Wanna Get Lucky? (21 page)

“Have dinner with me.”

“What?” I don’t know what I was expecting, but that wasn’t it.

“As I recall, I owe you a dinner. How about tonight? I can get us a table for two at Tigris.”

I could only stare at him. Dinner with a traitor—I’d probably get the firing squad at dawn. But maybe I could get some answers from him without giving away what I already knew—as The Big Boss always said, hold your cards tight. And if it didn’t work out, at least I’d have a great meal. “Today is Tuesday, right?”

“All day.”

“How about tomorrow?” Tuesdays are movie night with Teddie.

“That’ll work. I’ll pick you up around seven. You have to tell me where you live.”

“I’ll meet you at Tigris.” No way was he coming to my apartment. What would Teddie say? Was I hiding from him now, too?

God, life had gotten so complicated.

THE
Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock again occupied the corner of Miss Patterson’s desk when I burst through the door. This time, however, he didn’t move.

“Jeremy, if you’re not careful we’re going to stencil your name right where you sit, permanently reserving that spot for you.”

He showed me those damned dimples. “I’d like that.”

Miss Patterson looked thrilled as well.

“I don’t mean to be a spoilsport, but take pity on me—this office grinds to a halt when you’re here.”

“Understood. Just a few minutes more, okay?”

I nodded. “Besides, Miss Patterson and I have an important appointment very shortly.”

They both nodded at me like guilty schoolchildren.

I stifled a smile and shook my head. Kids.

“The Most Reverend is waiting for you in your office,” Miss Patterson said as I dropped my purse in the closet.

“Got it.”

Jeep stood at the window, his back to me, his bulk blocking the light. “Reverend Peabody.”

He turned at the sound of my voice. “Ms. O’Toole, call me Jeep, please.”

I took a seat behind my desk. “Sorry. Hard habit to break. And it’s Lucky.”

“What’s lucky?” he asked, his face clouded in confusion.

“Me.”

“You’re lucky?”

“My name.”

“Oh.” He nodded. “Somebody had a sense of humor.”

The Most Reverend had gone Vegas. Today he sported flip-flops, Bermuda shorts, a muscle shirt and Maui Jim’s. While I believe in “live and let live,” seeing Jeep in a muscle shirt gave me an insight into the thinking behind a proposed Vegas city ordinance against men going without shirts.

Jeep remained standing, his elephantine legs spread, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes hidden behind the dark glasses. “I saw the blackmailer last night.”

I raised my finger. “Wait a minute.” I stepped out of the office and retrieved Ms. Reilly’s picture from my purse. I extended it to Jeep. “Is that her?”

He nodded.

“Felicia Reilly.”

“That’s her name?”

“If that’s her, it is. Was she at Carne?” I knew the answer already, but would he tell me the truth? There seemed to be a serious epidemic of lying going around.

“Yeah.” He flushed, and I didn’t think it was from embarrassment. “She wanted her money.”

“Did you give it to her?”

“No. I put her off. She was furious. But she’s a greedy little cuss.” A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “She’s going to meet me at a party we’re having this Thursday night.”

“Really?”

He nodded and took off his dark glasses. His eyes twinkled in anticipation. “We’re going to get that conniving little bitch, aren’t we?”

I raised my eyebrows, then nodded. “Just tell me where.”

He wrote the address down for me. I recognized it—a toffee-nose address for sure—in the Estates . . . at Spanish Trail.

Another piece of the puzzle dropped into place.

I
escorted Jeep out. After the door closed behind him, I rubbed my hands in glee and danced a little jig. In a little more than forty-eight hours, I’d have Felicia Reilly, boiled, diced and ready to serve. If my luck held, and if my hunch was right, I’d have my hands around Willie’s neck sooner than that. Both Miss Patterson and Jeremy looked at me like I’d lost a nut. I didn’t feel the need to explain.

“Jeremy, you got anything for me?”

“No, not yet.”

“Okay. You about ready?” I asked Miss Patterson.

She looked at me, her forehead wrinkled with concern. “Almost. Give me three minutes.”

“You got it,” I said as I dashed into my office. “I need to make a phone call.” I shut the door behind me.

Parking one cheek on the corner of my desk, I picked up the phone, dialed nine for an outside line, then I thought for a moment.
Damn
. I depressed the button on the intercom. “Miss Patterson?”

“He’s just leaving.”

“Fine. Do you know my cell number? I never call myself.” Why I feel the need to explain my own stupidities, I don’t know.

“Of course.”

I waited . . . but giggling was all I heard. “Why don’t you tell me, then we’ll both know?” What is it about infatuation that turns a normally competent woman into a giggling school girl? I’d rather be caught dead.

Okay, even I don’t believe me sometimes.

“Oh, sorry.” She rattled off the numbers.

“Thanks.” I dialed my cell.

As I figured he would, Teddie answered on the first ring. “Hey, good-lookin.’ ”

“Hey, yourself. Where are you? And why do you keep answering my phone?”

“I’m three minutes from Samson’s. And if I didn’t answer, how would you have found me?”

Samson’s was The Big Boss’s attempt at humor. He thought it funny to name the hair salon after a guy with long hair. “If you weren’t fielding every call to my cell, I would have called
your
cell.”

“I’m not answering
mine
, only yours,” Teddie answered as if any of this made sense. “Are you ladies on your way?”

“We will be shortly. Is everything set up?”

“Most of it. I’ll put the finishing touches on our plan while you do the hair thing.” Excitement infused Teddie’s voice. “This is going to be fun.”

“And the other thing? Have you had time to work on that yet?”

“I’ve made some calls, but no one’s gotten back to me yet.”

“How can they when you’re not answering your phone?”

He laughed. “You have me there.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I said it and meant it. That was precisely my hang-up. One rather huge pothole in the rocky road to love.

“I’m working very hard at making myself indispensable.”

“Are you going to give me back my phone?”

“I’d pay you good money to take it off my hands,” Teddie said. “It rings incessantly—I have reams of messages for you. How do you handle it?”

“I have the patience of Job.”

He laughed as if I were joking. “See you in a minute.” Then he rang off.

Despite my best mental efforts to override it, my heart picked up its pace at the prospect.

SAMSON’S
occupied a ziggurat at the end of the Bazaar. It boasted a stair-stepped stone exterior with various trailing plants cascading from each step, most of them in riotous bloom. The ziggurat looked like it had been disassembled in some remote jungle, then reassembled
for our pleasure in Vegas. Which was, funny enough, the truth. The Big Boss had found it in ruins in some obscure South American country. Money changed hands, an international incident had been doused—most likely with a great deal more money—and, voilà, one genuine ziggurat on the Las Vegas Strip.

Cascading waterfalls framed the fourteen-foot-tall, rustic wooden doors, which were decorated with huge brass rings for door pulls and a bar that could be lowered to secure the doors against invading hordes—which was superfluous since Samson’s never closed and was rarely invaded. The doors stood open, inviting me into the front lobby where gorgeous young women waited to satisfy my every beauty need.

I felt the frisson of excitement before I registered a presence at my elbow. I didn’t even have to look to know who it was—Teddie. My body clearly wasn’t listening to my brain where he was concerned. “Hey.”

“How’d you know it was me?” He circled my waist with one arm and pulled me to him. Teddie had traded his sweatshirt for a fitted, collarless cotton shirt. He still wore those damned blue jeans that made it almost impossible to resist running my hands over his ass or sticking them in his back pockets, which, while a bit more subtle, was almost as good. Apparently, I had blown right by pathetic and was now completely hopeless—a new low.

“You told me you’d meet us here,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Right.”

With both of my hands on his chest, I pushed him away. “Would you behave? We’ve given the grapevine enough to talk about for a while.”

“They all talk about you anyway,” said Miss Patterson, who stood off to the side waiting patiently with a grin on her face.

“
You’re
no help. I’ll remember that comment when it’s time for your next raise.”

She didn’t seem fazed. I was losing my touch.

I shot her a look as I straightened my shirt and brushed a hand
down my slacks, hoping against hope that straightening the outer would straighten the inner. It didn’t work.

A young woman wearing a very short, off-the-shoulder toga cinched at the waist with a golden rope greeted us. “Ms. O’Toole, Linda is ready for you both now.”

Long blonde hair, perky breasts, dimple-free thighs, an unlined face, she looked about sixteen and made me feel old and ugly. While nobody short of a skilled surgeon could do anything about the old part, I was counting on Linda to solve the ugly part. I nodded to Miss Patterson. “You go first, but a word to the wise about Linda. She can be a bit abrupt—rude even—so don’t let her scare you.”

Blinking, her eyes wide with fear, she said, “I could use some moral support here.”

“You go on. I’ll be right there.”

For once Miss Patterson did as I asked without a sardonic comment. I watched as she disappeared around another waterfall into the salon where Linda waited to work her magic. I turned to Teddie. “What’s the plan?”

“Linda said she needed about two hours—she said you didn’t have the patience for more than that.”

I shrugged. Beauty wasn’t really my thing.

“Meet me at the Palace at two. They’re closing the store for us.”

“You know Miss Patterson’s size and everything?”

Teddie stepped in close to me, and leaned in, his mouth close to my ear. He didn’t touch me, but it seemed as if I could feel every inch of his body with mine. “Lucky, my love, I’m an expert in two things. One of them is women’s clothing.” His seductive tone left no doubt as to what he considered his other area of expertise.

My body tingled all over. Teddie seemed determined to work us through the alphabet—and to make sure I was a wreck by the time we got to Z. His plan was working.

He had almost made it out the door when my brain returned to minimal functioning. “My phone?”

He waved it at me. “I’ll keep it. You relax. Don’t worry, if the building burns down or the SWAT team bursts through the front
doors, I know where to find you.” Then he disappeared into the crowd.

A young Samson look-alike appeared at my elbow. Samson’s was famous for its army of namesake look-alikes. I could hear The Big Boss’s voice in my head: “A beauty salon is a place for ladies, so let’s give the ladies what they want.” Apparently women wanted an army of young, buff males to do their bidding. I had no argument with that.

Tall and sculpted, this young Samson sported a mini toga that looked as if it was designed to cover the essentials and nothing more. A brass ring circled one bicep. Gladiator sandals graced his feet, the straps winding around his calves. He had long dark hair and an otherwise completely hairless body. At least as far as I could tell—and that was pretty far, given his lack of clothing. I wanted to ask him if he’d been lasered or waxed, but thought better of it.

“Miss, would you like a mimosa?”

I looked at his tray laden with tall fluted glasses. I thought about Teddie. “One? Hell no, I’ll take two.”

I’D
polished off the first and was half done with the second when I found Miss Patterson already seated in Linda’s chair. Tapping her stilettoed foot, Linda, a trim, natural blonde with sharp features arranged in an ever-present frown, stood behind Miss Patterson surveying her in the mirror. Occasionally she would pick up a lock of Miss Patterson’s mop of frizzy, mousy brown hair suffused with streaks of gray and shake her head, tut-tutting.

I continued sipping my mimosa. Hands clutching the arms of the chair in a white-knuckled grip, Miss Patterson looked paralyzed with fear. Both of us were smart enough to know one didn’t disturb the master while she was thinking, so we remained mute.

Finally, Linda stepped back and clapped her hands, shattering the subdued quiet.

I darn near dropped my glass. Miss Patterson looked ready to bolt.

A bevy of assistants materialized at Linda’s summons. She gave
them hurried, unintelligible instructions. They disappeared as fast as they had come.

“I know what you need,” Linda announced. “You will like it.”

Before Miss Patterson found her voice, a Samson appeared at her elbow and led her away. She threw a questioning look over her shoulder. I gave her a reassuring nod. The poor woman looked like a wide-eyed tourist seeing Vegas for the first time—awestruck, overwhelmed, but excited.

“Now you,” Linda announced. “Take a seat.”

I gulped the last of the mimosa, depositing the empty glass on the tray of a passing Samson, and did as I was told. Linda didn’t scare me—much.

“You’re a mess,” Linda declared as she surveyed my hair.

“That’s why I’m here. Make me feel good about myself.”

She nodded and tapped that stilettoed foot.

How could she stand in those things all day? Ten minutes in them and I’d offer up every secret I knew. Now there’s a market as yet unexplored by Jimmy Choo—torture and interrogation. I waited while Linda thought.

“God, I live for challenges like this,” she announced after a minute or two of careful observation. “Do you have any particular desires as to what I do with . . .
this
?” She motioned to my hair and looked as if she’d taken a bite of something awful.