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  Lucky Bang

  A Lucky O'Toole Original Novella

  Deborah Coonts

  Copyright © 2102 Deborah Coonts.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover Design by Michael Waite, http://www.bonefrog.com

  Interior Design by Steven W. Booth, http://www.GeniusBookServices.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter One

  The bomb was small, crude…homemade but lethal.

  And familiar. The last time I had seen a device like this one had been a lifetime ago. Frankly, I thought I'd never see one again. And I certainly hadn't expected to find another ticking time bomb in the ladies' bathroom at Jimmy G's new family restaurant. Had I not spilled the entire contents of my purse while doing my business in the far stall, I never would've found it. But there I was, on all fours, chasing a runaway lipstick when I came nose-to-nose with a couple of sticks of old dynamite taped together and wired to a battery. An old wind-up clock ticked off the seconds.

  Three minutes.

  And, with the Fourth of July celebrations this weekend, the city was bursting at the seams—Jimmy G had a full house.

  I glanced at my watch, marking the time.

  Forgetting the rest of my wayward personal items, I backed out of the tight space, grabbed my purse—no one leaves a Hermes Birkin anywhere, bomb or no bomb—and hurried out of the bathroom.

  Jimmy G was at his normal table in the bar by the piano, nursing his ubiquitous glass of Pinot Noir, and bending the ear of some enraptured, sweet young thing. He paused to wet his whistle when I stepped in next to him and bent down to whisper in his ear.

  "Jimmy, there's a bomb in the ladies' bathroom." His eyes widened, but that was the only reaction I could see.

  "Can you take care of it?" He spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

  "What do I look like? I don't know jack about bombs. For all I know, it could be rigged to blow when touched—like the last one." I checked the time. "We got two and a half minutes."

  Lacking his normal grin, Jimmy stood to his full height of a wiry five feet five inches, his face grim, his manner all-business as he motioned to the waiters. They understood the silent order and began going from table to table encouraging the patrons to leave quickly.

  Jimmy tinged on his glass with a spoon. "Everyone, listen up. I apologize, and there is no time to explain, but please, we need you to exit the building and move away, across the parking lot out front. As far away as you can get. Quickly, we don't have much time."

  A silence fell over the crowd for a moment, patrons casting shocked glances around the room. The soothing voice of Dean Martin singing an oldie but goodie and the dinging bells of the games in the kids' room filled the empty air. A moment suspended in time, captured by confusion, disbelief. Then the sound of chairs scraping back. Voices elevated now, hints of panic, but the crowd remained calm as they gathered the kids and moved to the exits.

  Two minutes.

  I posted myself at the back of the main dining room and began ushering everyone toward safety. As a customer relations expert at the Babylon—Vegas Strip's most over-the-top casino/resort—I have some experience with clearing rooms and herding crowds.

  One lady stopped to gather her purse and a backpack, presumably a child's—the purple dinosaur was a dead giveaway.

  I put a hand on her back. "Leave it." I kept my voice low, calm but firm. For a moment I thought she would argue. Instead she turned and hurried toward the door, rounding up children as she went.

  I heard faint sirens growing louder.

  A minute forty-five. They wouldn't be in time.

  Sweat trickled down my sides as I forced myself to stay calm, to think clearly. A glance around the room confirmed that folks were doing as asked. Except for one man at a table on the far side. Resolutely forking in spaghetti, he remained seated.

  Dodging the detritus of haste, overturned chairs, abandoned coats and bags, I hurried to his side. "Sir, you need to leave. Now."

  His fork poised between plate and mouth, he glanced up at me with a smile. "This sauce Bolognese." He put two fingers to his lips and made that Italian kissing thing that is supposed to convey supreme satisfaction, but just comes off looking silly to us non-Italians. "Perfecto."

  One minute.

  "Sir," I grabbed the back of his chair. "You need to leave."

  He waved a hand as if shooing away a pesky gnat, then dove in for another bite. "These fire drills, they never mean anything—all smoke and no fire," he announced even though his mouth was full.

  "This one is the real shebang." I tugged on his chair. Even with my considerable weight behind it, the thing wouldn't budge, so I grabbed his arm with both hands and pulled. "Come with me." My voice carried the sharp prod of an order.

  "But my Bolognese," he whined as he reached for his napkin and started to stand.

  Now I had some leverage. Feeling time breathing down my neck, I pulled him up. With a shove, I pushed him toward the door. "I'll buy you a new plateful when this is over." If there's a restaurant left.

  A glance over my shoulder and confirmed that we were the last two out.

  With forty seconds to spare.

  We rushed across the parking lot to join the crowd on the opposite side as the sirens grew louder. Through the rows of spindly trees in the parking lot, I saw the flashing lights of the first fire truck.

  Thirty seconds.

  Too late.

  "Oh my God!" A voice filled with panic. "Where's my daughter!"

  I whirled to face the throng. "Who said that?"

  "My daughter!" a woman wailed as she separated herself from the crowd and pointed toward the restaurant. "She's still inside. I have four children. Two of them brought friends. I had them all. And now she's not here." She clutched three children around her while two others huddled close.

  I dropped to one knee so I was eye-to-eye with a tow-headed little boy, his eyes wide with fear, his lips trembling. "Do you know where she is?"

  "It's my fault." His chin trembled as he fought tears. "We were playing Whac-a-mole. She lost her bear. I was supposed to watch her. She wouldn't leave without the bear."

  "Her name?" Pushing myself to my feet, I turned and ran, shrugging out of Jimmy G's grasp as he reached to stop me.

  "Elise," her mother called after me. "Her name is Elise."

  I ducked back inside the now empty restaurant. In three strides I was at the entrance to the game room. My eyes searched the room, probing every corner. I missed her the first time. The small girl, a riot of long sandy curls, a pressed pinafore, her eyes big and round, hunkered under a Skee-ball machine, a small brown teddy bear with one eye clutched to her chest with both arms.

  "Elise, come on, honey." I reached down, grabbing both her arms and lifting her to my hip. "I'll take you to your mother, but we have to hurry."

  Turning, I ran.

  Ten seconds, I guessed. Nine. Less. I didn't take the time to look.

  Two strides from the door.

  One.

  A huge sound behind me. Instinctively I ducked. The compression wave hit me. Staggering, I dropped to my knees, then to my side. Sheltering the girl's small body with mine, I curled around her, then covered my head.r />
  Sound and fury. A maelstrom of debris. Shrapnel whizzing through the air. Heat. Stinging pain.

  Then darkness.

  ***

  A hand on my shoulder. Movement. My eyes fluttered open.

  For a moment, I couldn't remember. Where was I? Flashes of memory zinged across my synapses. Jimmy G's. A bomb. A little girl. A jolt of adrenaline. Yes, a little girl. My eyes flew open, as I took a deep gulp of air.

  Detective Romeo knelt in front of me, worry etching years into his boyish features. His mouth formed words, but I couldn't hear him. In fact, I heard only an intense, piercing screech. Shaking my head, I pushed at him, forcing myself to a seated position. Stars spun in my vision. I didn't care. I cast around frantically, searching. Finally I saw her, my small young friend. Wrapped in a blanket, still holding her bear, she curled into the crook of a fireman's arms.

  Safe. Her mother followed close behind, herding the other children.

  Breathing easier, I swiped at my forehead. My hand came away wet. I felt my face scrunch into a frown as I stared at the red smear on my palm. Sounds, disjointed and far away, filtered past the shrill buzz in my head. The rush of pressurized spray from the fire hoses. Dripping water. Boots clomping. Hot embers sizzling. Snippets of reality, random pings on my real-world radar.

  Someone shaking me. Gentle pressure. "Lucky?" The word, muffled yet distinct, focused a few brain cells.

  For the first time, I looked around and took stock of my surroundings. Still on the floor, I was just inside the doorway to the restaurant. The picture windows across the front were gone. A few jagged shards, still clutched in the frame, hung like lethal icicles, but the rest of the plate glass was missing. Smoke hung in the air, a dark roiling cloud clinging to the ceiling, then drifting through the windows to be carried away on the breeze. Acrid and heavy, the air stung my eyes and seared my lungs. In full fire-fighting garb, firemen snaked their hoses through the gaping holes, then disappeared behind me.

  "Lucky?" Romeo's voice came in clearer now, the scream in my ears retreating. "Can you hear me?"

  Looking into his blue eyes clouded with emotion, I nodded. My hearing might be normalizing, but my thoughts still bounced around the inside of my skull compounding a blistering headache. "Everybody okay?" I pressed my palms to my temples, holding my head in a vise—pressure against the pain.

  "Yes, thanks to you." The young detective grabbed both my shoulders, forcing my attention. "Who are you?"

  Letting my hands drop—the vise thing wasn't working—I tried to give him one of my patented snorts, but it came out as an anemic wheeze. "You know who I am."

  "Yes, but do you?" He looked serious.

  Oh. I chewed on my lip as I exerted all the energy I could muster on marshaling my thoughts. "Lucky O'Toole."

  A grin bloomed, cracking his stone-face. "Where do you work?"

  "The Babylon."

  "And what do you do there?"

  "Solve problems." I took a deep breath. My head pounded, an ice pick of pain stabbing behind my right eye. I dabbed at my forehead again, then looked at my fingers. Fresh blood. "And I put up with irritating detectives with the Metropolitan Police Department."

  Romeo sat back on his heels, his grin widening, which I didn't think possible. He motioned to one of the EMTs who came over and knelt in front of me. Cute, buff, with wavy dark hair, hazel eyes that bordered on gray, and dimples, he was the paramedic from Central Casting. With gloved hands, he gripped my head and probed my forehead with his thumbs.

  "Do you know me well enough to take such liberties?" I asked.

  "Does this hurt?" He pressed with a thumb.

  I yelped.

  "I'll take that as a yes." He popped the latch on a black box that looked suspiciously like a tackle box.

  "If you plan on sewing me up with a fish hook and eight-pound test, we need to talk."

  Once again he flashed those darn dimples as he pulled out and opened a package of gauze. He used it to dab at my forehead. "You've taken a pretty good lick. Good thing you're tough." The gauze turned red. He discarded it for a fresh wad. This time he added a dose of peroxide. "You'll need to get this checked out—there can be things going on inside your skull that we can't see. They can be fatal if not taken care of. And, as pretty as you are, you'll want a plastics guy to stitch you up."

  "Are you flirting with me?"

  Romeo punched the paramedic on the shoulder. "I told you she was one ballsy broad."

  I puckered my lips as I glared at Romeo, then turned and ran headlong into the medic's bemused expression. Afraid my brain might leak out my ear, I cautiously cocked my head at the young detective. "The kid has a death wish."

  That got a laugh out of both of them. Defusing tension, I can do.

  With a couple of Steri-Strips in place, I felt good enough to try standing. Romeo extended a hand, which I gladly accepted.

  The EMT steadied me with one hand holding my elbow, the other firmly pressed into my lower back.

  "How're you doing?" he asked as I tentatively stretched to my full six feet.

  For some reason, the fact that he still had me by a couple of inches made me feel infinitely better. "I'll rally."

  "You don't know how lucky you really were." Still holding my elbow, he eased me to the door. "When those windows blew…" Leveling those eyes, now dark and serious, like the sky before a storm, he captured my eyes. "Have you ever seen a human flayed alive by flying glass?"

  ***

  Sitting sideways on a gurney parked in some obscure hallway at University Medical Center—UMC to us locals—I half-listened to the conversation in the curtained-off cubicle across the hall, straining to hear through the residual ringing in my ears.

  A bored voice with forced energy—presumably the doctor's—said, "So," a pause as papers rustled, "Mr. Jones. What do we have?"

  A male voice, mellifluous, melodic, sexy…vaguely familiar."Well, a few years ago my girlfriend and I were into some pretty rough stuff."

  "S and M kind of stuff? What are we talking about?"

  "Cock stuffing."

  I blinked. The doctor didn't say anything—I would've paid good money to see his expression. Or mine for that matter.

  "You know, that's where you take—"

  "I understand, Mr. Jones."

  Wait. Don't cut him off! I didn't understand. What were they doing? My mind freewheeled until I stomped on the brakes—imagination is a terrifying thing.And I was dizzy enough as it was. I didn't need to add hurling to today's indignities.

  The patient continued. "Anyway, the thermometer broke…inside. I bled…a lot. But the doctor got everything under control, said there was no permanent damage."

  "I hope they also told you to never use thermometers. They have surgical instruments; you can purchase them at any S and M store. They're called sounds. Same sensations, none of the downside."

  "Good to know, but that sort of play was a short term thing. I'm married now and my wife has her limitations."

  I narrowed my eyes. He made it sound like not getting her jollies from bondage and stuff was a shortcoming to be overlooked. To be honest, I sorta agreed.

  "And you are here because…?" The doctor sounded nonplussed by all of it—just another night in the asylum.

  Mr. Jones continued, "My toddler, he's only three. Would you like to see a picture?"

  "Perhaps later."

  "He's the greatest kid." Mr. Jones chuckled in that doting-parent way. "Anyway, he was running and, well, he head-butted me in the groin. And, I've got a bit of a problem."

  I heard the doctor set down his chart, then snap on a pair of latex gloves. "Let's see what's going on. You can take the towel off."

  "Oh."

  Then silence. Leaning so far toward the curtain closing them off from view, straining to hear every word, I almost fell off the gurney. I caught myself, barely. Thank God somebody had locked the wheels.

  "Oh my!" Pained or alarmed—or a bit of both, it was hard to tell—the doctor no longer so
unded bored. "Put that towel back on. I'll be right back." He rushed out of the cubicle, glanced at me, then charged down the hallway in a flurry of white coattails. He disappeared through the door, which closed behind him.

  Well that was fun. Show over. Tucking my hands under my thighs, I swung my feet and tried to picture what in the world that guy had been doing with that thermometer. Then I decided, being visual and all, I'd had enough trauma for the day. I thought about asking him myself but abandoned that idea as being a bit tacky. Although, I was really bored.

  An orderly had brought me down here months ago, parking me outside radiology while he went to check on the timing for my CAT scan. My stomach empty, my patience long since exhausted, I glanced through the curtain and up and down the abandoned hallway, plotting my next move. Aspirin had dulled the pain behind my right eye. The ringing in my ears had muted to the point where I no longer had to strain to make sense through the noise.

  The door at the end of the hall banged open admitting two orderlies who ran in my direction. They dove into the cubicle next to me. "Sir, you need to come with us."

  "Where are we going?" Mr. Jones's voice held a hint of panic.

  "The doctor needs to get the swelling down, relieve some of the pressure, before permanent damage is done."

  As they wheeled Mr. Jones out, I strained to catch a glimpse.

  Oh my God. I was right! I knew him.

  Mr. Jones, my ass. That was Creighton Crider. He'd been a big shot at Metro when I was a kid. We used to call him Crayfish Crider—a Bayou Boy with a limp, clammy handshake. I guess his handshake wasn't the only limp member he had.Somebody I knew had dated him—sort of a walk on the wild side with an older guy as I recall. One of those stupid things young women do. Which friend was it who had done Crayfish? I couldn't remember—my brains were all scrambled.

  I shuddered at the thought as I watched the trio trundle down the hallway.

  The doorway at the end swallowed them whole leaving me, once again, alone with my thoughts. Normally, I could tolerate my own company, enjoy it even, but I'd been alone with me so long I was boring myself.