So Damn Lucky (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 3) Read online

  SO DAMN LUCKY

  A Lucky O’Toole Vegas Adventure

  Book Three

  Deborah Coonts

  DEDICATION

  BARB NICKLESS AND MARIA FAULCONER

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  MY SON, TYLER, AND HIS WONDERFUL NEW WIFE, LISA: who fill every corner of my life with sunshine.

  BARB NICKLESS AND MARIA FAULCONER: Great writers who make this writer better and who grace me with the wonder of true friendship.

  THE DREAMAKERS AT TOR/FORGE: Tom Doherty, Linda Quinton, Bob Gleason, Patty Garcia, Cassie Ammerman, Whitney Ross, Katharine Critchlow. Thank you for your continuing amazing support.

  SUSAN GLEASON: Agent extraordinaire.

  THE CITY OF LAS VEGAS: For adopting me as your own.

  Chapter One

  SOME things in life are best savored alone—sex is not one of them.

  This happy thought occurred to me while piloting a borrowed Ferrari and staring at the smiling couples filling the sidewalks along the Las Vegas Strip. Walking hand in hand, they were living, breathing reminders of the sorry state of my own love life.

  “Lady! Watch out!”

  I heard the shout in the nick of time. Slamming on the brakes, I narrowly avoided sliding the front end of the Ferrari under a tour bus. A sea of Japanese faces appeared like moons in the back window, peering down at me. Then cameras blocked the faces, flashbulbs popping as I shrugged and waved while trying to appear unruffled.

  The young man who had shouted stepped over to the car and peered through the open roof, like a judge eyeing the accused. “Are you okay?” he asked. His face flushed, his eyes glassy, he looked like he was still recovering from last night’s party or getting a head start on the next one.

  “Thanks to you,” I said as I restarted the car, which had stalled. “I know better than to think about sex while doing something potentially life-threatening. What was I thinking?” I cringed as the words popped out of my mouth. Even I couldn’t believe I’d said that. Clearly, I needed to get a grip: First I couldn’t stop thinking about sex; now I was talking about it to strangers. This was so not good.

  “What were you thinking?” The kid smirked at me as he took another gulp from the glass clutched tightly in his hand. “Care to…enlighten me?” he asked after wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, which had NYU printed in bold blue on the front.

  The sweatshirt looked new. He looked twelve. I felt old.

  “Another time, perhaps,” I lied. I didn’t really intend to flirt with the kid. However, with Teddie, my former live-in, gallivanting around the globe playing rock star for the last six weeks—and the foreseeable future—my prospects looked pretty dim. Teddie and I had been really good for a while. Now, I didn’t know what we were.

  Sexual self-preservation clearly had kicked in.

  “Go easy on those walktails,” I said. “They’re deadly and the night is still young.” It was a blatant attempt to steer the conversation away from the current topic.

  “Walktail?”

  “That drink in your hand, small enough to take with you, but potent enough to leave you puking in the gutter.”

  The kid’s face grew serious as he held up the brew for inspection, looking at it with a newfound respect. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said, his voice filled with awe.

  My smile vanished. Despite careful study, I was still unable to figure out at precisely what moment in time I had gone from being a Miss to a Ma’am. What changed? Whatever it was, I wanted it back like it used to be—along with a few other things, but they would all take minor miracles. While I believe in magic, miracles were pushing the envelope, even for me. I squeezed the paddle shifter and put the car in gear. Easing around the still stationary bus, I hit the gas. The night held an October chill—refreshing as the wind teased my hair. A full moon fought a losing battle as it competed valiantly with the lights of the Strip. I knew stars filled the sky, but they weren’t visible in the false half-night of Las Vegas at full wattage.

  My name is Lucky O’Toole and, as I mentioned, the Ferrari isn’t mine. It belongs to the dealership at The Babylon, my employer and the newest addition to the Las Vegas Strip megaresort explosion. By title, I am the Head of Customer Relations. In reality, I’m the chief problem solver. If a guest at the Babylon has a “situation”—which could be anything from an unplanned marriage, an unfamiliar bed partner, a roaring headache, or an unexplained rash to a wife and kids given a room on the same floor as the mistress’s suite—I’m the go-to girl.

  Lucky me.

  Actually, I love my job. And I miss Teddie. As the two appear mutually exclusive, therein lies the rub.

  But, enough of that—I had wallowed in self-pity for my allotted ten minutes today. No more private pity party for me; I was on my way to the real thing.

  The invitation read:

  Inviting all family, friends, and former dancers to a farewell party in honor of the forty-year run of the Calliope Burlesque Cabaret. October 26, eight o’clock sharp, backstage at the Calliope Theatre, the Athena Resort and Casino. Present this invitation for admittance.

  To someone in my position, being invited to parties was part of the exercise, but this was one guest list on which I never expected to find my name. I wasn’t family, nor was I a former dancer—although with my six-foot frame, I guess dancing might have been a career path had I not been averse to prancing in front of strangers wearing nothing but stilettos and a thong, with twenty pounds of feathers on my head.

  That left friend. As the sole individual responsible for shutting down the show, I doubted I qualified under that category either. Perhaps they invited me because of my unparalleled ability to smooth ruffled feathers, or maybe for my irritating inability to overlook a pun no matter how tortured. Who knew? However, I never could resist a good mystery, so despite the niggling feeling I’d received an invitation to my own execution, I accepted.

  After having to go back to the office for the invitation, and after the near miss on the Strip, I pulled the Ferrari up to the front of the Athena. Careful to extricate myself from the low-slung car without giving the valet an eyeful up my short skirt, I then tossed the keys to him. Wrapping myself in a warm hug of cashmere pashmina to ward off the night chill, I straightened my skirt, threw back my shoulders, found a tentative balance on four-inch heels, and headed inside.

  An aging Grand Dame, the Athena had seen better days. Like a ship marooned on the shoals, torn and tattered by the elements, the Athena had been savaged by time and inattention. Moored at the wrong end of the Strip, surrounded by lesser properties, she now boasted only faded glory. Her carpet stained, her walls dingy, and her décor dated, she reeked of quiet desperation. While she still boasted “The Best Seafood Buffet in Vegas” for less than twenty dollars—which brought in some of the locals—her gaming rooms were rarely more than a third full. In Vegas, folks are quick to abandon a sinking ship—even if the slots are loose and the staff friendly.

  My boss, Albert Rothstein (also known as The Big Boss), recently acquired the Athena from the previous owner, who had decided the best way to beat The Big Boss was to frame him for murder. In a high-stakes game of cat and mouse, The Big Boss had eaten the canary—with my help, I’m happy to say.

  The fact that The Big Boss is also my father is a closely guarded secret—so close that even I was in the dark until recently when, facing the prospect of imminent death at the hands of a heart surgeon, The Big Boss decided to come clean. I’m still not sure how I felt about the whole thing, so I ignored it whenever possible. I was pretty happy with the way things were before the big bombshell, so I didn’t see any reason to r
ock the boat. The Big Boss saw it differently; now that he’d claimed me—and made his relationship with my mother public—he wanted the whole world to know. Not a hooker’s chance in Heaven, thank you very much. Don’t get me wrong; I loved him like a father…always had.

  But, who the heck wants to be the boss’s daughter?

  Expecting the usual sparse crowd, I was surprised to see a throng milling about the Athena’s dismal lobby and spilling into the casino. Having spent my formative years in and out of Vegas hotels and my adult life working in them, I rarely noticed the fashion choices of the river of humanity that flowed through. However, tonight their choices were hard to ignore.

  Space creatures of all shapes and sizes mingled, giving each other the Vulcan sign of greeting. It was like the Star Trek Experience at the Hilton used to be, but better. While I’m not that well versed in aliens, I thought I recognized a couple of Klingons, a Romulan or two, multiple Ferengi, and a collective of Borg. As the Borg passed, their faces impassive, I thought about saying “Resistance is futile” but I stifled myself. The whole thing made me realize how much I missed the Hilton’s hokey institution. When they shuttered Quark’s, the Hilton had closed a whole chapter of my youth. Strange new worlds must be explored, I guess.

  Scattered among the Trekkers—they’d been Trekkies when I was young, but one vehement Klingon had corrected me and I was not one to argue with an angry Klingon—were little green men, bubble-headed aliens of 1950s movie fantasy, a Wookie or two, other wild Star Wars imaginings, and several truly original creations. Some of the aliens were even disguised as humans—one of whom I recognized.

  Junior Arbogast, hoax exposer, fraud buster, and legend in his own mind, made his living debunking UFO sightings, alien abductions, and paranormal phenomena in general. Junior and I had bonded over an interesting outing to Area 51—the local Air Force spook palace north of town, and the epicenter of UFO lore. He had spent an hour face down in the dirt, a gun pointed at his head, while I endeavored to talk the Lincoln County sheriff out of arresting him, and the Cammo Guys, as the security service hired to protect and defend the perimeter were so lovingly referred to, from perforating him. Now, each year when the spookies held their annual convention in town, Junior and I usually found time to have a drink together, which I enjoyed. Yes, he could be arrogant and a pain in the ass, but he was bright and knew BS when he saw it. I liked that about him.

  Built like a fire hydrant, with a shock of wiry dishwater blond hair, pale eyes under heavy, bushy brows, and a nose that had been broken more than once, Junior loved a good fight—the product of a childhood in the mountains of West Virginia. He didn’t tolerate fools well, so he had few friends, a fact that didn’t seem to bother him. How I managed to stay off his blithering idiot list was an enduring mystery.

  “Are you merely observing the mating rituals of alien life-forms, or are you looking for the next Mrs. Arbogast?” I whispered as I sidled in next to him.

  “Ah, the great quipster, Lucky O’Toole. I was wondering when you’d turn up,” Junior mumbled through a mouthful of hot dog. He swallowed, then took a healthy swig from his gallon-size Bucket-o-Beer. “You jest, but I’ll have you know,” he continued, “a renowned professor at one of this country’s most storied institutions of higher learning postulated that all alien abductions around the world could be explained as a simple cross-species breeding project.”

  “So everything really is about sex?”

  “Especially in Vegas. If sex doesn’t happen here, why come?” Junior stuffed in the last of his hotdog and washed it down with more beer.

  Why indeed, I thought as I watched the UFO aficionados—some true believers, but mostly half-baked hangers-on who liked a good party with a weird group of folks. I could identify—I lived there.

  People and aliens packed in around us, their energy infectious. A television crew trailed one of the local talking heads apparently on the prowl for content for a “wacky and wonderful” segment for the nightly news. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Junior, since he appeared to be waiting as well.

  “We’re all about to witness a spectacular example of professional suicide.”

  “Really? Whose?” I felt the inner flicker of some primal calling—probably the same unsavory instinct that draws us all to the scene of disaster. I didn’t like it.

  “Dr. Zewicki.”

  “Ah,” I said, not needing any more explanation.

  Zoom-Zoom Zewicki had been a train wreck waiting to happen for years. A former astronaut and the twentieth-something man launched into space, with a PhD in some obscure science from one of the world’s foremost universities, Zoom-Zoom had one major affliction: He used to be somebody. In recent years, he had resorted to quirkier and more outlandish stunts to make sure we all remembered that.

  “This must be my lucky day. First I get to witness professional suicide, then I get to preside at a funeral.”

  “My, you’re a glutton for punishment.” Junior wadded up the paper wrapper from his hot dog and stuffed it in his pocket.

  “That will be my epitaph,” I said, only half joking. “I’m sure ‘taking punishment’ is part of my job description but, fool that I am, I didn’t read the fine print. So, what treat does Zoom-Zoom have in store for us?” I glanced at my watch—eight-fifteen. Fashionably late to the party, I still had a few more minutes before my tardiness would be considered another salvo in my one-man war on the Calliope Girls. The war was a figment of their imaginations, of course, but I didn’t want to toss any unnecessary grenades.

  Before Junior had time to answer, a hush fell over the crowd. Heads turned as Zoom-Zoom stepped to a podium on a dais at the far end of the lobby.

  A short man who kept himself fighting trim, Dr. Zewicki wore his hair military short, his shirts pressed, his slacks creased, and a look of encroaching madness in his dark eyes. He leaned into the microphone, got too close, then drew back with a jerk as if the resulting squeal was from a snake coiled to strike.

  “Thank you all for coming.” This time he got the distance to the mike just right. His unexpectedly deep voice echoed around the marble lobby and rippled over the crowd. He waited until the last reverberation died before continuing. “My statement will be brief and I won’t accept any questions at this time. For those of you who wish to know more, I will be holding a formal presentation Thursday night, in Rachel, as part of Viewing Night.”

  Expectant murmurs rolled like waves through the crowd.

  Dr. Zewicki fed on the attention of the crowd like an alien spacecraft sucking electromagnetic energy from a thunderstorm. Pausing, he milked it, then waited a few beats more until every head turned his direction, every voice quieted. Staring at the crowd, a serious expression on his face, he pulled himself to his full height and announced, “I have recently experienced an alien abduction.”

  The murmurs of the crowd rose on a cresting wave of expectation.

  “My abductor’s message is simple and twofold: When we die, they come and take our spirits. Some spirits pass through to the next life, but those of us with unresolved issues—those who were murdered, perhaps—live on with the aliens. And now they wish to open a channel.”

  The wave of expectation broke into a cascade of excited voices, flooding the lobby with a rushing torrent of questions.…Questions that would remain unanswered: Zoom-Zoom Zewicki had left the stage.

  Stunned, I needed a few moments to find my voice. “Did he just say what I thought he said?”

  “Tortured souls live on with the aliens and Dr. Zewicki can talk to them.”

  “I’m sure the homicide division at Metro will be thrilled to have alien assistance.” I shrugged off a chill that shivered down my spine. Talk of murder messed with the Vegas magic—magic that was part of my job to deliver.

  Junior looked at me, his face inscrutable. “Talk about a meteor hitting the atmosphere! A lifetime of achievement incinerated, just like that.” He snapped his fingers i
n front of my face.

  “The death of a star,” I whispered.

  “And the birth of a pop-culture icon,” announced Junior, his voice as hard as flint. Zoom -Zoom Zewicki had just pegged the fraud buster’s bullshit meter.

  ***

  I left Junior plotting the pulverization of the last remaining pebbles of Dr. Zewicki’s reputation, and headed toward the Calliope Burlesque Theatre on the far side of the casino. Working my way through the throng took me longer than I anticipated. I had just reached the edge of the crowd when I felt a hand on my arm.

  “Ms. O’Toole?” Young and soft, the voice was unfamiliar.

  “Yes.” I turned and found myself staring down at a blue-eyed Ferengi.

  The alien thrust an upside-down top hat at me. “Would you be so kind as to deliver this to Mr. Fortunoff? He left it in the bar. Normally, I would take it to him myself, but security is not allowing anyone backstage except those invited to the party.”

  “Sure.” I grabbed the hat, surprised by its weight, as the Ferengi melted back into the crowd. That a magician would need a top hat to pull something out of seemed logical to me, so I didn’t think the request odd. I peered inside the hat…empty. Turning it right-side up and shaking—nothing fell out. Whatever.

  A lesser luminary in the world of the Dark Arts, Dimitri Fortunoff specialized in sleights of hand, mindreading, and other parlor tricks. He performed nightly as the entertainment between the first and second acts of the burlesque show.

  I tucked the hat under my arm and strode through the casino. Flashing my invite to the security guard, I pushed through the double doors into another world. While decorations and scenery adorned the audience side of the curtain, creating the illusion of a bright and exciting world, a different, workman-like world existed behind the curtain. The stage was empty, illuminated by bare bulbs that would be extinguished during the show. Scenery hung in the rafters on counterweighted pulleys. Other accoutrements, including Dimitri’s magic tricks, were stuffed unceremoniously into every nook and cranny, creating an obstacle course for the unwary. At the appropriate time during the show, each piece would be moved into position; after its use it would be removed in a well-choreographed, painstakingly rehearsed dance.