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

  His car, a ten-year-old Olds Cutlass convertible, cherry red with a white top and interior, waited on the surface lot behind Binion’s. As he stuck the key in the lock and opened the door, rusty hinges squealing, Rothstein grimaced. The biggest, most gaudy neon sign, then a new car . . . once he got the money guys off his back. A red Bentley ragtop with real leather seats . . . yup, that would be the perfect step up. With a whispered prayer, he turned the key. After a couple of false starts, his prayer was answered and the 445 growled to life. He loved the thing. Bold with power to spare, it was the metaphorical Vegas car—and, if he’d thought along those lines, a metaphor for himself.

  With a wave to Tommy, the attendant, he motored out of the lot and into the flow on Fremont Street. He glanced at the clock on the sign at the corner. He still had half an hour, but with traffic and sucking up to Davis Lovato, he’d be late. Mona would be worried, but she’d wait.

  Besides, there wasn’t anything he could do. They had him over a barrel and he had to play their game, at least for now.

  July 2012

  Las Vegas

  WITH a glance over my shoulder at my parents silhouetted together in front of the wall of windows and backlit by the lights of the Strip, I stepped into the maw of the elevator, turning as the doors slid silently closed. I pressed the button with the well-worn ‘C’ on it, then took the few moments of solitude to check my messages on my new iPhone as I descended to the casino. Scrolling through them, I noted more than a dozen from Teddie.

  Teddie.

  I ran a hand through my hair as I stared at the list on the screen, silently counting. Yup, fifteen to be exact.

  Teddie. A romantic tsunami that had left my heart shattered when the surge of emotion receded.

  The pain, searing and so unexpected, still flared at the memory of him. For a few moments in time, I’d had all I’d ever wanted—or I thought I had, at least. But if his love had been so tenuous, so insignificant, that he could abandon it at the first opportunity, then I hadn’t really had all that I wanted. No, I wanted way more than that.

  Of course, Teddie hadn’t bolted frivolously—he had traded our love for his dreams, so he wasn’t quite the toad I’d like to think he was. Hating him would be so much easier. He had always dreamed of being an international singing sensation—and I was the only thing in his way.

  Well, he effectively solved that little inconvenience.

  Lost in my memories, I wasn’t prepared for the assault of revelry that hit me when the elevator cushioned to a stop and the doors slid open. Just after midnight, the casino ran with the throttles wide-open. With no destination in mind, I stepped out of the elevator and paused, drinking in the energy. Throngs three deep circled every table. The slots spun and whirled and sang out an occasional song. The recent change to players’ cards had silenced the clinking and clanking of real coins running through the machines—music to the ears of every old timer in the casino business, including me. So ingrained was the concept that noise equaled profit, I still panicked at bit at the relative silence. Of course, my nerves were a bit singed.

  The Babylon’s Persian motif carried trough the casino. With dark walls, carpet in rich-hued mosaic patterning, towering palm trees and loops of bright fabric marching across the low ceilings, the casino looked like a den of iniquity straight out of Ali Baba. Subtle light flickered from wall-mounted sconces fashioned to resemble bundles of burning reeds, a glass cylinder on the end capturing the open flame, enhancing the illicit, Arabian feel.

  Turning left, I headed toward the lobby. I hadn’t made it three paces before I felt a hand on my elbow. Paxton Dane fell into stride, leaving his hand on my arm.

  “Some excitement tonight, huh?” His voice, deep and Texas timbered, flowed like sap in the spring, which to be honest, was a pretty good analogy for the long, tall drink of Lone Star charm. “Glad you weren’t blown into little bits.”

  Stopping, I turned and shot him a half-grin. “Why cowboy, your concern has me all a flutter.”

  “Hey, I call a spade a spade. No use sugarcoating the truth, as my grandmother used to say.” A bit of impish delight fired in his emerald eyes and a grin split his face in a flash of white teeth. All angles and planes, his face, along with those amazing eyes and the wavy brown hair with flecks of gold, combined into a work of art designed to bring the female half of the population to its knees.

  Although he had let go of my arm, my skin was still warmed from his touch. What was it with me and men lately? Throw a half-decent one across my path and I turned into a slathering dog. Other than the paramedic, Nick. For some odd reason, he hadn’t flipped my switch, an anomaly I probably should pay attention to given my recent less than stellar choices and run of abysmal luck in the game of love—a game with no rules and apparently no time-outs either. Was I trying to fill the hole in my heart? Who knew? I hoped I was smarter than that. That sort of self-medication was just a quick fix at best, with little possibility of long-term upside.

  I tried to match Dane’s bantering tone. “So what keeps you wandering the casino at his hour? Chasing someone’s wayward husband or addicted wife?” The Texan had recently joined forces with the beautiful Jeremy Whitlock, Las Vegas’s primo P.I.

  Dane’s eyes turned all dark and serious, and his smile vanished. “Seriously, you scared me to death grabbing that bomb and throwing it off the roof. You’ve got one hell of an arm, though. When the thing blew, it didn’t even so much as crack a pane of glass. But really, what was up with that bit of stupidity?” He held up his hand silencing me as I opened my mouth to speak. “Rhetorical question. I’m pretty wise to your act by now.”

  “Gosh, I’m touched.” I turned, continuing toward the lobby.

  “More like touched in the head,” he groused as he fell into step beside me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at him, taking in the rest of his appearance. Several inches taller than my six feet, he made me feel less like an Amazon—I liked that. Tonight he’d decked out his lean and lanky frame in a starched peach cotton shirt which hadn’t wilted—a fact that told me he hadn’t spent any time outside today in the 115-degree day, or he was smart enough to keep a change of shirts handy—and creased 501s that hugged his body perfectly—tight, but not too, leaving a bit of room for imaginations to roam. A flash of gold at the wrist and snakeskin kickers completed the picture of studied Texan perfection.

  I liked the guy, I really did. But there was something . . . I couldn’t put my finger on it. Even though all the females I knew disagreed, I still felt he worked hard to lull you into complacency with his aw-gee-shucks act. Then like a shifty rodeo bronc sensing a weakness, he’d dart out from under you leaving you flat on your ass in the dirt. I’m sure my assessment wasn’t particularly fair, perhaps even a bit cynical, but I couldn’t shake it. However, even mired as I was in self-delusion, I was aware my feelings probably said more about me than they did about him. But I didn’t want to dig any deeper into myself. Not now anyway. Besides, it was so much easier to attribute my shortcomings to someone else.

  “Are you okay? Really?” Concern dripped from his every word.

  I could feel his eyes boring into me like a diamond-tipped drill into granite. “Never better.”

  “Right.” Once again, he lightly touched my elbow as he shifted subjects. “Are you going to take in the implosion tomorrow?”

  The Lucky Aces. I’d forgotten. “I don’t know. I have a hard time with those sorts of things, and that one in particular… a bit of our history reduced to rubble, then scraped away and erased like it never existed.”

  “The Lucky Aces was the Big Boss’s first property, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “The realization of a dream.”

  “Bet it was something.”

  “Something is right.” I smiled as I replayed the memories. Of course, I’d been so young that the past was more like a series of disjointed snapshots rather than a newsreel.

  My father took his first baby step, then Steve Wyn
n one-upped him four years later with the Mirage—the start of the mega-resort explosion on the Strip. Most people had thought he was nuts moving away from downtown and pouring so much money into the place. Caesar’s was the most extravagant property at the time; Mirage eclipsed it by many, many multiples and created the concept of “destination properties.” My father thought Wynn was brilliant, the wave of the future. He’d been right, of course. But the Lucky Aces had been where it all began.

  Las Vegas

  1982

  Mama Farina’s occupied what had been a bustling corner at Eastern and Desert Inn. For years it had been the beating heart of the best part of Vegas, but Howard Hughes was changing the landscape. He’d bought the Desert Inn and a whole bunch of the desert north and west of town. A bold move that many thought was crazy, but Albert Rothstein had learned to watch the men who’d made money . . . watch and learn. Then follow their lead.

  Now, the smart money was moving to the west side of town abandoning Mama’s as easily as a two-bit hood abandoned his conscience. But Albert drew the line at abandoning Mama’s. By his way of thinking, if you forgot where you came from, the folks who extended a hand and pulled you up the ladder, then you were no better than when you started—and perhaps you were worse. You’d just changed clothes, trading workingman’s clothes for a suit. But the suit didn’t make the man.

  And this man had been made in the kitchen at Mama’s. Albert still had the scars.

  Heavy wooden doors with solid brass fittings and small, stained glass windows, the glass now opaqued by the grime of too many years and too little attention, guarded the entrance. Albert grasped the iron handle and pulled, then stepped through the doorway and back in time.

  The casino people needed a home away from home, and they had picked Mama’s. Albert remembered sitting at the bar listening to all the big acts on the Strip play pickup after their shows. Various members of The Rat Pack had been regulars. He’d liked Sammy Davis the best . . . well, him and Dean Martin—both were classy guys. Sinatra was a jerk who loved to push around the nobodies. That had raised Albert’s hackles. But the guy had stood up for Sammy Davis when the nice joints were closed to the Coloreds, earning Albert’s respect . . . not that Sinatra cared.

  Mama’s hadn’t changed in thirty years or more. Flocked wallpaper still covered the walls, faded now and almost obscured by the multitude of framed black-and-white eight by tens. The waiters still wore black velvet jackets, black shirts and pants, red ties, and spats that made Albert cringe. The wooden floors creaked with memories, and the walls reeked of garlic. The kitchen still turned out the best Italian food in town, cooked to exacting standards according to Mama’s family recipes from the Old Country. Albert didn’t know which country was the ‘old country,’ and he’d been smart enough not to ask. The illusion of authenticity was often enough in Vegas—a lesson Albert Rothstein had tattooed on his heart.

  After his eyes had adjusted to the dim interior, Albert turned right into the bar. Striding through, he headed for the last booth on the right—it had been Davis’s booth for as long as he could remember. No one else dared to sit there.

  Sal, the head waiter, met him at the booth. “You want I should get you the regular, Boss?” Sal loved to act like he was from Sicily, but Albert knew he really was from Boston, and his father had run a bunch of fishing boats out of Gloucester. But give them the air of authenticity and people would buy the fiction.

  “Just some fizzy water and a lime, Sal.” Albert slid into the booth. He was the first to arrive.

  Albert sat facing the door with the rear wall at his back—one of those Vegas habits of survival. “I’m meeting my ladies in a bit. Don’t want them to think I stepped out on them.”

  “Gotta keep the ladies happy. Yes, sir.” Sal stepped behind the bar. “How is Mona? Such a pretty lady. And her kid, Lucky. How is she?” He chuckled and shook his head as he scooped a couple of ice cubes into a tall glass, then filled it with a shot of soda. “That kid is going to be a ballbuster, mark my words.”

  Albert smiled as Sal set the glass in front of him, then disappeared through the double swinging doors into the kitchen, leaving him alone.

  Davis was late. It wasn’t like him.

  Something wasn’t right.

  July 2012

  Las Vegas

  When life got the better of me, which it had been doing a lot of lately, I usually sought solace at the Burger Palais, a high-end burger bar in the Bazaar. Today was no exception. While finishing out his eponymous restaurant in our new boutique hotel property, Cielo, Jean-Charles opened this burger joint . . . just because he wanted to experiment with the American staple.

  Having him virtually underfoot complicated my life enormously, not that I was complaining or anything

  The cork exploded from the bottle with a bang. I flinched.

  “You’re as jumpy as a flea on a hot griddle,” Dane teased, then turned a cool eye on the chef, Jean-Charles Bouclet, who had popped the cork and was now mopping the overflow from the sides of the bottle.

  Jean-Charles grinned at me as he leaned across the bar and filled the flute in front of me. The smile didn’t reach his eyes—the normal robin’s egg blue deepening with concern. “You have had the day, no?”

  “A bit more excitement than usual.” I tried to lighten the tone as I raised the glass to my lips and savored my first long sip of happiness. Having Dane next to me was a bit awkward. Both men had charged into the breach when Teddie bolted. A two-horse race for my heart with Jean-Charles the frontrunner by a wide margin. I’d pretty much told Dane as much, but he wasn’t one to give up without a fight. While that might be thrilling to other women, it left my nerves all raw and jangled. Of course, the events of the day might have also contributed just a touch.

  Jean-Charles tossed me one of his patented Gallic shrugs—he knew they made me smile. I complied, grateful he was keeping the tone light. And to be honest, his presence alone lightened my mood. Tall,and trim, with a square jaw, full lips and brown hair, which he wore a trifle too long for my father’s taste but I thought was perfect. Today he wore his kitchen whites and black-and-white striped pants to match. Most chefs I knew had their name stitched on their right breast. Jean-Charles did not, which spoke volumes. I’d yet to see him without a scarf knotted around his neck—today’s was blue to match his eyes.

  .Dane cleared his throat. Guess I wasn’t paying him enough attention to suit his delicate ego. Any woman who wanted to be fought over by two men ought to seek psychiatric care.

  “So what are you going to do about this Boogie Fleischman thing?” Dane’s green eyes challenged me over his bottle of Bud as he tilted it back and took a long pull.

  I half expected him to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand before setting the bottle on the bar. I was glad he didn’t. “What Boogie thing?” Perhaps if I acted coy he would forget the whole thing. I so didn’t want to discuss this now.

  No such luck. Dane wasn’t buying my act . . . not that he ever did. “Although that Campos character took the fall, Boogie was behind it.”

  “How do you figure?” I took a sip of the Champagne, letting the effervescence tickle my nose. Alcohol delivered in little bubbles of perfection . . . brilliant.

  “Well, it was awful convenient that Boogie not only taught the kid how to make the bomb, but also told him exactly where he’d stashed all the components years ago.” Dane let that little verbal bomb hang while he took another swig of his beer. “And if you think about, Fleischman had the biggest axe to grind.”

  “I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Perhaps it would be wise for you to think this way? He could be dangerous, this Boogie person,” Jean-Charles chimed in.

  Fighting a grin at the absurdity—Dane had seen Boogie Fleischman, a tiny septuagenarian and hardly a menacing threat—I glanced back and forth between the two of them. “You guys are like the Greek chorus in a bad melodrama. Don’t you think you might be overreacting?”

  Dane waved h
is empty bottle at Jean-Charles who turned and grabbed a fresh Bud out of the cooler behind the bar, popped the top, then set it next to the empty. “This thing just doesn’t pass the smell test,” Dane continued. “Think about it. Boogie takes the fall for a bomb he didn’t plant—a bomb that almost killed you and Mona. That reeks of a setup.”

  I shot him a narrow-eyed glance. I knew what was coming, but I didn’t want to hear it.

  “You know your father wouldn’t let that one alone. That’s not how he rolls.”

  I couldn’t argue, so I didn’t even try. Instead, I threw back the rest of the Champagne, eliciting a wide-eyed look from Jean-Charles when I motioned for a refill. “To hear Boogie tell it, Eugenia Campos, Albert’s mother, planted the bomb. He loved her, so he took the fall.”

  “And you believe this?” Jean-Charles’s eyebrows shot upward.

  “I really want to.”

  “So where is this Eugenia?”

  Dane leaned back and let the Frenchman take the lead.

  The Champagne was doing little to settle my nerves. “That’s the kicker. She disappeared.” At his quizzical look, I continued. These two weren’t going to let me off the hook, and I didn’t have any more fight left. “The short story is this: Eugenia had been the Big Boss’s plaything. Then he met Mona, and Eugenia was out. So licking her wounds, she took up with Boogie. Hanging around a bomb maker had its advantages; she got pretty good at rigging the things herself. And in keeping with the whole ‘hell hath no fury’ thing, she tried to take out the competition—Mona and me.”