Lucky Flash: A Lucky O'Toole Novella (The Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Series) (2 page)

“Johnny Pismo.
 
Don’t be a fool.”
 
The minute the words escaped my mouth I cringed—that was like asking a fish to quit pulling oxygen from water.
 

Johnny Pismo ignored me, which men did only at their peril. He knew that.
 
But his reaction did solidify my disinclination to risk bodily harm to save his tiny, white ass.

Busta’ grinned, his eyes fixated on Johnny Pismo.
 
“If that piece is all you got, white boy, you better start running.
 
That little popper won’t do anything other than piss me off.”
 

Johnny nodded toward me.
 
“She’s my backup.”

All three of the men turned and looked at me.
 
I raised my hands, open palms toward Busta’ and his muscle, and gave them a smile and a shrug.
 
“I’m sure we can work something out.”

This time Busta’ laughed as he started confidently toward Johnny Pismo.
 
His man followed, licking his chops, a predator hoping for scraps.

I saw the little twerp’s arms tense.
 
“Johnny!
 
Are you nuts?” I shouted.

He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER TWO

L
UCKY

”Where’s Johnny Pismo?”
 
I asked my best friend, ace investigative reporter and Vegas know-it-all, Flash Gordon.
 
We huddled in a dark alley, the only illumination a spitting street lamp dying a slow death.
 
I tried not to see it as a metaphor.
 
Even though well past an acceptable hour, I had no trouble finding Flash—apparently she had not only discovered that it was possible to dress head to toe in Day-Glo orange, she owned it.
 

Before we get too far, I ought to introduce myself.
 
My name is Lucky O’Toole, and I am the Vice President of Customer Relations for the Babylon, Vegas’s primo Strip property.
 
This is a fancy way of saying I’m the chief problem solver, hence my being on the Strip at an ungodly hour, chasing down some has-been at the behest of my father, who is also my boss.
 

Flash tossed her mane of red curls as she gave an exaggerated head tilt toward the rear of the hotel across the alley.
 
Fronting the prime section of the Strip, surrounded by much grander properties, it was finally undergoing a facelift.
 
Unfortunately, right now the whole thing was as dark as a mobster’s heart and surrounded by an eight-foot chain-linked fence.
 
From the other side of the abandoned hotel, I could hear the hum of traffic, occasional twitters of raucous laughter, shouts of joy, the thump of bass woofers as carloads of young men cruised the Strip looking for mischief—the party known as Saturday night in Vegas.

The glow of the multiple marquees that sprouted along either side of this section of the Strip—a blinding display of competition between the properties—lit the sliver of night sky above the abandoned hulk like a multihued sunset.
 
Unfortunately, it did little to illuminate my present location or brighten my mood.

I pulled my sweater tighter against the night chill.

“Pismo shinnied up that tree.”
 
Flash dropped that little tidbit with a condescending tone, as if I should’ve known that.
 
Like everybody picked a tree as a hiding place.

The trees stood like a line of weary soldiers, listing and sagging but still standing guard because it was their duty, even though they no longer had anyone to protect.
 
I eyed the drooping palms, their fronds a dead shade of brown.
 
It always surprised me how quickly the Mojave could suck the life out of abandoned flora and fauna.
 
“Which tree?”

“Third one down.” Flash spoke out of the side of her mouth as if worrying somebody would figure out what we were talking about.

I sent furtive glances into the impenetrable shadows.
 
Though it wasn’t hard to imagine all manner of nasties lurking there, as far as I could tell we were the only fools in the alley—besides Johnny Pismo.
 
The smell of over-ripe garbage and countless nights of overindulgence were effective deterrents.
 
“Why are you talking that way?
 
And how the hell did you find him?”

Flash hitched one hip and put a hand on it.
 
Bey-girl, Queen B, attitude.
 
“Why am I talking this way?”
 
She lowered her glance and her voice.
 
“Because I’ve been chasing this half-wit has-been around this silly burgh for the better part of the night trying to keep him from shooting somebody or from getting shot himself.”

“He still have a gun?”

Flash shook her head.

“He shoot anybody?”

“Not that I know of.”

Relaxing a bit, I crossed my arms and leaned against the light pole.
 
“So how
did
you find him?”

 
Flash let out a long sigh as her smile faded, then her eyes skittered from mine.
 
“I know all his secrets.”

“How?”

“I—We—”
 

Wow.
 
Flash at a loss for words.
 
The Emperor without his clothes.

Then I connected the dots.
 
“You
dated
him?”

“You don’t have to shout it to the world.”

 
I tried hard not to laugh, I really did.
 
But I failed…miserably.
 
If Flash had one downfall it was her consistently abysmal choices in men.
 
Of course, I’m not one to brag, but we aren’t talking about me right now.
 
“He has a habit of hiding in trees in back alleys?”

Flash let me have my fun. “You don’t want to know, trust me.”

“Oh, but I do.
 
Every tiny, embarrassing, enlightening detail.
 
But, I’ll let you off the hook…for now.” Fighting a serious case of the giggles, I tried to adopt a serious tone.
 
“I appreciate your finding him, I really do.
 
You’ve saved me from a huge headache.
 
But now, with all your knowledge of intimate details regarding Mr. Pismo, do you think you could come up with a way to get him
out
of the tree?”

She held out her fist for a knuckle bump.
 
“I got your back, girlfriend.”

I ignored the knuckle thing.
 
“Glad to hear it.”
 
Flash and I went all the way back to college days at UNLV.
 
We knew so much about each other that blackmail was an inevitability. “Now, about getting him down from there.”
   

“Couldn’t we just leave him?
 
I mean, no loss, no foul, right? He’s not exactly the caliber of entertainer you’d book for the Babylon, is he?
 
What’s all this about?”
 
Flash could sniff out a story before anyone knew there was one.
 

At her question, a faint alarm sounded in my deep recesses.
 
“I’m not really sure.
 
Something’s going down and Pismo is in the thick of it.”
 
He’d been nothing but trouble from the get-go.
 
This was the Big Boss’s fault.
 

Sometimes being right wasn’t as much fun as it should be.

And being the chief problem solver was a pain in the ass.

Unable to conjure much meanness, I leveled my tired gaze on Flash. “I don’t think you can tease anything salacious out of this, sorry.”

She gave me a look.
 
“You think not?”

I didn’t like her tone.
 
It was too… hopeful. “Okay.
 
What
don’t
I know?”

Flash glanced toward the tree that ostensibly hid Johnny Pismo.
 
“Well, it’s complicated.”

“Give me the short-and-sweet version.
 
It’s a three-day weekend that somehow I have off.
 
They’ve worked me raw, and I’m in desperate need of me-time away from this crazy place.”
 

“Really?”
 
Flash turned big eyes my direction.
 
“Three days?
 
You’ll never be allowed off the corporate leash that long.
 
Unless…
 
”
 
Her eyes brightened.
 
“Are you going somewhere?”

I nodded.
 

“Someplace cool?”

I nodded again.
 
“Uh-huh.”

“Where?”
 
Flash warmed to the story.
 
I could just see her writing a headline.
 
“I bet the Big Boss gave you the corporate jet, didn’t he?
 
So, where to?
 
Cabo?
 
San Francisco?”

“Even better.”

“Paris?
 
Rome?”
 
She tugged on my arm.
 
“Oh, please tell me you’re going to Rome.
 
Those Italian men… I’m so down for that.”

For a moment I thought about pointing out a rather interesting interpretation of her word choice; but I was too tired to keep playing, so I gave it up.
 

“Flash,” I couldn’t keep the tired out of my voice.
 
“I’m going to bed.”

She pursed her lips.
 
“Typical.
 
But it still could be fabulous depending on who you take with you.”

“Which is none of your business.
 
Now,” I put my hands on my hips and turned my attention to Johnny Pismo’s perch, “how the hell do we get him out of there?”
 

“I bet it’s Jean-Charles.”

Flash goaded me. Jean-Charles Bouclet, a rather dishy French chef, had been worming his way into my life, not that I objected or anything.
 
Of course, my former lover, Teddie, had just reappeared complicating things and increasing the odds that I would shoot him and end up in jail with no conjugal visits.
 
So I’m not sure any of it mattered.
 
“Pay attention.
 
Johnny Pismo?
 
The tree?
 
I’d really like to wrap this up and go home, not that it hasn’t been a laugh a minute.”

Her face clouded as the fight left her.
 
“There’s a problem.” She avoided my eyes.
 

I got one of those hollow feelings in the pit of my stomach.
 
You know the ones. The ones that make your mouth go all cottony right before you hurl.
 
“A problem?
 
Of course there is.
 
He’s hiding in a friggin’ tree.”
 
I leveled my best dirty look as I pulled myself to my full six feet.
 
Nothing really intimidated Flash, but I was desperate enough to pull out every stop.
 
“What.
 
Is.
 
The.
 
Problem?”

“He shot somebody.”
 
Flash avoided my gaze.

I snorted in disbelief.
 
“Johnny Pismo?
 
He doesn’t have the balls.”

Flash gave me an unenthusiastic shrug.
 
“Well, I saw him aim and pull the trigger.
 
After that, things got a bit sketchy.
 
I heard a yelp; then the crowd erupted like a swarm of bees prodded from the hive—ready to attack but all flutter with indecision. Johnny Pismo took off like a scalded dog.
 
Since he was my target, I took off after him.”
 

Under pressure, I switched to automatic problem-solving mode.
 
My heart rate slowed, my vision sharpened, my brain jump-started.
 
“Did you see who he fired at?”

Flash squared her shoulders.
 
“You are sooo not going to like this.”
 
She stared over my shoulder, avoiding eye contact.

“I already sooo don’t like this.”

“Busta’ Blue.”
 
She took a step back awaiting my reaction.

She got one. I flapped my arms and stomped around as my blood ran cold.
 
“Great!
 
Just what we needed.
 
Now I’ve got to save his pansy ass from the gangsta and gun crowd.
 
Terrific.”
 
Then a thought brightened the night.
 
“Did he kill him?

Flash tightened her lips into a thin line and shrugged.
 
“Like I said, I didn’t hang around.
 
From the reaction of the crowd—women didn’t faint or anything dramatic—I figure he just winged him, but I don’t know for sure.”

I didn’t know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, not that the answer really mattered all that much.
 
It just defined the rules of the game and who the players would be.
 
Of course, I was ignoring the fact that it probably mattered a whole lot to Busta’ Blue.
 
And—not that I cared—it also factored greatly into Johnny Pismo’s longevity.
 
But, dead or alive, damage had been done.
 
And retribution was required by the Code.
 
“I wonder if Johnny Pismo appreciates his position.
 
He’s just started a turf war with the toughest guys around.”

After Tupac got gunned down on the Strip, that whole part of the music scene had been a powder keg ready to blow.
 
I glanced up and down the alley with a new sense of urgency.
 
“We’d better get him out of that tree and someplace safe before someone else finds him. Any idea what his beef with Busta’ Blue is?”

“I heard Busta’ say Johnny Pismo had something of his and he wanted it back.”