So Damn Lucky (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 3) Page 18

  Arms at his sides, his shoulders drooping, he stood there looking at me, his face blank. He didn’t reach for me.

  “I don’t know why you came back, but it seems you wanted one last fuck-fest before good-bye. If that’s the case, it was pretty low, but we don’t have time to talk about it now. As you said, I’m late and your parents are waiting.” Placing a hand in the middle of his chest, I pushed him out of my boudoir. “Go. I’ll meet you at the Burger Palais in the Bazaar—that was the best I could do at the last minute.”

  “Lucky, I—”

  “Teddie, just go.”

  ***

  Teddie and his parents stood at the hostess podium as I arrived. From the angry glares of the people waiting in the long queue snaking out the door, my little trio had shouldered their way to the front.

  The hostess shook her head as she ran her finger down the list. “I’m sorry, I don’t see your name,” she said as I arrived at the head of the line.

  Mr. Kowalski caught sight of me first—his face creasing into a look of distaste. Instead of greeting me, he tilted his head in my direction as he nudged his son.

  The man whom I had inexplicably thought might be the love of my life, gave me a similar nod, then said in greeting, “We’re not on the list.”

  Teddie had inherited his smile from his mother, but everything else from his father: his height, his blond hair and blue eyes, his trim build… his arrogant frown—I’d never noticed that part before.

  Short and stocky, his mother gave new meaning to the word “plain” with her East Coast don’t-call-me-pretty-I-have-a-brain-and-an-MBA-from-Harvard attitude. In her case, both happened to be true. Normally chipper, tonight she looked sad and uncomfortable. I knew how she felt.

  Mrs. Kowalski, Kitty to her friends and the class act of the bunch, turned and gave me a quick hug and an air kiss. “Lucky, so nice to see you again,” she said, trotting out her blue-blood manners, but her words were as cold as a Nor’easter.

  “Mrs. Kowalski, I feel the same.” I shouldered past Teddie and addressed the hostess. “We’re sitting at the chef’s table in the kitchen.”

  “Very good, Ms. O’Toole.” The girl looked at me with big eyes. “I apologize for the mix-up. They didn’t say they were with you.”

  It took every ounce of self-control to resist saying “they’re not.” Instead, I said, “No worries. I’ll show them to our table. We’re expecting one more, my mother. When she arrives will you show her back?”

  “How will I know her?”

  “Trust me, you’ll know.”

  A girl popped out of the crowd and grabbed Teddie’s arm. “Oh my God! You’re that guy! Teddie K! I saw you in London!” Young, blond, and buxom, she bounced with giddiness. I heard a collective intake of breath as every male nearby waited for her melons to bounce right out of her shirt. “May I have your autograph?”

  Teddie gave the girl a full-wattage smile as he pulled a Sharpie from somewhere. “What would you like me to sign?”

  She gave him a coquettish grin as she pushed up her breasts, which swelled precariously, barely corralled by a last vestige of decency. “How about these?”

  With his hand resting on her chest, Teddie complied with a flourish.

  “You are so amazing,” the woman gushed.

  Why did everybody’s choice of adjectives seem to be 180 degrees off from mine today?

  “I thought you drew the line at signing underwear and body parts? Clearly you’ve lowered your standards,” I said to Teddie, after the gushing groupie melted back into the crowd; then I castigated myself for taking his bait. If I played his game, he got to make the rules. “Shall we?” I asked, motioning Teddie and his parents to precede me. “Follow this wall. You’ll see the kitchen on your left. The chef is expecting you… us.”

  Teddie led the group with his mother right behind. As his father passed me he growled, “This is a new low—eating in the kitchen in a burger joint. Of course, it’s pretty much what I expected from you.”

  Before following them, I gave the hostess a grin and stuck my closed fist toward her. “For luck?”

  Her fist met mine in this generation’s version of a high five. “I always wanted to be you,” she whispered.

  “Rethinking that now, aren’t you?”

  So much more than a burger joint, the Burger Palais reflected Jean-Charles’s refined tastes and European flair. With rough-hewn, burnished wood floors, deep green accents, exposed brick walls with drippy mortar, white tablecloths, and brass sconces, the space beckoned diners, promising a relaxed, leisurely evening of sumptuous comfort food and good wine. The waitstaff, dressed in black with bright white aprons—like Parisian servers but without the disdainful attitude—darted among tables filled with smiling guests. There wasn’t an empty seat in the house. Bravo, Jean-Charles.

  One of the chef’s minions had seated my toxic little group at a round table in a corner of the kitchen separated from the main activity by half-walls of glass—sort of like sitting behind a sneeze shield on a salad bar. From this vantage point, we wouldn’t violate any health ordinance or be under foot, but we still had an unhindered view of the choreographed waltz of a master chef and his trained staff.

  They had left an empty seat between Teddie and his mother, presumably for me. Mona would be sitting next to the elder asshole. For some reason that didn’t bother me… if anyone could handle Milt Kowalski, it would be Mother. Of course, with Mona, I never knew which version I was going to get: the Wicked Witch of the West or the Matriarch of the South with her Junior League manners. Either way she played it, I had a feeling she and the Kowalskis would mix like saints and sinners.

  Taking a deep breath and painting on a smile, I breezed into the kitchen.

  Turning over his duties to his sous chef, Jean-Charles left the grill and rushed to greet me. Taking both my hands in his, he kissed first one cheek, lingering, then repeated the process on the other cheek—I was beginning to get used to the immediate reaction to his touch. A handsome Frenchman who smelled like charcoal grilled hamburgers, who looked thrilled to see me, and whose touch… Could Heaven be any better?

  Still holding my hands, he stepped back and looked me over, obviously admiring the pains I had taken with my appearance. “You look stunning,” he said, his voice low and warm. Something flashed in his eyes.

  “Thank you.” My cheeks warmed, my hand felt good in his—this was so not good. “And thank you for fitting us in. I’m sorry for the last minute.”

  “I am at your service.”

  A simple “your welcome” would have sufficed, but whatever game he was playing, I liked it. “May I introduce you to my friends?” He let go of one hand, but still held the other as I worked my way around the table. “Kitty and Milt Kowalski and their son, Ted, this is Chef Jean-Charles Bouclet, our most kind and gracious host.”

  “Don’t forget me!” Mona said, as she sashayed into the kitchen, a vison in a white tunic and cocktail pants, ropes of gold, her new sparkler, and an air of confidence. Turning to Jean-Charles, she said, “Who is this?”

  “Mother, this is Chef Bouclet.” She looked him up and down like a tiger eyeing a lamb. “My God, handsome, French, and he can cook, too.”

  I thought Mother was going to press the back of a hand to her forehead and swoon. Relief flooded through me when she took the chair Jean-Charles held for her. “Honey, he is totally delish!” she said in a stage whisper that fooled no one. She had the look of a mother bear protecting her cub as she eyed Teddie and his parents, while I continued the introductions.

  “I can see why Lucky is so beautiful,” Jean-Charles said, as he eased Mother’s chair in and gave me one of his breathtaking smiles.

  Teddie’s mother leaned into me. “That man looks at you like he knows what you look like naked.”

  Thankfully I had only raised my water glass to my lips and had not taken a sip, or water would have spewed from my nose.

  “He doesn’t know that, does he?” Teddie asked, leaning into
my other shoulder.

  I glanced up at Jean-Charles, who still grinned at me, his face a mask of innocence, his eyes holding a spark. Was this my payback? Of course, I played right into his hands…

  “What would make you think that?” I asked Teddie.

  “He would make me think that.”

  “He is a wicked little boy. Ignore him.” I smiled at the chef. When he smiled back somehow none of this tortured farce mattered. Man, I was sinking fast…

  “There’s a famous Chef Bouclet with an eatery in Manhattan, and one in Paris, I believe,” announced Milt. “You wouldn’t happen to be any relation?”

  “The original location is in Avignon, my home.” Jean-Charles pressed a hand to his chest and bowed slightly. “I am the man you speak of.”

  “No. No.” Milt shook his head as he eyed my chef. “The man I speak of is brilliant, a culinary genius, he would never be caught dead in a place like this with these sorts of people.” He nodded slightly at me when he said that last part.

  I was really glad I’d left the Glock at home.

  Jean-Charles’s easy manner disappeared. “Sir, Lucky is my friend. When you insult her, you insult us both.”

  With that, I sat up a little straighter. Jean-Charles gave me a wink as he excused himself and returned to his duties.

  Kitty raised her glass of water in toast. “Well, Milt, ol’ boy, once again you’ve made a hash out of it.” She seemed pleased, and half-shellacked. “Would it be possible to get some wine?”

  “Kitty, you’ve had quite enough,” Milt announced. “You’re finished for the evening.”

  “Oh no, Milty, I’m just getting started.”

  Mother waded into the awkward silence that followed. Putting a hand on Milt’s arm, she graced him with her best smile and asked, “So Milton, what business are you in?”

  At least I wouldn’t have to worry about Mother… much.

  As Mother and Milt put their heads together in conversation, I turned to Mrs. Kowalski. “Are you still manning the helm of the family business?”

  Her eyes lost their sadness when she talked about her work. As she rambled on, I realized I was looking at a kindred soul—competent and appreciated in her career, out of control and demeaned in her personal life. A real unhappy camper. After draining the first glass of wine, she held out her glass while the waiter poured another.

  Teddie sat sullenly at my side as the conversation swirled around us. Soon, Mother had both of the elder Kowalskis enraptured by her tales of life in Vegas—half of which were completely fabricated.

  His voice modulated so the others wouldn’t hear, Teddie asked, “Why didn’t you tell me your ‘pain in the ass’ chef was so… ”

  “Delish?” I gave him an innocent smile. “I didn’t think he was your type.”

  Before he could answer, Milt’s voice caught my attention. “Mona, where’s your husband this evening?”

  “I’ve never married,” she said, giving him the opening he wanted.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Milt said, pretending to have forgotten. “Lucky’s your bastard child.”

  I slammed my hands on the table, making the plates and glasses, not to mention my tablemates, jump. “That is enough,” I growled at Teddie’s role model. “I have had it with your misplaced arrogance. You will be civil to my mother or you will leave.”

  Milt matched me glare for glare. Wisely, he shut his trap.

  I reached for my glass of wine and took a sip.

  The Fates were punishing me… but for what? I’d been loyal, kept the home fires burning, been a good daughter…well, a so-so daughter, but my heart was in the right place.

  I’d been diligent and a good friend.

  I’d also been a huge patsy… did they punish you for that? Who knew?

  Of course, I had also pulled a Jimmy Carter and lusted in my heart… probably a capital crime where the Fates were concerned. However, Former President Carter was still walking and talking, but still…

  And I’d kept my hands to myself! That ought to count for something.

  “Milt, she’s my daughter.” Like daughter, like mother. Mona had lost her smile.

  I shut my eyes. This was not going to be good. And I had no one to blame but myself—I’d opened the door. And far be it for Mona to resist throwing herself headlong into the fray.

  “In fact,” Mona purred as she batted her eyes at him. “I’ve been a working girl all my life.”

  “Great!” Teddie said, and rolled his eyes.

  Conceding defeat, I caught Mother’s eye and gave her a smile and a wink. United we stand.

  “A working girl? Don’t you know that means something altogether naughty here in this town?” Milt poked mother with his elbow and gave her an evil grin.

  “I know what it means.” Mother leveled her best stern frown on him. “I own Mona’s Place, a bordello in Pahrump. Perhaps I’ve seen you there?”

  For the first time this evening, and perhaps in his life, Milt Kowalski was struck dumb.

  “You’re a hooker?” he said when he found his voice, the words strangled, his face the color of a ripe tomato.

  “Former hooker,” Mother said as she primly straightened her silverware, then looked at him coquettishly through her lashes. “Now I’m just a madam. Once a girl passes a certain age, being a hooker becomes… unseemly, don’t you think?”

  “Son,” Milt said, turning his attention to Teddie, his voice, mean, condescending. “Wearing a dress was bad enough, but now you’ve taken up with a couple of whores? I am so disappointed in you!”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jean-Charles grab a knife.

  With a growl, Teddie launched himself across the table at his father. The two men tumbled to the floor, fists flying.

  I rescued my glass of wine as the tablecloth and all the place settings disappeared after the two overgrown adolescents. Kitty still clutched her glass with the white-knuckled grip of a drowning man hanging onto flotsam in an angry sea. Mona shot me a look of supreme self-satisfaction across the table. I rewarded her with a smile and a silent toast.

  Locked in fury’s embrace, Teddie and his father grappled on the floor, grunting and groaning as each took a pounding from the other. Teddie bloodied his father’s nose. But Milt got in licks of his own—one of his son’s eyes was already beginning to swell.

  Sipping our beverages like toffee-noses betting on the races at Ascot, we women sat and watched. Jean-Charles shot me an amused look as he resheathed his knife. None of his staff moved a muscle.

  “Shouldn’t somebody do something?” Mona asked, not sounding the least bit concerned.

  “This has been building for years,” said Kitty as she held her glass out for a refill. “Let them have their go. Maybe they’ll beat some sense into each other.” She patted my arm. “Honey, don’t you put up with Teddie’s garbage. Sometimes he can be so much like his father.”

  Now there’s a sobering thought. “Is he redeemable?”

  “You could do the job. He loves you—I’ve never seen him like this over a woman before.”

  If this was his version of love, I wanted no part of it.

  “His big heart is his saving grace, something his father lacks,” Kitty continued. “But don’t make it easy on him. God knows the world has enough asshole Kowalskis as it is.”

  ***

  The kitchen staff had all placed wagers on the outcome, at least half the patrons of the restaurant stood at the window watching the show, and blood splattered the floor in interesting patterns reminiscent of a Jackson Pollock painting when, finally, I grudgingly called Security.

  “Jerry?” I said into my push-to-talk.

  “Yo,” he answered. “I just got a call about a fight in the new burger joint. They said you were there, so I didn’t go to battle stations, although a couple of my guys are headed your way.”

  “Tell them to hold off a few minutes. I have a front-row seat, and things are getting interesting.”

  “Wilco,” Jerry said. I hea
rd the question in his voice, but didn’t feel the need to elaborate.

  A few minutes passed as the battle raged, the combatants rolling on the floor like two children engulfed in the fire of rage. With the wall on one side and the table on the other, they couldn’t roll far, or do too much damage to anything other than one another. Frankly, the two of them deserved what they were getting and, swine that I am, I enjoyed watching the show.

  Too soon, two beefy security guys pushed through the crowd and managed to pry our two “gentlemen” apart. Fire still in their bellies, our two combatants struggled against their restraint, swinging in futility at the other. The guards held them back, but not before Milt got one of them in the jaw.

  Milt had a broken nose and the beginnings of two black eyes. Teddie didn’t look much better—although his nose bled, it still looked straight, but his eyes were going to be swollen shut soon, and his lip was split. Painted in blood, which now dripped onto their shirts, their faces looked like raw meat, their knuckles bruised from impact with bone. Heads bowed, panting, anger unabated, they both glared at me.

  I held out my glass for a refill. Crossing my legs, I leaned back and assessed the situation. If I didn’t know these people, if I’d been called in cold to solve the problem, what would I do?

  “Take the old guy with the mouth to the infirmary. After the Doc signs off, put him in the holding cell.”

  “You can’t be serious!” Milt growled at me.

  “You assaulted a security guard, not to mention the mess you’ve made in here. One more word out of you and I’ll let the police handle it—photos of you bloodied, in cuffs, being dragged away by the local authorities, a drunk and disorderly charge to enhance your résumé. What do you say?”

  He glared at me as blood oozed down his chin.

  “A night in the drunk tank here or notoriety in the morning paper?” I saw his fight ebb, and motioned for the security guy to lead him away. “Tell Jerry to handle this as he sees fit,” I called to the retreating guard who waved in response.