Lucky In Love (7 page)

Paolo rolled down his window as we turned into the east gate and eased up to the guard shack. A bored adolescent in a yellow shirt black pants with a gun holstered on his hip gave us the once-over. “Help you?”

Why, with each passing day, did everyone look younger and younger? I stuck my head out the back window and introduced myself. “I hear you got a bit of a problem in the Estates?”

“Shutterbugs all anglin’ for a
People
magazine paycheck.”

“I’m here to take the persons of interest off your hands.”

His eyes widened. “Hope your life insurance is up to date.” He punched a button and the gates slowly inched open. “You got the code to the second set?”

Paolo flashed a piece of paper and nodded as the guard waved us through.

“We need a plan,” I said, trotting out my flair for the obvious. I watched Paolo maneuver the big car past the golf course on our right and the clubhouse on our left. I thought for a moment, but inspiration refused to strike. “We couldn’t do something so simple and bold as to pull up to the front of the house and grab them, could we? Who are we grabbing anyway?”

“I don’t have the names. But no one can see in the windows on this car—the tint is several shades past legal.” Paolo grinned, but lines of tension bracketed his eyes. .

“Well then, pull right up to the front door. After that, I’ll make it up as I go.”

After opening the second gate with the magic numbers, Paolo eased the car through. Two white pickups with yellow lights and emblazoned with the Spanish Trail logo sat like sentries forming a gauntlet through which only the worthy would pass. From behind their mirrored Ray-Bans, the guards watched us.

“Are rent-a-cops supposed to make us feel better or worse?” I mused out loud, not really expecting an answer.

“Mostly they are here to make the residents behave. And to write tickets for exceeding the twenty-five-mile-per-hour limit.”

“I feel safer already.” I leaned forward through the opening. “The house we want is that big one at the end—the one with the party house out back, and the naked dancing girls in bronze relief on the front door.”

As it turned out, we couldn’t have missed it. A crowd ringed the front of the house—men and women with cameras and huge telephoto lenses looped around their necks, jockeying for position. All that was missing from this sideshow was a snake oil salesman and a guy selling funnel cakes out of his van.

Paparazzi were like ants—once they got the scent, they closed in on the target, angling for a kill. You could push them, squash them, or run them off, but they always found a hole in the fence to get back in. I guess the members of the Spanish Trail security force either understood their limitations or had been contractually excluded from hazardous duty. Either way, they couldn’t be counted on for reinforcement in case we got in over our heads.

As Paolo eased the big car into the driveway, he honked to clear a path through the throng. Experience had taught him to never allow the car to come to a standstill, so he kept it rolling, pushing people out of the way with the front bumper if he had to. Disembodied faces with hands cupping their eyes pressed to the glass, trying to see through the dark film. I could see them, but hopefully, my identity remained obscured. My name and photo included in an unsavory article about alternative sexual practices would probably do little for my upward career mobility. Although, worse things had been said about me.

Clearly someone had told the photogs they had to remain off private property, so they lingered at the fringes. Of course, we were in a gated community so it was technically all private property—but, in an Orwellian sense, apparently some was more private than others. Once we made it through the throng, we traveled the rest of the way up the curved driveway unmolested.

When Paolo brought the car to a stop under the porte cochere, I slipped over to the driver’s-side door and let myself out. I didn’t try to shield my face in case someone had found a good vantage position for a photograph—no need to look guilty when I wasn’t.

Tape covered the doorbell so I was forced to use the knocker, which, as expected, was a set of brass... knockers. D cups, if I could hazard a guess. I wasn’t amused.

The door opened after the first... bang, and Phil Stewart, in all his sleaziness, ushered me inside. “You have to get those camera people out of here. My guests are peeved. While they don’t try to hide their identities, they don’t seek publicity either. And some of them would be less than thrilled to have their faces on the national news.” Phil had unnaturally black hair, a perpetual dark tan, evasive eyes, and a manner in keeping with his overall repugnance.

He turned and I followed him through the marble foyer to the back of the house. The house was unexpectedly quiet. The last time I’d been to one of his parties, all manner of activities I’d rather forget had been going on in the pool and the hot tub—although I did rather like the naked mariachi band. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to do anything you wouldn’t want to see on the front page of the
Review-Journal
?”

“Mothers say a lot of stuff they don’t mean.”

Even with Mona being what she was, that hadn’t been my experience, but I wasn’t about to share a personal tidbit with the likes of Phil Stewart. “If you didn’t want the publicity, why’d you let the celebrity couple in?”

He waved a hand at me. “I don’t watch reality
tv
. How the hell was I supposed to know they were pop-culture curiosities? I just thought they were a
tv
producer and a plastic surgeon from Texas.”

“Wait.” I grabbed his elbow, pulling him to a stop. “Are we talking about a nice, clean-cut African American couple? Tall. Thin. Warm smiles.”

A sardonic grin lifted on side of his mouth. “What? You think
normal
people don’t swing? Normal is so boooring. Needs some spice. Know what I mean?”

When fringe folks use logic, it weirds me out—especially if I find myself semi-agreeing. I mean, who aspires to “average”? I got it. Phil’s lifestyle might be unpalatable, but his logic was unassailable, which scared me. “Who’s that?” I pointed to figure skulking behind the bushes at the edge of the pool. As I watched, a hand parted the branches and a face peered through... a face I knew. With two angry strides, I reached the sliding glass door, threw it open, and charged through. “Flash, what the hell are you doing?”

She popped out of the bush as if she’d been Tasered. “It’s my job. What’s your excuse?”

“Same.”

“There has to be a better way to make a living.” Flash brushed the leaves from her sweatshirt and jeans as she stepped into the open.

“Selling my organs one at a time springs to mind.” I motioned her inside, which was akin to inviting the fox into the henhouse. Flash might be my best friend, but she was also the primo investigative reporter in Las Vegas. But, as all good friends do, I had major blackmail material on her, so I wasn’t too worried about her spilling the beans on my wayward Couple Number Four.

“Nice to have a plan B.” With her red hair piled on her head in riotous curls, she looked like a cute troll, to the extent that wasn’t an oxymoron. Overdeveloped and overdone, she screamed
Vegas
. She also screamed
bimbo,
but that would’ve been way off base. She was as sharp as a card-counter with a new shoe.

“What’s she doing here?” Phil Stewart asked, coming late to the party.

“Good question.” Hands on my hips, I used my full twelve inches of height advantage to look down on Flash. “What’s your angle?”

“An inside piece on why folks pick the swinging lifestyle.”

Phil looked interested. “Names and faces?”

“If anybody wants the publicity, sure. Otherwise, not necessary. I’m just curious, that’s all. And if I’m curious, I figure other folks are, too.”

“Any money in it?” Phil narrowed his eyes like a cat eyeing a canary. He didn’t know it yet, but he was in way over his head with Flash.

“Look,” I interrupted. “I’m in a bit of a hurry here. Can you hammer out the details later?”

Flash looked at me, her investigative radar on high alert. “Where’s the fire?”

I’d trust Flash with my life, so I told her.

“Wow,” she said with wide-eyed wonder, when I’d finished. “That would hit the highlight reel for sure.” She gave an appreciative whistle.

“Yeah, best plays of the week.” I grabbed her elbow. “But not this week. You owe me for giving you the inside track on the gal who took a header off the hotel.”

“You’re writing the rules today.” She gave me her trademark grin.

“Thanks.” I turned to Phil, who was still clearly contemplating all the media opportunities. “Where is everybody?”

“We had to move the party to the gym.” He motioned me down a hallway to the right. “This way.”

I wasn’t about to admit I knew the way. The last time I’d been aware of a party in Phil’s gym, Dane had gotten sucked into some sort of grope-fest in the dark—he’d been a little hazy on the details.

“If you take your happy little couple from Houston back to the Babylon, then maybe, without the photo op, the Spanish Trail
swat
team can round up the voyeurs and the party can go on as planned.” Phil pulled open one of the double doors to the gym and walked through. He let the door swing back.

Bad man, bad manners. Hot on his heels, I blocked the door with a stiff arm and kept on motoring. Of course, the last time I’d been his guest I’d spilt blood and threatened him with all manner of unmentionables, so no love lost.

One of the Bee Gee’s classics played over the speaker system, which struck me as funny. Something about bartering sexual favors to a melody sung by a guy who sounded like he hadn’t reached puberty... I don’t know. Maybe I needed a very long vacation.

People clustered in small groups, talking animatedly, sipping the beverage of their choice—while they evaluated the other... opportunities. Casual sex made me queasy. I needed to find my quarry and boogie.

“Hey, O’Toole!” A booming voice. Male. “You come back to give us a try?”

I turned and found myself face to face with the Most Reverend Peterson J. Peabody, otherwise known as Jeep, primarily because they had the same body style. At four hundred pounds, give or take, Jeep had the whole wide-body thing going on, yet he was a swinger. As was the missus, a petite little woman who never said much but smiled all the time. Maybe I should have some of what she was getting. A shiver of revulsion chased through me. Jeep and I had met under perhaps not the best of circumstances—someone had slipped him a mickey and my staff had found him out cold, naked as the Lord had made him, sleeping it off under the stairs.

“Jeep! How the heck are you?” I wrapped him in a bear hug.

He did the same to me—nice man, nice manners.

“I didn’t expect to see you back so soon,” I said, as I stepped out of his embrace.

“Well, our last trip sorta got interrupted by the whole... mess. You know.” He looked a bit sheepish. “So, we thought we’d come back for what we came for.”

I knew there was a really interesting pun in there, but I rose above it. Instead I blushed—being visual can be traumatizing, trust me.

Phil, who had rushed off when Jeep had waylaid me, returned with my targets in tow. Melina, carrying her shoes in one hand while trying to shrug into her dress, looked... as calm as if she was rushing to a hair appointment. John glanced furtively over my shoulder, eyeing the prey as he buckled his belt. He shot someone a wink, but I didn’t turn to see who.

“I hear you guys need a ride back to the real world.” I crossed my arms, trying to look stern.

“We just thought we’d have some fun,” Melina said, sounding as if they’d just gone dancing or something. “Burn off some steam. Know what I mean?”

I wished everyone would stop asking me that. I didn’t know what they meant, not exactly anyway. And I didn’t want to.

“I think you’re spoiling everyone else’s fun.” That took the smile out of her eyes. I poked John in the chest, trying to get and hold his attention. “You two have got to come with me.” I turned to Phil, who was licking his lips over a sweet young thing talking to some cowboy dude in the corner. “Phil, focus. Is there room in your garage to move the limo in there?”

“Of course. It’s a ten-car garage and I keep most of my toys in Jackson.”

I plucked my phone from its holster and called Paolo. He answered on the first ring, and I gave him the details of my plan, short and sweet. After disconnecting, I bade farewell to Jeep and turned to Melina and John. “Come on, you two.” I turned on my heel and marched out of the gym with happy Couple Number Four following behind. Phil Stewart trailed us like a coyote hoping snatch a lamb. I pretended he was a disgusting relative at Christmas dinner and tried to ignore him. In fact, I tried to ignore all of this. The concept of marriage as an overlay to the swinging lifestyle made my head hurt. It didn’t do too much for my heart either, so I shut it out as best I could.

Love... in all its bastardizations. Enough to makes us all hard-hearted cynics. I hated it when people messed with the magic.

Paolo had just squeezed the limo into the garage and was closing the door when I peeked my head in. I shielded my guests in case a wandering cameraman had sniffed out the plan.