Lucky Flash: A Lucky O'Toole Novella (The Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Series) (3 page)

“What?”

Flash shrugged.
 
“It wasn’t exactly a good time to wring details out of anyone.”

I gave her that as I tried to think.

“When he scurried up that tree, I tried talking to him, but he’s pretty shook,” Flash continued.
 
“He was talking a mile a minute.
 
I couldn’t understand a word.
 
Maybe you’ll have better luck; he’s scared of you.
 
But,” she put a hand on my arm as I started for the tree, “he’s armed.”

Something in her tone sounded off, but I blew by it.
 
“He still has the gun, I know.”

Holding on to my arm, Flash squeezed tighter.
 
“No, he traded the gun.”
 
Her lips pursed, and seriousness clouded her eyes—I caught it all in the glow of a streetlight nearby.
 

I gave her my full attention.
 
“He traded the gun?
 
For what, a bazooka?”

 
“No, a tiger.”

I looked again at the tree.
 
“A tiger?
 
He’s got a tiger in the tree?”

Flash fought a grin—a hint leaked out, curling her lips on one side.
 
“I told you, I only lost him for a few minutes.
 
Next thing I know, he’s got a tiger.
 
I don’t exactly know how.”

“How big?”

“Siegfried and Roy big.”

I gave a low, appreciative whistle.
 
“How’d he get it up a tree?”

“He tossed a chunk of something up there, and the tiger went for it.”

I mentally squashed the other questions burbling up—they could wait.
 
I tipped my head toward Johnny Pismo’s hiding place.
 
“Let’s talk him down.
 
The longer we wait, the better the odds of increasing our problems.
 
Busta’ and his crowd aren’t stupid.
 
They’ll find Johnny Pismo sooner rather than later.”

Lights arced across the back of the building as a car turned down the alleyway, its engine idling.
 
Flash and I ducked back into the shadows.
 
A figure leaned out the passenger-side window and flicked on a powerful light, the kind that reminded me of the ones used to spotlight corner girls.

“Shit.”
 
Flash, still squeezing my arm, pulled me close to her side.
 
“You’re like some friggin’ prophet or something.”

The car eased in our direction as the light flashed around the alley.
 
“Just once, when it comes to this sort of thing, I’d love to be wrong.”

“What should we do?”

“You wouldn’t have a gun, would you?” I asked Flash, even though I knew she hated the things.
 

“You think I have a gun?
 
Seriously?”

“A passing spark of unbridled hope.
 
But, for the record, they do come in handy from time to time.”
 
I took a deep breath.
 
“This would be one of those times.”

“Point taken.”

The car idled closer.

Feeling powerless, I tried to think.
 
A couple of garbage cans, a few empty bottles, not much in the way of firepower.
 
“Be still.
 
Maybe they won’t find him. Or us.”
 

“They knew enough to come down this alley,” Flash whispered.
 

As the car kept inching closer, we pressed further back, squatting behind the shelter of a dumpster.
 
Its top open, it reeked of the rotting detritus of dreams.
 
Johnny Pismo had reeked of it.
 
And desperation made stupid people do seriously stupid stuff.
 
If I ever got my hands around his neck, I’d toss the twerp in the thing and leave him there—after I figured out what the hell was going on.

I held my breath and ducked out of sight as the car rolled past, so close I could smell the sweet stench of its over-cologned occupants combining with the already bilious fumes from the dumpster in a truly nauseating olfactory overload.
 
When I saw stars, I deigned to breathe again.
 
My breath escaped in a long, silent sigh as the car eased past out hiding place without stopping.
 
Thinking they’d had time to move away, I ventured a peek around the dumpster.
 
Brake lights painted the shadows an eerie red. The spotlight still probed the darkness.
 
The car pulled even with the first tree.
 
Leaning over me as I crouched, Flash put a bracing hand on my back as she craned for a better view.
 
I don’t think either of us took a breath.
 
I know I didn’t—not until I saw stars.
 

The fronds of the first tree, an impenetrable tangle of dead brown and hopeful green shoots, tossed the light back.
 
I dared a shallow breath as the car kept moving.

Two more trees until Johnny Pismo would be out of the woods.

The noise of the Strip faded as every molecule of my being became focused on the car.
 
The idle of the car’s engine faded until there was nothing, as if time had stopped, pausing life. Silence filled all the spaces around us.
 

“They have guns?”
 
Even though my positive thinking was often dashed, I clung to it.
 
One of these times I had to be right… right?

Flash leaned down, her mouth close to my ear, and whispered, “Hell, these guys accessorize with the latest calibers.”
 

A shot split the night.

Flash and I both jumped.
 
“Now you’re the friggin’ prophet,” I hissed.

“You had to ask.”
 
Flash’s voice lowered into a growl.

But hers wasn’t the only growl.
 
Echoing down the alley came the distinct, low rumble of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.
 
Or may of a pissed off, overly large feline.
 

I let my head drop.
 
If we heard it…

Sure enough, when I hazarded another glance, the light now probed the third tree, Johnny Pismo’s tree.
 
Brake lights flashed on.
 
Doors opened, then shut.
 
Three shadowy figures gathered under the tree.
 
The light was too weak for me to make them out perfectly, but, from their posture, they had meanness on their minds.

A voice snarled, “Pismo, get your pansy ass down from there.
 
You got some answerin’ to do.”

Still with a balancing hand on my back, Flash leaned down again.
 
“Busta’ Blue.”

I’d gotten that far on my own.

“Guess Johnny’s aim is as bad as his act,” Flash continued.

The urge to spring to his defense coiled inside me.
 
Why all of a sudden I felt the need to go bounding to his rescue beat the hell out of me.
 
It was a knee-jerk thing, not a thought-type thing—sort of a save-the-world character defect.
 
I opened my mouth to object.
 

Busta’ Blue beat me to it.
 
“You and me got a score to settle, Pismo.”

Silence.
 
The night stilled as if it too was afraid of Busta’ Blue.
 
Even the hint of a breeze that had raised goose bumps on my arms had fled, although the goose bumps remained.

In the weak light, I saw one of the men raise his arm and point toward the tree. Metal glinted in the light.
 
A gun.
 
Both hands on the grip, he took aim.
 

Damn.
 
Why did men always seem to bring a gun to the fight when fists would solve the problem?

Without a thought, I pushed myself to my feet, apparently catching Flash off guard.
 
She yelped as I hit her chin, slamming her mouth shut.

“Sorry.”
 
I threw the word over my shoulder as, legs churning, I ran.
 
“No!” One small word wasn’t much defense against three big dudes with a gun, but fresh out of ideas, I was winging it.

At my shout, clearly surprised, two of the men turned.
 
The third one, the one I was interested in, didn’t flinch as he focused on his target.

A shot split the air.
 
Then another shot.
 
The muzzle flash seared white in the darkness so bright it left a light shadow in my field of vision, half-blinding me for a moment.
 
I cringed against it, but kept running.
 
I stumbled, then caught myself, staggering to regain first balance then forward momentum.
 

Johnny Pismo, if he was in fact in the tree—a fact we had yet to truly establish, remained silent.
 
A body didn’t fall, so I assumed he also remained unhurt… or absent.
 

“Stop shooting!” I shouted again.

This time the shooter turned to look at me, then swiveled to point the gun at my chest.

Okay, so I didn’t think this through.
 
Nothing more dangerous or foolish than action without a plan.
 
A wing and a prayer, that’s my M.O.

I skidded to a stop.
 
The four of us, wait…Flash skidded in beside me… the five of us stood there in some sort of an O.K. Corral moment.

“What do we do?”
 
Flash whispered.

“Don’t ask me.
 
Dark places and angry men are more up your… alley.”

“Cute,” she said but didn’t argue.
 
Instead she squared her shoulders.
 
“Busta’, whatever Johnny Pismo’s got, I’m sure we can negotiate a trade.”

“Being up a tree isn’t exactly a strong bargaining position.”
 
Busta’s voice was low and menacing.

Before Flash could counter, the fronds of Jonny Pismo’s hiding place shook as something moved, shifting positions.
 
Then a low growl, starting soft then amplifying into a roar.
 
Primal and menacing, it hit every visceral flight-nerve I had.
 
Every hair on my body stood at attention.
 
A flood of adrenaline accelerated my heart as a sheen of perspiration popped.
 
My breath came in short, shallow gasps.
 
Flash clutched my arm.
 
Indecision rooted us to the spot.

The men froze, clearly using the deer-method of dealing with danger—if you don’t move, they can’t see you—which was a problem for the deer but not for any of the creatures that viewed them as dinner.
 
We all watched in dread as the fronds moved again, scratching against each other, like the tiger was sharpening its claws.
 

Like something out of a Siegfried and Roy show, the big cat leapt from its perch in a graceful arc, landing without a sound.
 
Little cat feet.
 
Make that big cat feet.

In one easy leap it pounced on the shooter, who crumpled beneath it with a whimper.
 
The cat batted at him.
 
But no blood-curding screams, not blood that I could see.
 
A big cat playing with an even bigger mouse.
 
The cat looked up like it was just getting started.

“God Almighty, don’t one of you fools have a piece?”
 
Busta’ whispered, his voice tight with fear.
 
Apparently the guy under the cat was the only one with a gun.

“You’re the badasses,” Flash reminded them.
 
“Three idiots and a gun.”
 
That last comment, said out of the side of her mouth, was meant for me.

“How many gangstas does it take to stop a tiger?”
 
So helpful, I know, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
 
Panic tends to loosen the bonds of my brain cells, freeing random associations.
 

Busta’ and his one upright buddy remained rooted, transfixed as if unable to comprehend the danger.
 
The cat returned its attention to the third man.
 
Gave a tentative pawing.
 
The man gave no response.
 
Curled in the fetal position, either he was playing dead or it wasn’t much of an act.

Big cats without their handlers made me wary, but not too much.
 
This being Vegas, although the tiger was still at heart a wild animal, it would be very accustomed to humans.
 
Christ, Johnny Pismo had led the thing on a merry chase through the back alleys then had gotten it up the tree without incident.
 
I watched the tiger and I could tell it was playing.

Finally, the big cat apparently decided what to do with its catch.
 
It cuffed the man like a mother grabbing a wayward child—hard enough to ensure attention, but soft enough to not hurt—then the cat leapt for Busta’s other companion.
 
The man crumpled beneath the big cat who gave him the same treatment.
 
Both men whimpered as they clutched their knees to their chest.

Still standing over his prize, the cat turned its head to stare down the last man standing, Busta’ Blue.
 

Looking the cat in the eye finally galvanized Busta’ to action.
 
He grabbed at the door handle behind him.
 
He struggled with it, darting panicked looks at the cat, who eyed him, then snarled.
 
The cat bounded toward him.

Taking off at a dead run, he headed my direction.
 
As he passed by me through the weak glow of the street lamp still sputtering above, Busta’ Blue shot me a wide-eyed look of terror but kept running.
 
He had a slash across his upper arm that trickled blood—why I noticed that, I don’t know.