Lucky Bastard (18 page)

“Now.” Miss P pushed herself to her feet so we were essentially eye to eye and her tone turned a tad frosty. A closed-down expression replaced her open one as she put her hands on her hips in an exaggerated show of displeasure. “About Teddie.”

I threw up one hand. “Not to worry, I won’t add to the body count…yet. He might become a future homicide—if he’s foolhardy enough to show his tight little ass around here. But, since he’s half a world away, I shouldn’t think his demise is imminent.”

Miss P scowled at me. “Lucky…”

“Don’t.” I looked for a chair to fall into then thought better of it—I always think better on my feet, or at least I can turn and run faster from a standing position. Either way, I’m money ahead. “You know better than anyone, after all the years of sucking up I’ve put in, I’ve developed an immunity to attitude.”

She weakened. “But he says he’s sorry, doesn’t that mean anything?” Like the crust on cooling lava, her frosty demeanor cracked, revealing the warmth of a caring friend. “He loves you.”

“He left. Interesting way of showing it.”

“He made a mistake.”

“He made several.” I sighed. This was the last thing I wanted to talk about. “The funny thing about words, you can take them back, but they can never be unheard.”

“He hurt you. He’s human—it’s not a capital crime.”

“We’ve established that.”

Miss P threw up her hands. “Will you ever forgive him?”

Now that was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, wasn’t it? And lately I hadn’t had much luck with answers. I stepped to the window overlooking the lobby below. Couples wandered hand in hand—the shows had let out only a short while ago. Clusters of stylish young males and females eyed each other and jockeyed for attention. At this time of night, the clubs were just revving their engines, advancing to full throttle.

And I was completely out of gas.

Teddie. The memories assaulted me, tearing at me, ripping my heart open like bloodhound with a rabbit. Wasn’t time the great healer? The sands of time were sifting through the hourglass, yet my emotions were still as raw as the day he walked out. How did you ever put a patch over that? Scar tissue was thick and tough—not the stuff to wrap a heart in, not if I hoped to love again. “Forgiveness,” I sighed, the concept totally foreign. Grudges weren’t my thing, but once someone pushed me too far, I’d never found a way back.

“Is next to godliness,” Miss P added. A platitude for every occasion.

I gave her my best dirty look. “I can’t tell you how much better that makes me feel. And it’s cleanliness, not forgiveness.”

“What?”

“Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

“Whatever. You know what I mean.”

A few moments of silence, pity written all over her face, and I caved. I opened my arms, pleading. “It would never be the same.”

Miss P stepped into the hug. “Honey, nothing ever is.”

Even
though the night had long since barreled into a new day, I still had work to do. The funeral directors would be setting up for their conference expo and I owed them a thank-you.

Moonbird Ridgeway, Moony to most of us, stood, back to the door, hands on hips, staring at a job only half done when I eased myself inside the cavernous exhibit hall. After a couple of decades working together, you’d think I would be used to Moony by now, but she always made me grin. Competent and to the point, she was as unexpected as a cool breeze in July. Raised on a cattle farm outside Carson City, she was as tough as boot leather and as callused as a cowboy after a summer spent pulling fences. Like a sheepdog working the herd, she ran her department with a bark and a nip, but she had the lowest turnover of any department head, so I stayed out of her way and let her do her thing. She liked that about me—she’d told me so on numerous occasions.

Overalls and a white tee shirt hid her tiny frame, lending her a no-nonsense air, which she cultivated with an ever-present frown. Her steel-toed work boots had probably been broken in before I was born. Part Paiute, her large eyes and dark skin evoked American Indian, but silver now streaked her jet-black hair. Still, she wore it in a thick plaited tail down her back. Her face, a wide-open expanse, had never seen even a touch of makeup that I was aware of. Perhaps that’s why her skin still held the luminous glow of a youth. But, no matter how distant a memory her youth was, wrinkles had yet to defy the force of her vigor. With careful scrutiny, I couldn’t find even the hint of a laugh line.

Forklifts maneuvered, the operators reacting to barked orders. Crewmembers, festooned with tool belts and hardhats, hammered together the displays, pulling the puzzles together from the pieces scattered around them. The light crew adjusted spots and colors in a dizzying display. The whole thing was taking shape but remained far from done.

I stepped in next to Moony and adopted a similar stance, although I crossed my arms across my chest. “When does this thing open?”

“Noon.” She didn’t look at me. Instead, with brows scrunched into a frown, she focused her attention on a forklift. Putting her two pinkies between her lips, she let out a shrieking whistle that stopped everyone in their tracks.

Eyes swiveled in our direction.

“Otis, that flat goes with the Source of Comfort display—it’s marked right on the box you’re carrying big as day. Booth two-forty-two.” She motioned toward the far right of the hall. “Over there.”

The driver grinned then gunned the engine, narrowly missing a display of thematic caskets on velvet. The Nascar and the NFL caskets I understood—heck, the last Celebration of Life we’d held had been for a guy who insisted on being buried in his white Steinway, so I was not a themed-burial virgin. But the
Twilight
casket messed me up. When one died was it prudent to surround oneself with the undead?

“And cool it on the Mario Andretti impersonation, Otis,” Moony yelled, cupping her hands around her mouth like a megaphone. “Your ass is a grape if you run over anything. Got it?”

“Or anyone,” I added as I watched a group of exhibitors scatter as the forklift bore down on them.

“Hell, people we got.” Moony tossed off the line like she meant it. “It’s those displays that can’t be replaced—they’re like friggin’ works a’ art, each piece molded to fit into another. We so much as bend a piece, we’re screwed.” The forklift problem addressed, Moony’s focus shifted to another. This one apparently needed her personal touch. “You wanna talk, girl, you gotta walk.” She threw the words over her shoulder as she turned and bolted.

As she charged across the hall, I had trouble keeping up. “I want to thank you for the use of the body-mover thing. How you talked the funeral guys into letting me use it, I’ll never know.”

She waved me off. “You’d a done it for me. Probably have a time or two.”

“You’re not still paying me back for sweeping that episode with Fred Rainwater under the rug, are you?”

She stopped and whirled around so fast I almost rolled right over her. She trained her eyes on me as if she were leveling a shotgun. “You promised never to breathe a word.”

“Yes, but I’m not above a good goading every now and then.” At least I got her to stop loping so I could pause and catch my breath. “How is Fred, by the way?”

“Sorta like an old rodeo bronc—good for a buck every now and again—if you catch him before he’s finished a six-pack.”

“Too much information.”

“You asked.” She whirled and charged off again, this time stopping at a booth under construction.

“So, you think you’ll get this circus up and running by noon?” The colorful display at an already finished booth caught my attention.

“By breakfast.” She turned and gave an animated instruction to one of the assembly workers, then focused on me again. “Stop touching things.”

At her scolding, I dropped the framed flyer I had been reading, then righted it and stuck my hands in my pockets. “I was curious. Those folks develop interactive homepages for the deceased. You know, that begs a lot of questions.”

Moony sighed and shook her head, then started talking and walking. “Actually, it’s sorta fortuitous you showed up—even if you are as much trouble as a hungry calf. I have a pesky little fly I could use your help with.”

“What?” As I worked to catch up with her, I wasn’t sure I’d caught what she’d said. “A guest?”

Like a Quarter Horse separating a cow from the herd, Mooney darted to the right, then to the left, dodging a workman swinging a ladder into place, then she hurried on. “She’s staying in one of them big-bucks rooms, so I didn’t want to go messing with no big shot.”

“Who?” As I dogged her heels, I cast around, but couldn’t see anyone who looked out of place.

“Hell, I didn’t take her name. But she came breezing through here acting like this was some sort of one-stop shop.” Moony stopped as she pointed and barked at another one of her crew.

I picked up a small item from a display that had been completed. It looked like some sort of a plug. “What is this for?”

Moony grabbed it from my hand and put it back. “You do not want to know. Anyway, about this guest—she needs your magic touch.”

Then I heard it. A shriek, then a shrill voice raised in anger. My heart stopped. “This guest, does she have the whole fake cowgirl thing going on?”

Moony nodded. “Real cowboys would rather swing on the end of a rope than be seen in public in that getup. What’s that woman thinking?”

“Thinking’s not her long suit.” I grabbed Moony’s arm as she started to launch off again, holding her in place. “What’d she want?”

“Far as I could tell, someone close to her just passed and she wants to throw a party.”

Before I tackled Miss Becky-Sue, I looked for some fortification. I know, a warning sign if there ever was one, but Miss Becky-Sue was above and beyond—at least that’s what I told myself as I stopped in front of a display of tiny little caskets designed to hold bottles of wine. I didn’t know whether the wine thing was meant to show folks that indeed they could take it with them, or whether it was for the morbid among us who might think this would be fun to have on the buffet in the dining room at home. Either way, the wine looked promising. But, there was nobody there and I didn’t feel like adding larceny to my list of transgressions for the day, so I moved on.

I found the little piece of Texas trash, head tilted to one side, absentmindedly picking at chipped polish on one fingernail, as she contemplated a banner that said
implant recycling
. She glanced at me with a frown as I stopped beside her. “What’re you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing. This is a showroom for a convention that opens tomorrow.” Actually, it was later today, but I didn’t feel the need to clarify, so I didn’t.

“Right convenient, don’t you think?”

“It’s not open to the public.”

“Money opens most doors.” She shot me a shrewd look that cracked the bimbo mask, giving me a glimpse behind it. She tilted her head toward the banner. “What’d’ya think they’d give me for a well-used penile implant. Slim don’t need it no more.”

A lot of responses sprung to mind, none of which were appropriate. “I hear you want to throw a Celebration of Life?”

“Day after tomorrow—the night before the final table.” Her eyes held a challenge when they met mine. “Kinda fittin’ by my way of thinkin’.”

“And the theme?”

“Clearly brains wasn’t a requirement for your job.”

I agreed with her assessment, so I didn’t even pretend to object.

“Poker, of course.”

“Of course.” With one arm under her elbow, I eased her toward the doors. “Why don’t you come down to my office in the morning? We can help with that.”

As we walked by, she reached out and palmed a silver locket off a display. The locket was designed to hold some of the dearly departed’s remains so the loved ones left behind could “hold a source of comfort next to their hearts.” Words failed me.

“I want it big, with a band and dancin’—all of it.”

“Beer, barbecue, and boot-scootin’—an appropriate send-off.” I pulled her to a stop outside the Exhibit Hall. Extending my hand palm up, I stared her down.

Rolling her eyes, but not offering any explanation, she pulled the locket out of her pocket and dropped it into my open hand.

As I watched her sashay away, my phone sang at my hip. Reflexively I reached for it and flipped it open. “O’Toole.”

“Lucky? It’s Brandy.” Her voiced was hushed, male laughter sounded in the background.

“Brandy. How’s the poker going?”

“Uh, well…”

I heard a male voice, raised in anger, but I couldn’t make out the words. No music. Anger. My blood froze.

“Where are you?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper and it sounded like she cupped her hand over the phone. “Lucky, we’re in trouble.”

The
warehouse looked abandoned—a dark hulk shadowed by the dim light from a lone streetlight halfway down the block. The closer ones had been shot out. Jagged edges of broken glass jutted from holes that had once been windows at the top of the building. A tattered chain-link fence circled the property—a porous defense riddled by neglect. Whole sections sagged, holes gaped, two strands of barbed wire curled back where they had been cut. A cool breeze skittered an unseen can in the darkness.

“All we’re missing is a black cat to run across our path,” I whispered to myself as I staggered when my ankle turned on a buckle in the asphalt. “Shit.” I gritted my teeth and tried to make myself small. The last thing I wanted to do was alert the folks inside to our presence. “Not until everyone was in place,” Romeo had said before he’d disappeared in the darkness.

Taking shallow breaths, I tried to ignore the stench of garbage left too long in the sun. Downwind of the putrid smell, my eyes teared, my stomach turned. Of course, the fact that I was like a racehorse in the starting gate anticipating the gun, could have something to do with my anxiety.

Lacing my fingers through the fence, I knelt, one knee on the ground, the other bent and ready to spring. My nerves were caught between hoping for the best and fearing the worst. Goose bumps competed with a sheen of cold sweat. My heartbeat kept a steady rhythm in my ears as I fought the urge to do something. Surprise was on our side. We needed to wait—get everyone in place. I knew it, but I wanted to ignore it just the same.

Like a wraith, Romeo materialized at my shoulder. “Backup got here pretty quick. I’ve got a couple of teams at each door ready to move in on my mark.”

“Okay, let’s go.” I started to rise, but Romeo grabbed my arm pulling me back down.

“You’re staying right here.” Romeo lowered his voice to a growl. “No way in Hell am I letting you traipse into harm’s way.”

“Traipse?” My voice matched his—I knew he couldn’t see my slitty eyes.

He blew out a breath. “Lucky, you stay right here. I mean it. You’ll be nothing but in the way. And if you got hurt? I could kiss my ass good-bye.”

I wanted to point out that it wouldn’t do my ass much good either, but that wouldn’t help—it really was Brandy’s and Cole’s asses on the line here. And, if I argued the more likely he would be to assign me a keeper. “Fine. Just get them out of there in one piece, okay.”

I must’ve sounded sincere because he bought it. “That’s my job.”

“You better get going, then.”

“Patience. We get one shot at this, Lucky. We need to make it count.”

“Your guys know we have a couple of innocents in there?”

“If there is an illegal game going on and Cole and Brandy are playing guppy, swimming with the big fish, they’re gonna get caught in the same net as the sharks.” Romeo sounded like the cop he was. Impressive, considering one of the little fish was his girlfriend.

I reached through the darkness and fisted a hand in the front of his shirt, pulling his face close to mine. “If anybody’s going to kill them, it’s going to be me. Got it?”

“You’ll get your chance.” In the half-light I could see he was as scared as I was. As a detective I guessed it was his job not to show it. “Stay here. For once, do as you’re told.”

I waited until he disappeared into the darkness, then, crouching down, I followed him. Pulling aside a section of fence, I stepped, trying to be quiet. On the other side, I stayed close enough behind that I could hear him whisper instructions into the radio mike affixed to his shoulder, although I couldn’t make out the words. Clicks were the only response. Hiding in the darkness I watched as he eased up three steps to the door on the east side of the building. Taking a deep breath, Romeo closed his hand around the doorknob. His back to the door, his gun held chest high at the ready, he thumbed off the safety. He gave the knob a turn. The door clicked open and he pushed it in a few inches. For a moment he waited, listening.

Voices rode the air—diffuse, distant, but not too far. Light filtered into the darkness from our left.

Pressing his lips to the mike, Romeo whispered something I couldn’t hear then he motioned with his head to someone out of my line of sight toward the glow and the voices.

I slithered through the doorway behind him then ducked into a shadow. First, I eased one foot out of a shoe, then the other and kicked the pair to the side. Nothing to make noise. The bare concrete was cold and damp, a discomfort I welcomed as we moved farther into the building. The walls creaked as the wind moved outside. I thought I heard scurrying sounds in the darkness, but I might have been imagining that part.

“Let the deaf kid play. Hell, he knows his way around and he’s got green we can take.” That voice I knew—River Watalsky. I’d been right about his plans, a small comfort. Which side was he playing?

Time would provide the answer, but for now, at least Cole was alive and kicking.

Some grumbling met his announcement, then the sound of a chair scraping back. The kid was in the game.

Crouched, I followed Romeo as he worked his way closer, one careful step at a time. Romeo’s coattails scrunched in my fist tethered us together.

“What about the girl?” Another voice, unfamiliar with a hard edge. “She’s got a body on her.”

Brandy! So both of them were okay…for the moment.

“Throw her into the pot.” Watalsky again. “We’ll play for her.”

“But the kid’s on the button. He has an advantage.”

“Who the fuck cares? He’s just a kid and he can’t understand a word we say.” Watalsky knew that wasn’t true.

The voices fell quiet. Silence for a moment as cards were dealt. Chips clattered as players made their bets. I moved in next to Romeo. To his credit, he didn’t act too alarmed—in fact, he looked like he’d been expecting me. The kid had played me all along. I liked it. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. Taking our position just outside the perimeter of light cast by a lone bulb hanging from the rafters, Romeo and I turned away from the game as we sat, our backs against a large pile of wooden pallets.

Romeo again clicked his mike and waited for the sets of two answering clicks. Four sets for four pairs of officers in place, they came quickly. Everyone was ready.

His mouth set in a grim line, he slid the bolt back on his gun, chambering a round. Then he raised a questioning eyebrow at me. He mouthed the words, “Stay here. I mean it.”

I nodded. It’s not like I was armed or anything. And, if we didn’t get the show on the road, the pounding of my heart would give us away any minute.

Romeo pushed himself to his feet. Holding his gun in both hands, he brought it to level in front of him, the pile of pallets providing a shield of sorts. Aiming at the group of players, he shouted, “Metro Police Department. Don’t move. Hands in the air.”

Still hiding behind the pallets, I don’t know exactly what happened next. All I do know is that chairs scraped back. Shouts. Then bullets started flying.

On my hands and knees, I peeked around. Pandemonium. Romeo, his gun in front of him, launched himself into the fray. Other officers darted, hiding themselves, then risking a shot.

The players overturned the poker table, using it as a shield. Backs to it they popped magazines from their pistols, rammed new ones in, then turned to fire at the officers again.

Crawling forward, I moved toward the center of the room, keeping Romeo in front of me. Desperate for a glimpse of Cole and Brandy, I stuck my head farther out and scanned the room, my heart in my throat.

A bullet whizzed by, embedding itself in the wooden pillar next to my left ear. “Shit.” Why is it that every time I feel like shooting someone, my gun is not in my hand? Probably a stroke of luck, but it didn’t feel like it right at the moment.

One of the players took a step toward me, then whirled and squeezed off a round. Another pop. The shooter let out a yelp and clutched his leg. His gun clattered, then skidded in my direction. Just as I reached for it, a foot kicked it out of the way.

“Don’t you dare,” Romeo growled. “Get the hell away from here. You don’t need that kind of trouble.”

Not the thing to say to me as another bullet hit too close and I saw red. I dove for the pistol. A Berretta 9mm, it felt good in my hand.

I inched around and got a good look. Most of the players had surrendered their weapons and now knelt, hands clasped behind their heads. Only one fool had any fight left. The cops had him pinned down behind the poker table. As I stepped into sight, the player behind the table turned on Romeo and me, catching the young detective with nowhere to hide. He ducked. I aimed. A pop. The gun jerked in my hand.

A grunt. The shooter fell back, blood on his shoulder. His shooting arm dropped.

His buddy, the guy who had been hit in the leg, raised his hands, but stayed where he sat. “Don’t shoot, man. I got no gun.”

Romeo stepped to him and pushed him face-first on the ground. “Hands behind your back. I got a feeling you know the drill.”

As he cuffed him, Romeo gave me a half grin and a shake of the head. He didn’t have to say anything.

As the dust settled, I caught sight of Watalsky on his chest, lying flat on the ground. My heart leaped. I rushed to his side. Kneeling down, my eyes scanned the room as I asked, “Are you hit?”

“Hell, no.” As he pushed himself up, another set of arms and feet stuck out from under him. He’d been lying on someone. “Darn near took one in the ass trying to get this guy to the ground.” Watalsky rolled off the body underneath.

Cole!

Fury reddened the young man’s face as he pushed at Watalsky, who was twice his size and probably three times his weight. I reached down and grabbed Cole, bringing him to his feet with one jerk. “Brandy? Where is she?”

Panic on his face, Cole scanned the room. My eyes followed his.

Behind me Watalsky asked Romeo, “How many do you have?”

Romeo paused as he got a good picture of his officers and their captives. “Six.”

“There’s one more.”

“I didn’t kill her.” The voice was low, angry, but it held a plea.

All heads turned toward the sound as a figure stepped out into the light. I stepped back into the shadows.

Kevin Slurry. The Hawk. The former owner of the Web site that seemed to be at the center of things, Aces Over Eights, a dead man’s hand. That went from being merely creepy to totally terrifying.

He held Brandy, her back to his chest, like a human shield, the muzzle of his gun pressed to her temple.

Romeo made a move toward him. Slurry re-aimed his gun at the detective’s chest. “Don’t be a hero.”

Romeo froze. He raised his hands, his gun pointing at the ceiling.

“I want all of you to put your guns on the ground, then kick them over to me.”

Unsure, the officers glanced at Romeo. He slowly knelt and did as Slurry asked. The other officers followed. In the shadows, I stepped farther back, hiding myself in the darkness and hoping that the bright light over Slurry made it hard for him to see.

“I didn’t kill Sylvie Dane.” Slurry’s voice shook. Under the harsh light of the exposed bulbs, it was easy to see he was nervous. Perspiration trickled down the side of his face. Raising his shoulder, he wiped it away, but the panic in his eyes remained as they darted around the room.

“This is no way to get us to believe you,” Romeo said. “Put your gun down. Let the girl go. Then we’ll talk.”

“They’re going to kill me, Slurry said as he once again pressed his gun to Brandy’s temple. “She’s my ticket outta here.”

“Who’s going to kill you?” Romeo asked.

“The same ones who killed Sylvie.” Slurry was starting to lose it now. I could see the wildness in his eyes as he gripped Brandy to him with an arm across her throat.

“Who are they?” the young detective pushed.

“Hell, if I knew that do you think I’d be here? I’m looking for answers the same as you.” Slurry motioned with his gun for the officers in front of him to move to the side. With a nod from Romeo, they did as he requested. “I was helping her.”

“With what?” Romeo asked.

I kept my eyes glued to Brandy. She didn’t struggle. Finally, her eyes locked with mine. Big and bright, they mirrored her fear and something else…resolve. I gave her a questioning look and pointed to the ground. She gave me a half smile.

We’d get one shot at this. I didn’t smile—lately puns had been losing their luster. Half hidden from view behind Romeo, I pulled back the slide on my gun, then curled both hands around the grip, one finger resting lightly on the trigger.

As Romeo kept Slurry’s attention, I gave a quick nod to Brandy.

I raised my gun. She sagged in his arms, fighting against his hold. Caught by surprise, Slurry’s grip loosened. Brandy shrugged him off and dropped to the ground.

To me, everything happened in slow motion. I stroked the trigger and the gun jerked in my hand. Kevin staggered back. A red stain ballooned on his chest.

Romeo pivoted, looking at me, his eyes as big as saucers.

For a moment time stopped.

***

“I’ve never shot a man before,” I said, apropos of nothing, really. Huddled in a blanket, sitting on the fender of an ambulance, I tried to control my shaking. Cops and paramedics rushed in and out of the light cast by the headlights of the vehicles clustered around the ambulances. They’d circled Brandy and Cole before I’d had a chance to shoot them myself. The Flight for Life helicopter carrying Slurry lifted off. Quickly, its landing light dimmed as the night swallowed it. A couple of the other players, including the one I had winged, were being treated, then transported to UMC at more sedate pace, their injuries deemed non–life threatening.

Holding a cup of coffee by the rim, Romeo handed it to me. Cupping my hands around the Styrofoam, I sought comfort from the warmth steaming from the liquid. I tried to raise the cup to my lips, but my hands shook so badly I was worried about scalding myself. Of course, then I might be able to sue for a huge sum, like that lady who sued McDonald’s, and retire to some obscure island in the South Pacific. But, with my luck, I’d probably just get a burn, a scar, and bad publicity so I contented myself with absorbing the warmth rather than ingesting it.