Lucky Bastard (8 page)

“If I did, I would explode.” That statement had a ring of truth to it that I hoped Miss P didn’t hear. Avoiding her penetrating stare, I pretended to be interested in a Lucite paperweight, one that contained a golden cockroach—a gift from the employees after dealing with a guest and his pests. Finally I hazarded a glance at my assistant. “So, where’s the fire?”

“The airport. They got a dead guy stuck in the lavatory on one of our G550s.”

***

The Executive Terminal at McCarran International Airport was no more than ten minutes from my office door—on a good day. With Paolo driving our limo, we made it in less than five—and we didn’t even taken out any tourists or bend any metal. After narrowly missing a post holding a section of chain-link fence topped by several rows of barbed wire, Paolo skinned the big car through a tight opening onto the tarmac and then screeched to a halt.

With no momentum to fight, I loosened my white-knuckled grip on the armrests and settled back into the comforting embrace of the deep leather seats. Behind tinted windows, shadowed by the darkness of morning that brightened the eastern sky but had yet to reach the ground, I savored a few moments of peace.

My mother always said death came in threes.

So far I’d racked up two. What if, for once, Mona was right? Who would be next? A cool breath of a breeze tickled my cheek. I didn’t know where it came from, which creeped me out. Feeling the specter of death at my elbow, I bolted upright and threw open the door, surprising Paolo who had stepped around the car to help me out. He jumped aside in the nick of time.

“Ms. O’Toole! Let Paolo help you.” With one arm tucked regally behind his back, his chauffer’s hat clutched between his elbow and his side, he bent at the waist and extended a hand to me. Not wanting to offend, I accepted, even though it was like letting a pony pull a freight train.

A small, dapper man, with jet-black hair brushed straight back, dancing black eyes, and a thousand-candlepower smile, Paolo took his job seriously. His uniform was spotless. Even at the end of a long shift, his pants still held a sharp crease. A twenty-five-year service pin, his only jewelry, sparkled in his lapel. Grasping my hand he helped lever me from the bowels of the limo—and he did so without a grimace. I’d have to remember that at Christmas.

Taking a deep breath, I stretched to my full height and filled my lungs with fresh air. Even though it was tinged with jet exhaust, it was a far cry better than the recirculated stuff wafting through the hotel. We did our best, but there were limits to just how much sin could be filtered from the Vegas atmosphere.

The airport was just awakening. Like lumbering giants moving quietly in the half day, planes taxied to the runways. The in-bound red-eyes hung in the sky, a glittering string of landing lights above the ever-brightening eastern horizon. Personal jets of varying sizes already dotted the parking area behind the private terminal. Our G550 was the largest of the bunch.

If God had money, she would have a G550.

The Babylon had two.

Bathed in phosphorescent glow from the arc lights, its directional lights still illuminated, the plane waited like a living, breathing beast. Sleek and elegant, reeking of adventure, it looked ready to leap into the wild blue yonder at a moment’s notice—which was not too much of an exaggeration.

This one was the oldest and had already been sold to one of our investors in the Macau operation, pending the delivery of a G650. Stairs had been lowered from the doorway just aft of the cockpit on the left side of the plane. It looked like we’d beaten the police, which was an unusual stroke of luck. But I didn’t have much time, of that I was sure. Soon, the place would be crawling with cops. I hoped, for once, they could be discreet but I wasn’t holding my breath.

Men in jumpsuits clustered at the bottom of the stairs, wringing their hands, looking lost and worried. Please! It was just a dead guy in the bathroom. I could handle that with my eyes shut. Come to think of it, that was probably not a bad idea. Although sometimes welcomed, death is rarely pretty.

The men parted as I approached and said nothing as I started up, taking two steps at a time. At the top I paused, collecting myself, then ducked through the doorway into the plush interior. Even though I’d been one of the privileged passengers a few times—a particularly vivid memory of a trip to Macau to check on our property when it was under construction sprang to mind—I’d never quite adjusted to the whole
Architectural Digest
thing going on inside. Gulfstream made beautiful machines—efficient, luxury condos that could deposit you anywhere in the world you desired. The ultimate extravagance.

The aft portion of the plane housed a stateroom with a double bed and private lav, which included a massaging shower and other high-end appointments. Club seating for ten or twelve of your closest friends, depending on the exact configuration, filled the forward section of the main compartment. A galley and small lavatory for the three-person flight crew separated the passenger compartment from the flight deck.

Stepping farther into the plush interior, I found myself between the passenger seating on my right and the galley on my left. The door to the lav was open, but I couldn’t see inside. I let my eyes adjust to the soft lighting as I took stock of my surroundings. All the comforts of home—assuming you lived in a Four Seasons. With soft Italian leather upholstery, 1,400-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, thick Turkish terry cloth towels, burled black walnut accents, the plane was beyond the reach of most of us mere mortals.

With flat-screen televisions streaming live satellite feeds, communication capabilities to anywhere in the world, food service in the finest five-star tradition, wines from the best houses, top-drawer spirits, all served by a beautiful young man or woman depending on the passenger’s preferences, the G550 was reserved for only the best customers of the hotel, certain executives, or, on occasion, personal family friends.

I figured the odds that I would know the dead guy in the lav at better than even.

One of the flight crew slumped in a seat across from the forward lav. The bars on his shoulders indicated he was the low man on the totem pole. Regardless, I doubted his job description included handling dead bodies. That sounded more like something in my contract. Assuming every job was a stepping-stone to another, I briefly wondered what position mine was preparing me for? Who knew? And it was too terrifying to speculate.

Our young flight engineer was fast asleep, his legs sticking out in front of him, his hat pulled low over his eyes, his chin resting on his chest, his breath coming in long even pulls. I envied him—only saints and sinners were awake at this hour. And fools like me who unfortunately qualified as neither.

With a toe, I nudged his leg. “Excuse me?”

He raised his head and tipped his hat back, exposing the most incredible dark eyes. His face was angles and planes with a square jaw that, in the proper venue, either begged to be hit or kissed. With a sexy two-day stubble and full lips curving into a slight smile, he most likely found his current profession a nice respite from adoring females. Young females. His twentieth birthday couldn’t have been too far in his rearview. Too bad cradle robbing wasn’t within my skill set. Sometimes it was hell to have standards.

“I’m here to see about your passenger stuck in the lav,” I said, trying to muster a pleasant tone.

A blank stare. Those puppy-dog eyes.

Damn.
I swallowed hard. “The dead guy?” I prompted, willing my mind to focus. An overactive libido could be such a bother. Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong guy. Welcome to my world.

Realization dawned and the young man jumped to his feet. “Sorry.” He wiped his palm on his pant leg before extending his hand. “I’m Benton Miles.”

A grown-up name for a not-so grown-up, I thought and prayed the words hadn’t come out of my mouth. He still smiled, so I assumed they hadn’t. “Lucky O’Toole. From the hotel.” I took his hand. He had a strong, firm grip.

His eyes widened a smidge. I swallowed hard.

“I’ve heard about you,” he said, holding my hand a bit longer than propriety dictated.

I didn’t know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing and I didn’t really want to know. Pulling my hand from his, I inclined my head toward the lav. “Show me what you got.”

“It ain’t pretty.”

“Didn’t expect it would be,” I replied with a bravado that quickly evaporated when I peered into the small space.

“Christ.” Normally, being right was a good thing—tonight was not one of those times. I knew the guy all right. I knew him well. “Shady Slim Grady. Damn.”

My heart sank—the Big Boss. The two of them went way back. So far in fact that, had Shady Slim Grady had a normal name, I’m sure I would have been instructed to refer to him as my Uncle Whatever—although, in Vegas that could have led to interesting misinterpretations.

A poker legend, Shady Slim was bald as a billiard ball, with a ready grin, ubiquitous cowboy hat and alligator kickers. As a young man, he had presided over the birth of Texas hold ’em. Now semiretired from competitive play, he dabbled in the periphery and contented himself with being wined and dined as one of the gods of the game.

A native Texan hailing from Corpus Christie, he had played that shtick for all it was worth, calling me “little lady” each time he saw me. I’d liked it—especially since I’d never been…little, that is. Probably not much of a lady either, come to think of it. But, in Vegas, nobody noticed—I was lucky that way. And I’d liked him. With an effusive personality, height to match my own, in heels, and a substantial girth that had expanded with the passing of the years, Shady Slim had been larger than life, both figuratively and literally.

Now it seemed the figurative aspect alone remained. Abandoned by its life force, his body had collapsed in on itself. His bones appeared to bend as if unable to withstand the assault of gravity. He sagged like a puppet with no strings, his height expanding into width. Oozing over the sides of the toilet seat onto the bench underneath, his ample flesh filled the tight space between the walls. His shoulders braced the small space. With legs splayed, his knees pressed against the cabinet under the tiny sink on one side and the outside wall on the other effectively wedging him into the tiny space.

Aircraft designers! Why they felt compelled to make each lav small enough so everyone could throw up into the sink while still seated on the throne beat the heck out of me. Rather Machiavellian for us larger than normal types. And, I don’t think they anticipated someone would actually die in the bathroom, although I thought that a bit shortsighted. In my experience, people did it all the time. I guessed there were worse ways to go, but, right at the moment, I couldn’t imagine one. Stuck tighter than a cork in a bottle of twenty-year-old wine, Shady Slim’s extrication was going to be very public. Of course, I doubted Shady Slim cared, but Miss Becky-Sue would have a cow.

I turned to Benton who was fidgeting behind me. “Did Miss Becky-Sue come with him?” I asked, knowing the answer but hoping I was wrong. Wherever Shady Slim went, Miss Becky-Sue trotted four paces behind.

The kid nodded, a flash of panic lit his eyes. I knew the feeling—I’d tussled with that little bit of Texas trash before. Between you and me, I was still a trifle snakebit—although I would never admit it.

“They got her in the back there.” The kid stammered, looking a bit wild eyed. “She’s…”

“I can imagine,” I said, patting him on the knee. “No worries. My shots are up to date, I’ll handle her.”

After a moment, he rewarded me with a grin. Dimples. Damn.

Forgetting I was in a plane, I straightened quickly—at six feet plus four-inch heels, I needed a pretty good clearance. Thank God it was a G550 or else I would’ve broken my neck…or perhaps knocked some sense into my empty head. “Call the maintenance department. Get them to tow this beast into a hangar away from prying eyes. Then, ask them to send some folks proficient in dismantling a G550.”

“Ma’am?”

I stepped aside and gave the kid a good view of Mr. Grady. “The only way we’re going to get him out of here is to take this lav apart. The door is going to have to come off.” I peered around the side and knocked on the partition. Even I was smart enough to know none of the walls in a plane were load bearing. “And probably this wall as well. We’ll need a crane.”

“Where are we going to get that?” the young pilot asked.

“Leave that to me.” I reached for my phone. Very rarely does luck swing my way, but this was one of those times.

The funeral directors were holding their annual convention in our main ballroom.

“First, find me some privacy. The cops will have their go, then we’ll deal with getting him out of there.”

***

Like a rabid pit bull, Miss Becky-Sue whirled on me the minute I slid back the stateroom doors, but I was prepared. At least I thought I was. Silly me.

“You!” she snarled. “This is your fault.” She pointed a long, painted blue talon at me. It reminded me of the knuckled finger of death.

“Of course it is.” I tried to look appropriately sympathetic. “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Becky-Sue.”

I guess she’d been expecting an argument because that stalled her for a moment. Precious seconds I used to gird myself for battle. I had the woman by at least a foot, and a disturbing number of pounds, but she still scared the life out of me. Logical, I can deal with. Hysterical, I can manage—as long as someone hovers nearby with a ready hypodermic or a stun gun. But, Miss Becky-Sue was neither consistently logical nor consistently hysterical…ever. Instead she gyrated wildly between varying emotional extremes. Dealing with her was like riding a roller coaster, just when you thought you’d stabilized, the bottom fell out and you were plunged into oblivion, your stomach in your throat.

Stretched and tanned, peroxided and waxed, sheathed in fringed leather and cowboy boots, and painted in primary colors, Miss Becky-Sue looked like Dale Evans on crack. Texas trashy on the outside, tempered steel on the inside, she was a barracuda with a bimbo fetish. If she had a heart, I hadn’t seen a hint of it.