran in rivulets down his face, disappearing into the folds of his jowls and neck, then reappearing as a growing stain on his collar.

Jerry muttered an epithet, then said, “Thank you.” He looked at me and shook his head as he put his phone away in its sleeve at his waist. “Cameras didn’t get a good angle on the driver’s face, either. There may be something I can play with, but I’ll have to get up to Security to see. But I did see the plates were covered, so that’s a dead end.”

The three of us worked our way back up the ramp—this time, at a more sedate pace. I was glad to see the color in Chef Omer’s face lightening with each passing minute.

The two guards waited for us at the elevators. Some help they had been. I started to voice my displeasure when the vision in front of me brought me up short.

Three people waited. The two guards and Christian Wexler. The chef held a box—from the strain on his face, it must’ve been heavy.

“This guy was just paying for his stuff, when the other guy jumped into the truck and took off.” The guard who had spoken before explained.

“Who was selling you this stuff?” I asked the chef, who had put the box down.

Chef Omer squatted and started through the contents.

“First, it was Fiona,” Chef Wexler answered. “And now, who the hell cares?”

“Ah-ha!” Chef Omer held a tin aloft. “My caviar.” He set it down and rooted some more, pulling out tins as he ticked them off. “My saffron. My piment d’Espelette.” He hoisted the small container skyward. “Thank God, I do not want to anger the Basques, they get pretty nasty.” He pounced again, giggling in delight. “And the black garlic.” When he looked at me, his face held a kid’s delight at Christmas. “This explains a lot of things.” He rose and turned on Wexler, wagging a meaty finger in the younger man’s face. “You should be ashamed, stealing these things.”

Wexler paled. “I didn’t steal them, I swear. I just bought them.”

“And turned a blind eye.”

Wexler vacillated. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. At first I thought it was all black market stuff, but Fiona was behind it, so I figured it was just part of her business model, know what I’m saying? Since everyone else was buying the good stuff, I had to, too. How else could I compete?”

“That argument didn’t get Barry Bonds very far with Roger Goodell.”

“Yeah, well, when Desiree showed up today—I sorta figured it was all legit.”

“Desiree? Bouclet?”

“How many Desirees do you know?” Chef Wexler gave me a condescending look, which I though pretty bold, or foolhardy. “She was the one driving the truck.”

* * *

Desiree Bouclet. What the hell was she up to? I felt somewhat homicidal—my natural reaction when someone tried to kill me. And I felt a bit sad—how I’d wanted to believe the Bouclets were aboveboard. I should’ve known better, though. No one is what they seem—Jean-Charles had told me that himself, the last time we talked.

Anger propelled me through the casino. The open door to Teddie’s theatre stopped me in my tracks. Open only a crack, it was enough to attract my attention. No one should be in there—the set for the Last Chef Standing competition had been set, Brandy told me so herself. The theatre should’ve been locked up tight.

Without easing the door open much farther, I squeezed through.

Kliegs on the tracks overhead bathed the stage in bright light, accentuating the darkness of the seating area. In the small arc from the edge of the stage back to the maze of prep tables, cooktops, and ovens, two men stood side-by-side facing an unnoticed audience of one—me.

Of course, Teddie would have a key.

Jordan had joined him.

The two of them were a study in contrasts: Jordan dark and steamy, Teddie blond and All-American. Both buff, with pelvises thrust forward, one hand on a hip, shoulders back, pouty faces—a gay sashay.

“Okay,” Teddie explained. “There are six main drag queen moves.”

As quietly as I could, I settled into the nearest seat, and leaned back. As shows go, this one had great potential—if I could score a beverage with a small umbrella, life would be perfect.

“The first one is pick-the-grapes.” With palm facing downward, hand cupped, Teddie lifted one arm in front of him, then at the top of the stroke, he turned his hand over as if plucking a grape from a tall vine. “You have to exaggerate it. Like this.” He gave a hip tilt, more bend and movement to his arm, a snap at the top. Jordan mimicked him. The man was a natural—not that I was surprised, or anything.

Where was a video camera when I needed one? This would go viral on YouTube.

The two of them worked through the rest of the moves. There was pull-back-the-drapes and pass-the-plate, which were variations of the arm extended, swiping dramatically across the body. Next came a finger-wagging get-off-my-lawn, as if scolding a child. Then churn-the-butter: the men clasped their hands in front of them and moved every part they could in a circular motion. That one had potential in a slightly different venue, I thought. This was followed closely by the pièce de résistance and my personal favorite, toss-the-condom. With thumb and forefinger on one hand pressed together, the other hand placed back on the hip, they made a flicking motion over one shoulder as if flinging away something distasteful.

I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep the laughter bottled up inside. The men moved through the series several times until Jordan could follow along without a hitch.

“Okay, now we put it to music.” Teddie glanced into the crow’s nest above my head and gave a curt nod. “The Diana Ross, please,” he called. Then he glanced at Jordan and gave him a huge smile. “You ready?”

Jordan gave a little laugh. “Here goes nothing.”

When the first strains of music hit through the speakers, I about choked. “‘I’m Coming Out’? Seriously?” I said, unable to stifle myself any longer.

Teddie laughed as he shielded his eyes with one hand and searched the room, finding me at the top. He didn’t seem surprised. He gave me a grin. Both men waved. And the two of them didn’t miss a beat, bobbing their heads to the music, then stepping into their routine.

Watching two incredibly handsome, virile, masculine men mince and prance their way through the song helped me find my smile. Life had been a bit of a drag lately—I smiled at the pun, of course. I’m easily amused. To be honest, lately, I’d taken to whining a bit too much—I was boring myself. It dawned on me that I was
sooo
over me. Time to move on, kick butt if I had to.

And live.

When the song wound down, Teddie and Jordan glanced at each other, then burst out laughing as I clapped wildly. They took rather dramatic bows.

“You guys are almost as good as Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye and their ‘Sisters’ act in
White Christmas
.”

Teddie gave me an interesting look—I wasn’t sure how to read it. We had reprised that scene a hundred times as we giggled our way through a bucket of popcorn and a bottle of meaty Petit Syrah each Christmas Eve for the past couple of years, at least.

Good memories.

Teddie. I wanted my best friend back. Could we once again find our center? Was it really possible to go back like he said?

All I knew was: if he wanted to regain my trust, he’d have to earn it.

“Let’s do it again.” Teddie gave a signal to cue the music again.

Jordan proved to be a quick study, and soon the men had the beginnings of a worthy act. I moved closer, landing in the center of the fourth row—as the only fan in the audience, I couldn’t think of a reason why I shouldn’t try out the primo seats. As an executive at the hotel, I never found my ass in this kind of class during a real show—the seats went to our most important guests.