Lucky In Love (8 page)

“All, clear, Miss O’Toole.” With his hat tucked under one arm, Paolo opened the back door with a formal flourish.

“Quickly.” I stepped aside and directed Melina and John to the limo.

Without a word, they scurried to the car and dove inside. After securing them in the back, I rode shotgun. As Paolo took his place and put the car in gear, Phil Stewart punched the garage door button, releasing us to the outside world.

“You two keep your heads down,” I hissed through the window to the back. “I think you’re safe behind the tinting, but right now is not the time to test my theory.”

We made it through the gauntlet of popping flashbulbs and crushing crowds, going back through the east gate and out onto Tropicana, where Paolo picked up speed. As we moved with the traffic, I began to relax. No one seemed to be following us, so that was good.

Propping my elbow on the ledge between the driver’s compartment and the back, I rested my chin on my arm as I eyed my charges. Both of them seemed unflustered, their smiles in place as they held hands. “I must admit, very little surprises me these days, but you two managed just that.”

“Why? Because we’re the perfect couple?” Melina asked with a sigh. “Everyone says so, you know.”

“That you’re the perfect couple?”

“Yes,” John weighed in. “We’re tired of hearing it actually.”

“You don’t agree with them?”

Melinda shrugged as she glanced out the side window, then back to me. “I don’t really know. We certainly seem to agree on a lot of things.”

“Yes.” John nodded. “Like the Hockney painting we acquired recently for our living room. What a coup!”

“We practically stole it out from under a French investor. He was livid.” Melina settled back with a self-satisfied look.

“Hockney.” I pursed my lips as I mentally reviewed some of his works I was familiar with. “What was it about the painting that called to you?”

Melina and John looked at me as if I’d switched from English to Swahili.

“How do you feel when you look at it?”

“Feel?” They said in unison.

Clearly communication was not in my skill set today. “Why’d you buy it?”

“It made sense,” John answered.

“A brilliant investment,” Melina added.

“Do you like the painting?”

Both of them shook their heads. “Not particularly,” John said, with a quizzical frown. “Why?”

“Art is like love,” I explained, as if I really knew what I was talking about. “It should hit you on a visceral level. Of course, the purchase can be intellectualized, but the connection to the piece should be emotional.” I ignored all the puns in that statement. I had no intention of undermining my own beliefs—my hold on them was tenuous enough as it was.

“Really?” Melina asked in a small voice. “Is that what love does?”

“I’m no expert, but that’s been my experience.” I sort of rolled my eyes—me counseling anyone on the meaning of love was like a jackleg preacher proselytizing from a bible he’d never read. “What were you looking for at that party back there?”

John chewed on his lip as he looked past me, over my shoulder. “I don’t know. Something that’s missing, I guess.”

The three of us fell into silence, lost in our own thoughts.

Love. What folly to try to intellectualize an emotion. “Do you mind if I ask you guys a question?”

“Fire away,” John said as he leaned back, his face open, his posture inviting. Melina nodded her agreement.

“Why are you getting married?”

“One, we’re compatible.” John started ticking the reasons off on his fingers. “Two, we both are well educated, intellectually curious, and seem to see the world through a similar prism. Three, our families will stop bugging us. And four, we’ll make beautiful children—if we ever find the time.”

“Looks good on paper,” I agreed. “A sound intellectual decision. But something’s missing. Can you live with that?”

“You never get everything you want.” John announced. Hurt flashed across Melina’s face.

“But what you have, is it enough?”

“Of course,” John announced, crossing his arms across his chest and narrowing his eyes.

Melina still looked hurt. “I don’t know,” she added in a small voice.

* * *

M
iss P
was just disconnecting from a phone call when I pushed through the office door. “Do you believe in happy endings?” I asked, hoping she would restore my faith.

As she re-cradled the phone she gave me a quick perusal. Today she sported vintage Versace—scalloped skirt, lace cami, and fitted jacket—a pair of sensible Ferragamos, hints of gold and diamonds at the appropriate spots, and a knowing look. “I will assume you are not referring to the kind of happy ending men buy from Miss Minnie.”

Her short blond hair was gelled into pointed tips, which I thought sort of matched her personality. Tired of sitting and still a bit antsy, I parked one cheek on the corner of her desk as I glanced through the pile of messages. “Let me rephrase. Do you believe in happily ever after?”

“Are you finding it hard to keep your head when all around you are losing theirs?” Miss P could cut to the heart of the matter even better than Mona, who was an expert at wading through my obfuscation. A peaceful look settled over her face, softening her features. “Love shows up when you stop looking.”

Miss P had been resigned to a life of comfortable solitude when the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock showed up. Fifteen years her junior, a walking, talking Australian god straight off Bondi beach, and one of Las Vegas’s best private investigators, Jeremy had taken one look at Miss P and lost his heart. Despite all of his obvious assets, kindness was his best feature—proving once again that good things can come in pretty packages.

As if he’d been waiting outside the door for his cue, Jeremy burst into the office. “Hey, Beautiful.” Offering Miss P a perfect yellow tulip, he leaned across the desk and bent to kiss her.

With a soft smile, Miss P put a hand to the side of his face and met him halfway.

“What am I? Chopped liver?” Apparently my words fell on deaf ears. When the phone rang, I reached for it. “Customer Relations, Lucky O’Toole speaking.”

“Lucky, oh I’m so glad I found you.” Mona sounded out of breath.

My heart tripped. “Are you okay?”

“Me? Of course, don’t be silly. I’m here with one of the game show couples and, well, we have a situation.”

“Of course we do.” Mona mixing with the reality folks... God help us all.

“You don’t understand. They’re going to call the police.”

That got my attention. “Where are you?”

“Smokin’ Joe’s Sex Emporium.”

S
omething
about a trip to Smokin’ Joe’s just screamed for a Ferrari.

Maybe I was feeling sorry for myself. Maybe I needed a pick-me-up. Maybe I just needed a dose of the real world. Who knew? Who cared? A simple phone call was all it took to strong-arm the dealership into letting me put my ass in some of their class.

A new F430 Spider, top down, awaited me at the valet stand when I hurried through the front doors, dodging the crowd surging in. Red, of course, with a tan interior and enough wow-factor to make grown men weak with envy. I traded a twenty for the keys from a wide-eyed kid in an ill-fitting uniform, who drooled as he eyed the gleaming machine. “I agree,” I said, as I slipped into the car through the door he held open for me.

He closed it with reverence. “Is it as great as I think it is?”

“Superb in every way.” Well, except for the fifteen-hundred-dollar oil change and the fifteen-thousand-dollar service at eight thousand miles. I didn’t bother to bring those up—they would be mere trifles for those plunking down close to three hundred grand to buy the thing anyway.

I pushed the start button and the engine growled to life, lifting my spirits. Easing it into gear and away from the curb, I pushed my worries to the side. There was something so freeing about strapping on almost five hundred horses and kicking them into a flat-out gallop. Crossing the Strip, I took my time—I didn’t need to turn a couple from Peoria or somewhere into a hood ornament. Hanging a left, I hit the on-ramp for the I-15. Powering through the paddle shifters, I reveled in the visceral joy of speed. The wind whipped my hair, stinging my cheeks with its bite.

Smokin’ Joe’s was barely far enough to lift my spirits. A right off the 15 onto Trop, straight a few blocks, and then I wheeled into the parking lot. Flashing lights and squad cars were conspicuous in their absence—either Mona had forestalled the call to Metro or I’d beaten them there. Either way, the absence of cops simplified my problems dramatically.

I probably knew more about Smokin’ Joe’s
xxx
Video Parlor and Sex Emporium than any well-adjusted person should—a fact that worried me when I allowed myself to think about it, which wasn’t often. A full city-block long, Joe had cobbled together an incredible assortment of toys, costumes, magazines, and videos with one purpose—to launch libidos. To hear tell, he was enormously successful. Heck, even I had an account there. Before you leap to the obvious conclusion, I used to buy videos for Mona’s bordello in Pahrump... before she’d found legitimacy.

After making one circuit of the parking lot, I angled the car across two spaces far from neighboring cars then levered myself out of the low-slung vehicle. It was still early, and the hookers had yet to man their posts on the street corners. But with cocktail hour easing into dinner hour, they’d be along soon. Not that I was overly concerned.

Mona lurked inside the front door. She pounced when she saw me. “Lucky, don’t be mad. I did what I thought you would do.” She ran a shaky hand through her hair as she took a shallow breath, and looked at me with eyes that seemed a bit haunted. “But the woman came at him like a banshee! Blood went everywhere. You know how a head cut can bleed. Joe freaked. He wanted to call the cops, but I convinced him you would be a better choice.”

I took her arm and led her over to a swing that hung from the ceiling. “Mother, sit a minute. Can I get you water or something?”

She shook her head as she eyed the swing. “I’m all right. And, honey, I am not going to sit in that. It would be so... undignified.”

Pointing out the obvious indignity of the whole scenario unfolding would be lost on Mona, so I didn’t waste my breath. “You said there was blood?” I could handle most anything—through the years I’d been spit on, vomited on, had countless beverages thrown at me, but I really wasn’t all that keen on blood. Although I’d been know to spill some of it myself, when circumstances warranted.

“The woman, she was fast. She laid open a three-inch gash on his temple.”

“With what?”

“One of Joe’s high-end toys. I had no idea dildos could be inlaid with real gold and diamonds and stuff, did you?”

“I’ll cop to the Fifth on that one.” I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or to run. “Why don’t you give me a few details?” I glanced around and the furor seemed to have died down, so I assumed the guilty parties were sequestered under Joe’s watchful eye. Better to go in prepared, so I took a minute to grill Mona.

She took a deep breath, smoothing the pleats in her broom skirt, arranging the turquoise belt that rested on her hips, nipping in the peach silk tunic. The gold sandals were a nice touch. She glanced toward the rear of the building before she started in. “I was having breakfast by myself in Neb’s when I overheard the couple at the next table discussing, well... things.” She glanced at me through lowered lashes then looked away. “I really didn’t mean to interfere.”

“I understand.” She looked genuinely concerned, so I took pity on her—usually not wise, but I had nothing to lose. How much worse could the day get? Besides, I just had to keep the lid on until tonight’s taping of the final installment of
The Forever Game
. The audience and the judges would vote, we’d have a winner, and I’d have my life back, such as it was.

“Anyway, the long and the short of it was, they apparently had broken one of their own toys and were looking to replace it. I offered to introduce them to Joe.”

“It was the least you could do.” I bit down on a grin.

“Right.” Mona stood a bit taller—I think she even preened a little bit. “Anyway, how was I to know the woman with him was not his fiancée?”

Somehow this little tidbit didn’t rock my world. Dealing with interesting choices was part of my job description. “And the fiancée?”

“The dildo-wielding banshee.” Mona looked at me matter-of-factly, with her hands on her hips, like a teacher ratting on a student to the principal.

“With all this bed-hopping, Viagra missed an incredible promotional opportunity.” I grabbed Mona by the elbow and spun her around. “You’d better take me to them. We just have to prevent homicide until eight
p.m
. After that, they can kill each other during prime time for all I care.”

“The ratings would go through the roof.” Awe infused each of Mona’s words.

“And add a dose of reality to reality
tv
.”

We’d made it past the toy display and the private viewing booths when a thought hit me. “I’m not that great at math, but it seems to me there were three of them and two of you. Did you and Joe stop the bloodshed all by yourselves?”

“With a little help from Detective Romeo.” Mother glanced at me through narrowed eyes, reading my pulse. Apparently she deemed it safe to continue. “When I couldn’t get hold of you... that brings up a point, why does Teddie keep answering your phone?”

“I left it at home, and he’s untrainable.”

“They all are, honey. Remember that.” My mother shot me a look that saw right through me. Thankfully, she didn’t belabor the point—a first for her. “As I was saying, when I couldn’t get you, I called Romeo. Told him to keep it on the
qt
. He calmed everyone down.”

“Yes, a man with a gun can have a chilling effect. You did the right thing.”

This time I know she preened.

Detective Romeo, my ally in the Metropolitan Police Department, had a knack for making the right decisions despite his lack of experience. The fact that he was a bit older than he appeared—he looked all of twelve—also weighed in his favor. Today he sported his ever-present rumpled overcoat, a creased suit that looked like he’d slept in it, probably for good reason, a tie loosely knotted around his thin neck, and a wilted shirt. He wore his sandy brown hair shorter than the last time I’d seen him—he’d probably grown tired of trying to tame his cowlick. The short hair looked good on him, framing his open face, blue eyes, and mischievous smile—which grew wider when he saw me. “About time you showed up.”

“I learned long ago it’s best to let someone else do the heavy lifting.” I squeezed his shoulder, feeling bones. Not good. “If I time it right, when I show up there’s nothing left to do but take the credit.”

“You’ll have to teach me how to do that.” Romeo reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out his notebook, which he flipped open. “We got one Walker Worthington in Booth Three over there.” He pointed behind me. “He’s going to have a pretty good shiner. And he could probably use a few stitches, but he refuses. The lady”—he pointed to another booth on the far side of the room—“popped him pretty good.”

“Really? With what?” Call me ugly, but I just had to jerk his chain a bit. Hey, I got my jollies where I could, not that it made me proud.

“This.” Romeo’s face turned bright pink when he held up the weapon: a gold-inlaid, diamond-encrusted penis, which gave a whole new meaning to rough. He must’ve punched a button or something because the thing started vibrating and flashing lights through the jewels. “Someday, you’re going to have to explain why this is so... ”

I held up my hands, stopping him. “Barking up the wrong tree, my friend.” I shook my head as I eyed the battery-operated boyfriend. “Even I have no explanation for... that.”

Mona heard her cue. “Oh, well, I think I can explain it. You see, women, because of their anatomy—”

“Not necessary, Mother,” I snapped.

“Perhaps another time,” Romeo added, a red flush coloring his cheeks.

“Well.” Mona pouted. “You don’t have to get so huffy.”

Romeo started to comfort her, but I waved him off. Playing into her little games only made things worse.

“Which lady popped our banker with the penis?” Briefly, I wondered if my counterpart at a Four Seasons property in some wildly exotic location, like Cairo or something, had my particular set of problems. How many times in the average day did they have the opportunity to say
penis
in public? Not many, if I ventured to guess. It would almost be worth putting myself in the crossfire of political strife to avoid ever having to trot out that word.

A door crashed open behind us. “I hit the lout.”

At the sound of the high-pitched voice, our heads swiveled as if pulled by the same string.

Buffy Bingle. I’d read in her profile that she liked to watch cartoons. Today, in a skimpy little red dress with her assets on display, and carrying a purse shaped like a little white dog, which could double as a stuffed animal in times of crisis, she was reading from the Betty Boop book of fashion. Her blonde hair had been gathered in two knots, one protruding from each side of her head. I think Mona had done my hair like that... once... when I was six.

“Why the penis?” I don’t know why I asked that. I guess I needed a moment of self-flagellation.

“Because it was the only thing within reach.” Ms. Bingle looked at me like I was severely
iq
-challenged. She wasn’t far from the truth.

When I glanced at Romeo, he looked at me with wide eyes and a blank expression, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Why did you hit him with it?”

“Because he already had a stick up his butt.”

Romeo snorted, and she whirled on him. “You think this is funny?”

“No, no. Of course not.” He straightened and tried to wipe the grin off his face, with little success.

“All of you think this is funny.” Buffy/Betty wilted. “Men. Why’re they always doing their thinking with the wrong head?”

“Mother?” I turned to Mona. “I believe it’s your turn.”

As I knew she would, Mother stepped up and put an arm around Buffy, leading her to the side. This was in her wheelhouse—I’d lost count of all the young women my mother, the Madam, had saved from a life in the sex trade. I know, she’s a walking contradiction. It’s one of her charms.

“Okay, let’s go tackle the others.” I stepped aside for the young detective to move by me. “Lead on, McDuff.”

Smokin’ Joe himself stood guard in front of Booth Three. A tall, thin Native American man, with dark hair, sad, soulful brown eyes, and tats covering every square inch of skin visible below his rolled-up sleeves—he even had
m-o-m
tattooed on the three middle fingers of his left hand, one letter on each finger—Smokin’ Joe reminded me of an addict either just out or on his way back in. He had trust issues and didn’t play well with others, but he’d taken a shine to me, which worried me a little. “Man, Lucky, what’re you bringing your low-rent clients here for?” He grinned a half-toothless grin, which shocked me. Normally a dour personality, he’d never smiled in my presence before.

“Thought I’d give them a taste of hangin’ with the highbrows.”

“They could do worse.” He stepped aside and opened the booth door for me.

Walker sat in a low, cushioned chair with Vera on his lap, holding an ice pack to his right eye. A movie played on the screen, but I made a point of not looking at it, although the two of them seemed engrossed.

“Well, you two are certainly taking this whole ‘what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’ thing to heart, aren’t you?”

At the sound of my voice, Vera pushed herself off of Walker’s lap, then reached a hand to help him out of the deep chair. Neither looked embarrassed, nor did they offer any explanation. Walker kept the ice pressed to his face. Blood, dried to a brownish hue, crusted the left side of his face. A stain—looking like a darkening red tie—marred the front of his beautifully tailored white shirt with his initials in blue on his right cuff.