Lucky Flash: A Lucky O'Toole Novella (The Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Series) (9 page)

The place was as quiet as a mausoleum when we stepped off the elevator.
 
Dane looked like a cowboy who’d wandered off a movie set.
 
He should have a Colt revolver in side holster strapped to his leg instead of a neat little Glock tucked under his arm in a shoulder sling.
 
When the odds were against me, I always opted for a big show of force.
 
I’d traded yesterdays’ Day-Glo orange for hot pink, my power color.
 
I carried a Derringer in my purse—playing to men’s typical under-appreciation for female ingenuity and cunning often worked to my advantage.
 

“Did you notify next of kin as to our plans?” Dane leaned down and whispered in my ear.
 

“Don’t throw in the white towel before the battle is even begun.”

As I raised my fist to knock, the door opened.
 
A well-dressed young woman eyed me stonily and then stepped back.
 
Toothpick thin, mocha skin, flat stare, and a sneer.
 
“Come in.
 
He’s expecting you.”

“Said the spider to the fly,” I said out of the corner of my mouth as Dane motioned me to go first.

Busta’ Blue, swathed in layers of silk with some tribal motif, sat at the kitchen table shoveling cereal into his mouth.
 
He paused to give us a look and then growled, “I figured one of you two would show.
 
Thought maybe it’d be the tall one.”
 
He didn’t pause in his feeding, cereal dribbling back into the bowl when he talked.
 
He gave Dane the once-over, then dismissed him, but he didn’t fire back with the insult I saw in his eyes.

“They gotta find you first,” I said.
 
“I had the inside skinny.”

“You always did keep it on the down and dirty.”
 

Ah, there was the insult.
 
“Worked so far.”
 
I pulled out a chair opposite him.
 
Elbows on the table, I leaned closer.
 
“You need to tell me about Liberace’s ring.”

“Bought that sucker fair and square.” He shrugged, a mountain of flesh undulating.
 
“I was a fan.”
 
He gave me a glance, looking for derision, I thought.
 
Image was everything with these guys, posturing badasses, but musicians… Well, some of them.
 
All of them could appreciate the showmanship of Liberace.
 
That man was Madonna before she even had a glint of how to work it.

“Who’d you score it off of?”
 

He hemmed and hawed.
 
You woulda thought I’d asked him for his dealer.
 
“Man, that kind of shit will get me nowhere good.”

“If you don’t tell me, I call the cops.
 
Then I’ll send Lucky.”
 
I wasn’t above calling in the wrath of God when I needed her.

His eyes widened.
 
“Okay, but don’t you go sayin’ I said, right?
 
You, bein’ a journalist and all, can hide your sources behind one of the Amendments, right?”
 

“Right.”
 
In theory, but I didn’t add that part.
 
Busta’ Blue wasn’t worth my kind of protection, but he didn’t need to know that.

“I scored it off Dig Me O’Dell.
 
He said I could keep it here for a while, for safekeeping.
 
I don’t know what’s going on with the dude.
 
First, I notice all his good stuff is gone.
 
Then he lets me rent this place.
 
Before he wouldn’t let hardly anyone in here, and you had to take you shoes off and shit.”

“What good stuff?” I asked.

Too late he realized he’d said way more than was good for his health.

“Does he have a secret room here?” Dane asked.

I flinched.
 
I’d forgotten about him.
 

“Yeah.”

Dane stared down Busta’.

The big man caved.
 
“I can show you where the door is, but I don’t got the combination.”
 
He lumbered through the main room, folds of silk wafting behind him like sails luffing in the wind.

As I trailed after the two men, I tried not to drool at the view up the Strip.
 
Every major property was visible as the Strip tracked north and then made a jog after Sahara, downtown in the distance.
 
The whole glorious tackiness of it all unfurled at my feet.
 
God, how I loved this place.
 
A place where I could be me and still be somebody.
 
That was the real treasure of Vegas.

Pressing a spot on the wall at the far end of the hall, Busta’ opened a secret door, so well hidden I never would’ve known it was there.
 
The door behind it looked to be solid steel, a combination lock in the middle.
 
Dane pulled out his gun and leveled it at Busta Blue’s chest.
 
“Open it.”

Busta’ gave him a narrow-eyed look.
 
“I told you I don’t have it.”

“I know what you said.”
 
Dane pulled back the slide.
 

Movement behind me made me turn.
 
Dane didn’t flinch.
 
A guy rushed at us. I stepped back as if cowering.
 
Cocking my elbow the way Lucky had showed me, I waited.
 
As the guy moved to brush by me, I threw a roundhouse, leading with my elbow.
 
Bone hit soft cartilage.
 
The guy dropped, clutching his nose.
 
On his knees, his hands cupping the blood that poured out, he narrowed his eyes.
 
Coiling his body.
 
I kicked him, connecting under his jaw.
 
The light in his eyes blinked out as he toppled over, blood spilling onto the perfect carpet.

Busta’ and Dane, still hiding the gun pointed at Busta’s chest, looked at me, their eyes wide.
 
Busta’s held disbelief.
 
Dane’s held respect.

I dusted my hands together.
 
“Now, where were we?”

Busta’ Blue had the next move.
 
He vacillated for a moment, shooting me a murderous look, and then bent over the lock.
 
The door whooshed open, an air lock.

I took a peek inside.
 
“No way I’m going in there.”
 
We all have our little paranoias.
 
Mine was being locked in a soundproof vault and nobody knew where I was or could hear me scream—that and too many men and too little time, but that’s not really possible.
 
I always had the time.

“Fine, you stay out here and make sure this guy doesn’t lock me in.”
 
Dane passed me his gun.
 
“Keep it pointed at his chest.
 
If he so much as flinches, shoot him.”

“Oh, just the thought of that makes me go all warm and gooey.”
 

Dane rolled his eyes.

I handed him my iPhone.
 
“Pictures.”

Busta’ started to object.
 
I silenced him with a waggle of the Glock.
 
I was liking this upper-hand thing.

“You,” Dane nodded at Busta’, “over there.”
 
He waited for Busta’ to do as he said, then spoke to me.
 
“Don’t let anyone near this door.”
 
Then he disappeared inside.
 
I heard him whistle.
 
A few minutes later, while I was contemplating what it would be like to shoot Busta’ Blue, Dane stepped out and handed me my phone.
 
“Hell of a treasure chest. Nameplates are still there, but the stuff is missing.”

“You’re saying the stuff in there was real?”

Busta’ shifted, clearly uneasy.
 
“Man, that ring Pismo had came from there, and it’s as real as you and me.
 
I got it tested.”

“By whom?

“My insurance guy.”

I tried not to roll my eyes.
 
“A name.”

“Livermore.
 
Nelson Livermore.
 
Pansy-ass name.
 
He works out of his house in the Naked City.
 
Pismo put me onto him.”

CHAPTER SIX

L
UCKY

Liberace’s ring still glimmered from its case in the mini-museum in the Bazaar, the marketplace at the Babylon where purveyors of every kind of extravagance competed for real estate.
 
From Ferraris to Jimmy Choos, baubles of epic size, designer duds in Lilliputian sizes, graceful original art to gourmet burgers, the Bazaar tempted all shapes, sizes, and tastes.
 
The Babylon Museum was tucked in a tasteful corner near Samson’s, the women’s grooming salon that boasted a cadre of Samson look-alikes offering limitless flutes of Champagne.
 
Women travelled half the world to spend their entire Vegas trip there.
 
A blue door, standing open, and a tasteful, reverent sign marked my destination.

The dusty blue walls, thick carpet, and focused lighting stood in stark contrast to the rest of the rather bold accents of the hotel.
 
The whole place made me want to whisper as if I was in a place of worship and reverence, which I guess I was.
 
Music played in the background—a loop of the oldies but goodies I’d helped the Big Boss compile.
 
Fun times.
 
Curiously, Liberace crooned
I’ll Be Seeing You
as I staked out my place, holding up the wall, waiting for my father.

Elvis’s sequined jacket from his last concert in Vegas hung on the wall above the case holding the ring, next to a signed guitar from B. B. King and sheet music to
My Way
signed by Sinatra.
 
These were my favorite things in what I referred to as the Big Boss’s music corner.

Leaning against the wall, I watched tourists wander the room partaking of bits of Vegas’s heritage.
 
Music had been almost as important as gambling in the heyday, luring visitors to make the long hot drive through the Mojave from L A.
 
Of course, the Mob and a possible brush-up against bad was a lure as well, but I tried not to focus on that.
 
Although I was born into that world, it wasn’t my Vegas.

As if hearing his cue, the Big Boss strolled through the door acting like he owned the place, which stood to reason.
 
Casually, he cased the room, checking every detail, every nuance for the perfection he demanded.
 
His eyes paused and then moved on as they brushed over me.
 
Working his way in my direction, he graciously greeted those who stopped him, spending time and attention on each.
 
Since I’d left him, he’d added a suit jacket and his diamond tie-bar—just enough bling to fit with Vegas expectations.
 
Matching diamond cufflinks flashed where they peeked out of his coat sleeve when he reached to shake someone’s hand.

The personification of Vegas, someone had described him in an article recently.
 
Smart, savvy, good, with just a hint of bad.
 
He’d thought the description perfect.
 
“If I was all good, what would they talk about?” he’d said with a grin.

Finally, he made stood in front of the case. When he found me looking at him, he gestured to the bauble resting inside the case.
 
“I told you it was still there.”

I shouldered in next to him.
 
“I had no doubt.”

“The real one is in Detective Romeo’s custody, you say?”

“I’ll need to have it authenticated, but I’d stand by that.”

“You don’t need to.
 
Not unless there’s more than one fake floating around.
 
While we were visiting upstairs, my guy tested this one.
 
Jerry had a whole team of security down here.” He lifted his chin toward the shiny bauble nestled in velvet under glass.

“So this one’s glue, or whatever they’re making the fakes out of these days.”
 
It wasn’t a question.
 
I glanced at his face, red with anger. “I know mother has you on the brink of homicide, but don’t do anything stupid.
 
If you want to kill somebody, at least give me the time to figure out who.”

He didn’t agree, but I saw a bit of rational trickle back into his posture.
 

“How did you end up dealing with Johnny Pismo?” I asked.

“He came to me with his cock-and-bull story.
 
I didn’t believe him.”

As I thought.
 
I blew at some hair that tickled my forehead.
 
“Who would?
 
That guy has more angles than a geometry test.
 
But don’t worry.
 
Acute or obtuse, I can straighten him out.”