Wanna Get Lucky? (38 page)

“I think I will enjoy that.”

“Did The Big Boss say anything about the paperwork for the board of director’s meeting tomorrow?”

“He has it with him.”

I shook my head. “He would.” Nothing was more important than his hotel. “Can you prepare a proxy for him to sign allowing me to vote for him tomorrow?”

“Already done.”

“Have Brandy bring it to UMC. Have her wait in the ladies’ room on the fifth floor. Call me when she arrives—I’ll meet her.” I stopped for a moment. Had I thought of everything? Probably not, but it would have to do. “See if you can find Mr. Fujikara. Have him call me on my cell.”

“Anything else?”

“Pray.” I rang off.

Teddie turned me to face him, then kissed me gently. “It’ll be okay,” he murmured as he held me close.

“One way or the other.” I let him hold me. “I’m not ready to lose him.”

“We never are.”

Allowing myself a moment of weakness, I gathered strength from Teddie as I rested my head on his shoulder. A moment was all I had. I pushed myself upright and stepped away. “I need to ask you a favor.”

“Anything.”

UMC
, the University Medical Center, didn’t look like much from the street. In fact, it looked like the last place a person with a serious medical condition would want to end up. Nothing could be further from the truth. State of the art and staffed with the best doctors money could buy, UMC took care of most of Vegas’ old guard.

A nurse waited for me as I burst through the doors. “Ms. O’Toole?” she verified.

I nodded.

“This way.” She whisked me through a labyrinth of hallways, keeping me out of sight—half the cub reporters in town hung out at UMC looking for a juicy tidbit when news was sparse. “We have Mr. Rothstein in a private suite. Everyone is under strict instructions to keep it quiet.”

“Is he okay?” I asked as we wound our way through the corridors.

“He has some fairly major heart problems, but he’s stable. The doctors can give you more details.”

The private suite wasn’t much. Still industrial with its laminated floors and stark white walls, it was private and had a few touches of hominess—a sitting area, plants softening the corners, and something passing for art on the walls. But nobody had done anything about the smell. Reeking of ammonia, medicine, and sickness, the
odor was alternately depressing and horrifying. I fought the urge to turn tail and run.

I hated hospitals. And I hated that The Big Boss was stuck in one.

Still wearing his business shirt, slacks, and a frown, he sat upright in a hospital bed parked against the far wall and angled so its occupant could get a glimpse out the window—if one felt inclined to look across and into another patient’s room in the wing opposite. A pallor lurked under the angry flush on his face as he clutched his left arm. His shirt open, leads attached to his chest tethered him to a machine that beeped in time with his heartbeat.

Dr. Knapp, his personal physician, stood next to the bed and, with the patience earned through years of practice, he explained The Big Boss’s situation to him. “Al, you’ve known for years your heart is enlarged—this day was coming. You’ve put the surgery off too long. The specialist is on his way from the Mayo Clinic. When he gets here in a few hours, we’ll know for sure what we’re dealing with.”

“Bloody hell. I’m fine.”

“Sure. That’s why you’re having trouble breathing, you’re sweating even though it’s cold in here, your left arm hurts like hell, and your cleaning lady found you out cold on the floor.”

The Big Boss stopped clutching his arm, lowered his eyebrows and glared at Dr. Knapp.

“The surgery is touchy, but it is a complete solution to your problem. You should have a full recovery. It needs to be taken care of, Al.” Dr. Knapp put his hand on The Big Boss’s shoulder. “For now, I’m in charge and you’re to do as I tell you. I don’t want to lose you, my friend.”

“Me either.” I moved from the doorway where I had been eavesdropping, into the room to stand beside Dr. Knapp at The Big Boss’s bedside. So it wasn’t that serious! An operation and he’d be fine. I felt the tension ease a bit, my shoulders dropped from somewhere around my ears to their normal position.

Dr. Knapp spoke first. “Lucky, thank God. I’m going to need your help corralling this bull.”

“Looks like you’re doing okay so far.”

Emotions chased across The Big Boss’s face—anger, pain, finally fear. “ ’Bout time you showed up,” he groused at me as he slapped the frown back in place.

“You okay?” I asked.

“No, I’m not okay! What does it look like?”

Even I could recognize a rhetorical question when I heard one, so I said nothing and waited.

Finally, The Big Boss sighed. The fight left him, a look of determined resignation replacing his scowl. “Doc, can you leave us a minute?” Dr. Knapp started to say something, but The Big Boss held up his hand, stopping him. “Let me talk with Lucky, then you can have your way with me.”

Mollified for the moment, the doctor left.

“Close the door, will you?” The Big Boss asked. “We’ve got some things to talk about. That board meeting tomorrow—you’re going to have to handle it.”

C
atering trucks ringed the cul-de-sac in front of Phil Stewart’s house when I arrived. From the looks of it, the Trendmakers expected a large turnout. I angled the Ferrari, which I had once again borrowed, between a truck from a local Mexican food restaurant and an RV that served as the home to the Traveling Fellatio Sisters—apparently the entertainment for the partygoers—when they weren’t creating their own. Oh goody.

Not many things in Vegas reached the status of over-the-top, but I had a feeling, if the Fellatio Sisters lived down to their name, they came perilously close. That was one of the problems with Sin City—once you stepped out on that slippery slope, it was all downhill—and nobody knew where to draw the line or when they’d crossed it.

However, the lack of a taste arbiter in Vegas was the least of my
worries as I tossed the keys to the startled valet. “Put it out of sight in the garage or something? Okay?”

“You’re early. The party doesn’t start for another hour or so.” The kid stared at the car, practically drooling with delight. “I’ll have to move Mr. Stewart’s cars around.”

“Fine.”

It was déjà vu all over again as I hiked up the drive, now lined with luminarias, and paused in front of the door with the lewd etchings on it. Mr. Stewart must’ve paid a ton of money to get that approved by the architectural committee. I added good taste—right after love—to my list of things that couldn’t be bought.

Half bracing myself to see the Weasel’s blood still on the white marble floor of the foyer, I turned the knob, eased the door open and took a peek. I needn’t have worried, the floor was spotless, the house and grounds beyond had been transformed. Walking through the house toward the backyard—the main focus of tonight’s festivities—I took in all of the changes. Somebody, or a whole army of somebodies, had been busy.

A Mexican village had replaced the former studied Southern California charm. Colorful serapes and sombreros hung from the banisters. Brightly colored lanterns dangled from wires draped across the wide expanse of the den and the yard beyond. They danced in the early evening breeze, throwing splashes of colored light. Frozen margarita machines churned in strategic locations. Donkeys and goats nibbled hay in pens in the grassy area between the main house and the cabana, and chickens pecked at corn strewn on the cool deck surrounding the hot tub—which had room for at least twenty.

Any party that combined swingers and farm animals had me worried. I tried not to think about the possibilities.

Under the overhang to the cabana, the Naked Mariachis—thankfully still clothed—set up their sound equipment and tested their mikes. I wondered if the Mariachis and the Fellatio Sisters came as a package—a sort of two-for-one deal—but some things are better left unknown. In fact a good many things about tonight would probably be better left to the imagination. Although, with that whole
visual thing I had going on, I’m not sure that would be any better for me.

Pausing at the edge of the patio, I tried to focus—a task that was easier said than done as I watched a man on a ladder stuffing a huge piñata—shaped like a large pair of breasts—with small, square cellophane packets, which I recognized from the box of them I had won last night. Another man was stuffing the same pink-jacketed condoms into another piñata, this one shaped like a large derriere. Briefly I wondered what the partygoers would use to break open the papier-mâché body parts, then decided I was better off left in the dark.

A lot rode on these next few hours. If we snagged Felicia Reilly, maybe we would get Irv Gittings. Then The Big Boss would keep his hotel without a fight, and I would keep my job.

A man with hair so black it looked like a bad toupee (assuming there was any other kind), an artificially whitened smile, and skin tanned until it was the color of shoe leather waved at me from across the yard and shouted, “Ms. O’Toole?”

I waited until he arrived in front of me to respond. “Yes.”

“I’m Phil. Welcome to my home.” Placing his hand on my elbow, he steered me back inside. “Why don’t I show you around, then you can tell me exactly what you need?”

My skin crawled at his touch. “The most important thing is a position on the second floor, overlooking the pool—preferably a room that can be locked so we will be undisturbed and unnoticed.”

“Let me give you the whole layout, then I’ll show you a couple of places that should work.”

Phil’s house was huge, easily twelve thousand square feet with another five thousand in the cabana by the pool. The Mexican theme extended throughout. We strolled down corridors, past numerous bedrooms, all individually numbered and sporting wicker baskets filled with condoms and tidy wipes on the nightstands. Each bathroom, also numbered, stood at the ready with piles of brightly colored towels and washcloths.

“You know, I grew up in a whorehouse in Pahrump, so this feels
like home,” I casually remarked. I didn’t know whether I was trying to get a rise out of him or whether I was just creeped out. Making the casual sex thing consensual didn’t make it any more palatable.

“So you sorta know how this evening will go, then.” Phil seemed nonplussed by the comparison.

“People pay money to come to the party?”

“Uh-huh.” He steered me back toward the foyer of the house.

At least that’s where I thought we were headed—I’d gotten a bit turned around.

“Only the men pay, and they must be accompanied by a woman. Single females get in free.”

“I’m not sure I’d say it was free—”

“This is our gym where we will be holding games tonight,” Phil Stewart announced as he pulled me to a stop in front of a set of large metal doors.

“Games?” I asked, then instantly regretted it.

“Yes. The most popular one is Hands On.”

“Hmm.” I tried to act disinterested.

“It’s really fun, you ought to try it. We put about ten or fifteen people in there, let them mingle for fifteen minutes, then kill the lights.” Phil’s enthusiasm was evident. “They have to identify each other in the dark, by touch alone. Most get—how should I put it—distracted—before then. The one who gets the most identities correct wins.”

This time I was smart enough not to ask the obvious question.

“Room three should suit your purposes.” Phil tapped on the door with a large 3 on it as we passed by. “Just flip the switch by the door, and a red light will show in the hall. Nobody will bother you if that light is lit.”

“You know who we’re looking for?”

“I’ve seen her a couple of times, but I can’t guarantee I’d recognize her. A lot of folks show up at these parties.”

“And we’re not here, right? You haven’t seen me and my friends.”

“Got it.”

I stopped him at the top of the stairs. “Don’t screw this up, Stewart. You won’t like what happens if you do.”

Our eyes locked. I saw anger in his—and arrogance. He’d covered both well.

“The police have made that crystal clear,” he said with a touch of bitterness.