Lucky Now and Then (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure) Read online

  LUCKY NOW AND THEN

  A Lucky O’Toole Vegas Adventure

  DEBORAH COONTS

  A Note from the Author

  VEGAS. Not everyone’s cup of tea. Nor mine, actually. Until I moved there. Like most folks who end up in Sin City, my move was rather random: I let my then fifteen-year-old male child chose where we were going to live. I know! What was I thinking? However, as some less than well-reasoned choices do, the move turned out quite well.

  And I became intrigued with all the stories Vegas had to tell. The new stories. Unlike many, I just wasn’t all that keen on digging into the whole Mob thing that lurks behind every door in Sin City. Until I started talking to the oldtimers in town. And, to a one, they told me the city was so much better before the corporate takeover, before the “purge”. Yes, they all agreed Vegas was much better when the Mob was in charge.

  I was stunned. I mean, as a transplant, it seemed incredible to me that the bury-them-in-the-desert-or-at-least-break-their-fingers-and-kneecaps crowd were more well liked than the benign suit brigade.

  So, I started thinking…. a dangerous thing.

  And I crafted a dual time-line story centering on a murder in the past that comes to light in the present. Lucky O’Toole, my protagonist’s, father (who might or might not have Mob connections) is implicated in the murder. In the historical timeline, events unfold leading to the murder. In the current, Lucky is front and center, racing to clear her father’s name. LUCKY BANG, is the set-up and LUCKY NOW AND THEN races to answer the question: Did Lucky’s father do it?

  I hope you enjoy the sidebar to Lucky’s world—I love playing with some of the recurring sidekicks in Lucky’s stories, fleshing them out, learning their stories and I hope you will as well.

  Thank you for coming along on Lucky’s wild ride through Vegas. Please drop me a line at [email protected] and let me know what you think. And, please leave a review at the outlet of your choice.

  PART ONE

  Prologue

  Summer 1982

  Downtown Las Vegas

  ALBERT ROTHSTEIN rarely abandoned himself to sleep. Tonight was no different. After a couple hours of fitful tossing, he’d donned his corporate monkey suit and fought with his tie, then wandered down to the building site.

  Little more than a hole in the ground, The Lucky Aces, his first Vegas hotel, was inching its way from dream to reality. He’d made more than a few enemies along the way—necessary risks in this town that didn’t tolerate fools and gave little ground. He could shoulder the burden of putting his life on the line, but Mona complicated things. Just the thought of her in the crosshairs made his stomach clench. They also had a daughter, Lucky, but nobody knew she was his—a secret he and Mona had decided to keep for a lot of reasons, her safety being but one.

  Vegas was long on secrets.

  He took a deep breath and shrugged off the worry—any chink in his resolve would be a death sentence.

  Vegas rewarded those with steel balls.

  Standing on the sidewalk along Main Street, Rothstein hooked his fingers through the chain-link fence, then rested his forehead on his hands as he visualized his future.

  Floodlights illuminated the iron-beam skeleton rising from the deep hole, casting surreal shadows. Four floors had been erected and half of the fifth. Cranes stood at the ready like sleeping giraffes, their long necks arced, ready, waiting. Still hours from sunrise, the construction crew had yet to show. They’d be here soon though, building dreams. Rothstein liked that. Building dreams. Yeah, that’s what Vegas was all about.

  Lost in thought, Albert Rothstein didn’t hear the man creep up behind him.

  “You need to come with me.” The voice held the sharp edge of a threat. And a hint of familiarity.

  “Boogie? You fucking son of a bitch!” Rothstein started to turn but froze when the man jabbed the barrel of a gun into his side.

  “That’s right. Don’t turn around. Don’t do nuthin’ other than we’re going for a ride, like I told you.”

  Rothstein paused for a moment, his body coiled, ready to spring, his hands itching to close around the wart’s neck. Boogie Fleischman. What that two-bit hood wanted with him was anybody’s guess. Of course, he could take him right now—the guy was a loser—but it might be more interesting to play along, to see who wanted what from him. ’Cause Boogie didn’t have the balls nor the smarts to be anything other than somebody’s stooge.

  “Sure, okay, Boogie. Just keep the piece outta my side.”

  Knowledge was power and Albert Rothstein hungered for both.

  At thirty-five, he’d put in his time, learned the ropes. Now it was his turn. Vegas was his for the taking, he could feel it. And nobody was going to get in his way.

  A black sedan eased to the curb next to him and someone inside pushed the rear door open. Boogie pressed the blunt-nosed handgun a bit harder, encouraging him to move. “If you know what’s good for you . . . ”

  He left the threat hanging. After enough hesitation to keep Boogie thinking he was going unwillingly, Rothstein stepped to the car and ducked his head inside. With a foot in his back, Boogie shoved him all the way in. Caught off guard, Rothstein fell across the seat. He saw the raised hand holding the gun a fraction of a second too late. The metal connected with his right temple. Pain exploded then rippled through his head, tunneling his vision.

  As his vision tunneled, he caught a glimpse of the passenger leaning over from the front seat—a hard, cold face. A badge. The realization hit him that he had grossly miscalculated. Then his world went black.

  * * *

  Consciousness returned slowly. What the hell happened? Where am I? Albert Rothstein eased open his eyes but remained motionless. Pain kept his right eye half-closed—the thumping headache made it hard to think. He was in the backseat of the car . . . alone. From the rhythmic thump of the tires passing over the joints in the road, he assumed they were on the highway, most likely heading south toward California. There was nothing out there but open desert and death. As the car passed through the anemic glow cast by random lights, Rothstein could see the men in the front seat . . . two of them. Boogie manned the steering wheel, the other one rode shotgun. Boogie was a lightweight, always hanging with some wise guy who was bigger and tougher, absorbing some swagger while safe in his shadow.

  Moving slowly, trying to not attract any attention, Rothstein pressed the heel of his right hand to his temple, then probed with his fingers. Blood matted his hair. He winced when his probing met tender, torn skin and a growing goose egg. An hour, not much more, had passed, he guessed.

  He felt the car slow. Pressing his feet against the door, he held himself against the turn. The car bumped off the highway leaving the lights behind. In the darkness, Rothstein moved, testing his limbs, his strength. Other than the bomb that had exploded in his head, he seemed unhurt. The car jounced and rolled over the rutted road.

  He needed to do something fast. This was a one-way ride to nowhere. He’d heard stories about bones bleaching in the desert. And that wasn’t part of his plan.

  The car wallowed over the rough surface for a few minutes more. Rothstein braced himself, biding his time. He’d get one shot, if he was lucky. Finally, the car slowed to a stop. Boogie killed the engine but left the lights on. The silence of the desert closed around them like a warm, stifling cloak, muffling the world.

  No one said anything. Rothstein could feel his heart pounding, the trickle of sweat wilting his shirt. Slowly he worked his hands above his head, finding purchase on the door. Then he flexed his knees. Coiled, he worked to steady his breathing, clear his thoughts.

  “There they are
. Looks like there’s two of ’em.” Boogie sounded bored but tense, feigning bravery. “Late, as usual. Assholes.”

  Rothstein caught the faint dancing glow of light as it flashed through the interior of the car. Another car, headlights illuminated, must be bouncing over the same rutted road. More trouble, but he couldn’t be worried about that right now.

  While the other guy remained where he was, Boogie popped his door open, then levered himself out of the car. Stepping around to the rear passenger door, he grabbed the handle and pulled.

  When he heard the latch release, Rothstein braced with his hands, then kicked the car door with all the force he could muster. The door flew open catching Boogie Fleischman off guard, hitting him in the chest. The small man flew backward into the darkness, grunting when he hit the desert floor. His gun arced into the night, out of sight . . . and out of reach.

  With the ferocity of an animal sensing weakened prey, Rothstein pushed with his arms propelling himself, then scrambled the last bit through the open door. In the diffuse edges of the cone of light from the headlights, he saw the shadowed outline of Fleischman, hands in the dirt as he pushed himself to his knees. The little asshole.

  With a growl, Rothstein launched himself. Fisting his hands in the shirt on the bastard’s back, he drove a knee into the soft flesh of his side, doubling the small man over. Standing, Rothstein let loose a savage kick, catching Boogie in the stomach, lifting him. For a moment he seemed suspended, then he dropped, curling his knees to his chest, his arms a ring of protection around his legs.

  Rothstein whirled, looking for the passenger. Nobody. He thought about diving after Boogie’s gun, but he didn’t. If they’d wanted to kill him, they would’ve done that already. So he waited, looking for movement. Wondering. What did they want from him?

  He hadn’t seen anyone get out of the second car . . . yet. Or maybe he’d missed them. He dropped his hand and squared his shoulders. Fighting to slow his breathing, he eased around a full three hundred and sixty degrees. If he looked directly into the headlights his night vision would be shot, so he cast around the edges of the light.

  “What do you want?” He hoped his voice sounded strong.

  Nothing moved. Through the smell of the sage and the heat of the long-absent sun, a stale tinge of fear hung heavy in the stillness. The night air pierced his damp shirt, bolting a chill through him.

  Still breathing hard, now more from adrenaline than exertion, Rothstein gathered his breath and shouted, “Come on, you bastards. Show yourselves. You want me, you gotta take me.” He swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. Clenching then unclenching his fists, he waited. “Chicken shits,” he muttered. Anger still pulsed through him as he fought for control. God, he ached for a fight—this one had been too short—but he didn’t think a fight was what these jokers were looking for.

  A bright light bolted out of the darkness. Another set of car lights, the high beams. Blinded for a moment, he squinted against the assault. He couldn’t see how many of them there were. Boogie had said two.

  “That’s enough, son.” The voice was low, heavy, thickly accented. Boston maybe? Or New York? Rothstein wasn’t sure.

  He braced himself, ready. Shoulders hunched, he took a couple of steps toward the voice. The click of a hammer being pulled back stopped him.

  “That’s far enough.” The man behind the voice stepped into the light. Tall and lean with a nose mashed to one side, thin lips and dark, hollow eyes set too close together, the man had the look of someone hope had abandoned. Rothstein had seen that look before, once. He had a scar from a .22 slug to remember it by. This man also had a gun, but he’d come better prepared. This one looked to be a .45. “I’ve been looking for you, son. You’re a hard man to find alone.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Rothstein kept his eyes moving, keeping track. He was outnumbered. As far as he could tell, the odds were three to one against him—not good, but not impossible. He heard the door on the car he had been delivered in open. He backed up and angled so he could keep all the players in front of him. Boogie’s passenger got out of the car but didn’t move toward him. Backlit by the headlights, his face remained in shadow. A flash of familiarity—something about him—but Rothstein couldn’t place him.

  Boogie groaned, then crawled over to a Yucca and puked. Rothstein didn’t allow himself to smile.

  “Your uncle sent me,” the man with the gun said. Flat and cold, his voice lacked even the hint of an inflection.

  “What?” The statement caught Rothstein off guard. “My uncle? I’ve got nothing to say to that piece of trash.”

  “That don’t mean he ain’t lookin’ for you.”

  “Tell him to go to hell. He chose which side of the line to stand on.” Rothstein worked to even his breathing, to act casual, but the last thing he needed was some two-bit hood claiming blood relations. Especially with his application for a gaming license pending. After the last round of purging, one almost needed a fucking letter from God and dispensation by the Pope to be blessed by the Gaming Commission.

  “Now that ain’t very sociable.”

  “Fuck you.”

  The man chuckled, a low, evil rumble. “You’re like one chip off that block, you know that? Your uncle sent me to give you a message. He said he’d be watching you. And someday soon, you’ll be expected to pay what you owe.”

  “I don’t owe him.” Rothstein spat the words.

  “Kid, he staked you.”

  His blood ran cold. “I paid him back. Every cent plus interest.”

  “This here’s a surcharge, for going above and beyond and all.”

  “Fuck him.”

  The man paused. Lowering his gun, he stared at Rothstein, his eyes cold holes to hell. “You got a kid, right?”

  “A kid?” Rothstein snorted and let his arms fall to his sides. “What? I look stupid or something?” He forced a casual, derisive tone, but the fight balled into a cold hard spot in his stomach.

  The man paused. Albert could sense him weighing his words. “All’s I know is you got a tasty bit of trash you’ve been banging for a good long time. And she’s got a kid. Whose it is don’t really matter. That’s the thing about bangin’ whores, you don’t really know, do you?”

  Rothstein almost lost his war with self-control, but he didn’t. He adopted a nonchalant stance. “An advantage by my way of thinking.”

  The man’s laugh was cold and cruel. “I can see why your uncle wants you on a short leash.” He took a few steps closer.

  Rothstein thought he could smell garlic.

  “Think about this, kid. That piece of ass . . . Mona, isn’t that her name?” The man didn’t wait for a response. “She’s nineteen. If the kid is yours, even if she isn’t, you do the math.”

  Rothstein’s heart jumped. “What?”

  “Fuckin’ minors. Hell, even in this backwater, that’s a felony.” The man lowered the hammer on the .45 with his thumb, then flipped on the safety and tucked the piece in his belt at the small of his back. He made a point of straightening his jacket and buttoning the middle button before he leveled his gaze at Rothstein. “Gotta treat your family nice, kid. You never know when you might need some help, you know? Secrets, they have a way of not bein’ so secret anymore.”

  He turned around and walked slowly back to his car. Stepping to the passenger side, he bent and opened the back door. Squinting into the headlights, Rothstein couldn’t make out what the man was doing. A moment passed, a seeming eternity to Rothstein, his heart banging a staccato rhythm in his ears.

  Finally the man stepped back into the light, dragging something. Rothstein squinted one eye trying to make it out against the glare. A man. He staggered and groaned as the man in black shoved him into the light. With his arms pulled behind him, the passenger staggered a few paces, then dropped to his knees. Hanging his head, he moaned.

  Rothstein couldn’t make out the man’s features. Nothing about him seemed familiar.

  “Here’s your package,” the
man said to the passenger who had been riding in the car that had brought Rothstein. “We’re square.”

  Then he pulled out the .45, thumbed off the safety, pressed the barrel to the back of the man’s head, and pulled the trigger.

  Albert Rothstein stared in horror. “Christ Almighty. You fucking killed him!”

  The man brushed his coat aside and replaced his .45 at the small of his back, then let the cloth fall back into place. “And you’re an accomplice. That guy there is a witness.” He tilted his head toward the passenger who hadn’t moved, hadn’t uttered a sound. Then he turned on his heel and climbed back into his car.

  Rothstein watched the car retreat toward the road, the cone of its headlights knifing through the night. The lights winked out as the car crested a small ridge then edged over, dropping from view as it descended below the horizon. Boogie Fleischman groaned behind him. Rothstein whirled around. He grabbed the small man, hauling him to his feet in one jerk. “What the hell is going on? And who the hell was that guy?”

  Fleischman reeked of puke. In a weak gesture, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Rothstein let go of him with a shove of disgust.

  “I can give you some insight.” The voice behind him was quiet, calm . . . assured.

  Rothstein whirled to face the man who had been riding in the passenger seat next to Boogie. “That would be so . . . unexpected.” Wit was his only defense since he’d decided having a gun was just a temptation to use it. Right now he was rethinking that whole premise. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Name’s Crider.” He stepped into the light as he adjusted his belt—it was a county-issued gun belt, his piece still holstered.

  Rothstein squinted. The guy wore a sheriff’s department uniform. They had him. They had him good. If he went to the authorities with his story, the other two would weave a tall tale with him at the center, and it would be two against his one. “All of this was to get me over a barrel?”