Wanna Get Lucky? (3 page)

Ah yes, The Big Boss—he was next on the list.

I shouldered my way through the crowd, ignoring the man yelling at one of the bellmen—a front-desk clerk was already interceding. Paxton Dane was giving a woman a hug—probably the megamillions lady. He caught my eye over the lady’s shoulder and gave me a discreet thumbs-up. For this brief moment in time we appeared to have things under control, which, of course, was an illusion. Life in Vegas was never under control; it walked, trotted or galloped, as it chose, and we merely hung on for the ride.

Tomorrow the Trendmakers would arrive for their annual week of spouse swapping, the stars of the adult movie industry would descend on us for their annual awards ceremony, ElectroniCon started Tuesday, and I would have to deal with the fallout from Lyda Sue’s
dramatic exit, which would surely hit not only the morning papers but the Internet as well.

Whoever thought up the tagline “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” got it backward—Vegas was always news. Heck, the video of Lyda Sue’s final dive was probably playing on YouTube by now.

I was a fool to think I could corral this one.

I rounded the corner, pushed the up button and pondered the reflection that stared back at me from the mirrored surface of the elevator doors. I looked like a hundred miles of bad road. Barely over thirty, and I could pass for my mother’s sister.
Haggard
was the word that leapt to mind. Thankfully the doors slid open and I was no longer nose to nose with myself. Why people want mirrors everywhere is beyond me.

I stepped inside the empty car, inserted my security card in the slot and pressed the button marked “private.” Self-consciously I patted my bottle-blonde hair, my one concession to the land of the beautiful people. Attractive enough, I guess, I’d never be considered beautiful or buxom—at least not without serious surgical intervention—but I damn well could be tall and blonde. Selfconsciously I smoothed my dress, pinched my cheeks to get some color into them, then wiped at the black smudges I had seen under my eyes. I threw back my shoulders and adopted what I thought was an air of confidence.

“Who you trying to fool?” The voice emanating from the ceiling startled me.

I looked up at the “eye in the sky,” the small video camera hidden discretely in a plastic bubble partially recessed into the ceiling of the elevator car. Security monitored the video feeds from thousands of similar devices located all over the property. The voice belonged to Vivienne Rainwater, one of our Security team.

“You know what they say, image is everything.” I forced a smile for the camera. “I’ll be unavailable for a few.”

“You go, girl.”

“Over the line, Viv.”

“I thought there weren’t any lines in Vegas, just shades of gray.”

“And you shouldn’t listen to conversations you’re not invited into.”

“You’d be amazed at what you see and hear up here.”

Not long ago, I had sat where Vivienne now sits, and received a quick lesson into my fellow man, one I assumed Vivienne was now learning. “Titillated? Maybe. Amused? Possibly. But amazed? No. Now, go away and spy on someone else.”

The elevator whirred seamlessly to a stop at the fifty-second floor and the doors slid open. Every time I made this ride I thought of Dorothy leaving Kansas in a tornado and waking up in Oz. Thirty seconds and I was transported from the semicontrolled chaos of the lobby to the quiet, serene living room of The Big Boss’s pent house.

The muted lights cast a warm glow on leather-finished walls. The rich sheen of the hardwood floors framed hand-knotted silk rugs from the Middle East. Each was tastefully arranged and supported a cluster of understated furniture made from the hides of exotic beasts and woods from faraway lands. Lesser works from some of the great Masters graced the walls—sketches by Picasso and smaller works by Van Gogh and Monet. I couldn’t identify the others—apparently my high school art history teacher had overlooked them—but I was sure they were all very expensive and “important.” The whole effect made a three-thousand-square-foot box of a room cozy.

The Big Boss stood silhouetted against the wall of twenty-foot windows backlit by the lights of the Strip below. He warmed his hands in front of a gas fire dancing merrily in a freestanding fireplace. He explained to me once that he kept the air-conditioning on full blast so he could have his fire. Something about the ambiance.

The Big Boss, Albert Rothstein, was a Vegas legend. He had started as a valet at the Flamingo, caught the Mob’s attention—he never would tell me exactly how—and then worked his way to the top of the heap. A short man with a full head of once black, now salt-and-pepper hair, he kept himself trim with thrice-weekly personal training sessions. His smile could light up a room and his
manner made you feel like you were the most important person in his world. He had a penchant for stiff whiskey, tall blondes and big stakes. When I was fifteen, I’d filled out an employment application, stating my age as eighteen. The Big Boss hired me on the spot even though he had known I was lying.

More than a little peeved at being summoned through the new flunky, I started in as I strode toward him. “Lyda Sue made a helluva splash, but I’ve got everything under control: Jerry’s on his way to get the tape from the station, the front entrance staff has been alerted to direct all inquiries to me, and once I actually make it to my office I’ll work on keeping us off the front page.”

I stopped in front of him, but The Big Boss didn’t look at me. Instead he continued staring into the fire, then he reached into his back pocket, extracted his wallet and pulled out what I knew to be a one-hundred-dollar bill. He put his wallet back then started working with the paper money, smoothing it, lining up the sides, meticulously folding it again and again. The silence stretched between us, then he finally said, “Bring all the copies of the video to me.”

“You don’t want Security to go over it? May I ask why?”

Now he eyed me over the top of his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. His eyes were red. He looked like hell. “For once, just do as I say.”

“Okay.” First Lyda Sue, then Dane, now The Big Boss. Had I suddenly stepped into the Twilight Zone? Nothing about this night added up. “Aren’t you interested in what the pilot has to say?”

“The pilot?” He repeated as if stalling for time.

“The pilot’s story should be a doozie.”

His hands shook as he folded the bill over and over. “Of course, what did Willie have to say?”

Okay, now I was sure I smelled a rat. “How did you know it was Willie? We haven’t found him yet.”

The air seemed to go right out of The Big Boss. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Lucky, you can truly try a man’s soul.”

“And you’re stonewalling me.” I laid a hand on his arm. “Boss, it’s my job to solve problems, but I can’t do it unless I know what the problems are.”

“I was solving problems long before you showed up. This one’s mine. I’ll solve it myself, my own way.” He shrugged out of my grasp.

The second man tonight to do that. Clearly I was losing my touch.

“Just bring me that tape and keep me in the loop,” he growled, looking like a pit bull ready to take a bite out of somebody’s ass.

I had no idea how to reason with a pit bull—assuming it could even be done—so I bailed. “You’re the boss. Anything else?” If I couldn’t go through him, I’d just go around him.

Again the silence stretched between us as he worked, folding and folding. Finished, he took my hand, and closed my fingers around the small shape. He didn’t let go. His eyes looked at our hands, then reluctantly met mine. “Trust me on this one.”

“Sure.” I looked at the shape in my palm. The Big Boss had folded the bill into a small elephant. I extracted my hands from his and dropped the figure into my pocket. “Look. Right now I got more fires than California in the fall and they are spreading by the minute. May I go now?”

“Give that to the first kid you see in the lobby.” His voice was tired. His eyes, distracted.

“Boss, it’s midnight. If there’re any kids around, somebody ought to call Child Services.”

“Right.” He stepped around me and headed toward the bar. “Tomorrow then.” He pulled a bottle of single malt off the shelf and raised it in my direction. I shook my head. He poured himself a drink. He raised the glass to his lips, took a long pull then said, “We’ve got another problem.”

That much I knew. In fact, I thought we had several.

“And what might that be?”

“Paxton Dane.”

Now
that
I didn’t expect.

The Big Boss turned and stared at me, apparently awaiting my response.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say he seemed nervous, a little antsy even, as he shifted from foot to foot.

A cold chill went through me. Whatever was bothering him, it must be bad—real bad. I’d only seen The Big Boss this way once before, and we both darn near went down in flames.

“He was your hire. What’s the problem?” How I kept my voice even, I don’t know.

“I hired Dane so we could keep an eye on him,” The Big Boss said, his eyes drifting from mine.

For a moment I was speechless, unable to comprehend what he had just told me, then I found my voice. “Wait, let me get this straight. You put somebody you don’t trust in one of the most sensitive positions in the house? Do you think that’s wise?” I tried to keep my voice low, my tone smooth, but even I could detect a hint of panic around the edges.

“Probably not, but it was the best I could think of on the fly.” The Boss took a slug of scotch. “Jerry knows. He’s keeping tabs on Dane, and I want you to help him.”

“Why?”

“He asked too many questions and was snooping around like he was trailing after something or someone. It doesn’t seem hiring him has put him off the scent. I want to know what he’s looking for and who’s holding his reins. So, keep him close, okay?”

“Why me? I’m not in Security. I’m the customer relations person, remember?”

“I know it’s asking a lot.” He turned. His eyes locked onto mine. “But, Lucky, you’re the only one I can trust.”

T
onight’s pilot would have to be Willie the Weasel.

I fumed as I rode the elevator down from The Big Boss’s suite. As far as I knew, I was the only person who referred to Willie as the Weasel, but knowing Willie, there were probably hundreds, if not thousands, out there who felt the same way I did. We had history, the Weasel and me. As my mother was so fond of pointing out, the Weasel had been one of those “learning experiences.” I learned all right. If I had it to do over again, I would have shot him and put him out of my misery.

Unfortunately I hadn’t been smart enough to shoot the Weasel, and now I had to find him.

The Big Boss was stonewalling me, I’d been reduced to Paxton Dane’s babysitter and now the Weasel was back in my life. What a great night this was turning out to be.

I had worked myself into a lather when my phone rang, interrupting my pity party. I grabbed the offending device from its perch on my hip, flipped it open and snarled, “O’Toole.” I didn’t look at the caller’s number first.

Big mistake.

“Lucky, you’re never going to catch a man with a bark like that.” My mother’s voice was flat, emotionless, authoritative and just enough to push me over the edge.

“Mother, you make dating sound like the greased pig contest at the state fair. That’s not fair to the pigs. Besides, my bite is worse than my bark.”

“I know some nice men I could introduce you to.” Even after all these years, she refused to quit.

“Mother, the men you know are not nice. They pay for sex.”

“You’re way too picky, honey.”

“It’s my cross to bear.” The elevator doors opened on the mezza-nine. I stepped out and took a few steps to the railing of the balcony overlooking the lobby. “It’s pretty late for a social call, Mother. Everything okay?”

I thought I heard a sniffle. “Mother, are you crying?” My mother never cried. She made other people cry.

“Oh, Lucky! I saw the news. Poor Lyda Sue! And it’s all my fault.” Mother really was crying. She had my full attention now.