Lucky Score Page 8

  I wanted to keep them off the streets, to yell at them to go home, but who was I to judge? For sure, I hadn’t walked a mile in their shoes, and my mother always told me I couldn’t even evaluate someone’s choices until I’d done that. She never told me how to pull that off, though, which perhaps made her point—you gotta let people be who they are.

  And part of being free, adult, and American was the ability to make our own choices, good, bad, or indifferent.

  I twirled the G-string on my finger. “Where’s the party? Tell me about Billy the Boilermaker.” Just saying his name conjured thuggish men armed with baseball bats, long on intimidation and short on smarts.

  “Billy? He’s some wet-behind-the-ears kid from Purdue. The older players are running him around. Rookie hazing, they said.”

  “And what is Billy supposed to know?”

  “Who’s in and who’s not,” Stella said after a pause.

  “He’s the doorman?”

  “Yeah, nobody knows where the party is except him. It’s all part of the secret thing. The organizers like to keep it that way so nobody can crash the party or call the cops.” She stopped, her face coloring at perhaps giving too much away.

  I raised an eyebrow. “The cops? Is the party in my hotel?”

  Under the glare of her compatriot, she gave me a hesitant nod.

  “I need more.” As the doors started to open, I pressed the stop button. “Your choice, me or Metro?”

  Stella caved. She leaned in. “Beau is hosting it. It’s in his room here at the Babylon, but he said he’s running under the radar—no one would know where to look.”

  “When’s the party start?”

  “Tomorrow night, ten thirty. Fun gets rolling around midnight; doors will be locked, masks come off.”

  “Masks?”

  “You better be there before midnight,” the brunette said with surety and a don’t–you-know-that attitude.

  “Boudreaux is staying here, you’re sure?”

  “He’s hosting a party here,” Stella said.

  A subtle distinction. “Under the radar?” The girls nodded as my finger hovered over the stop release. “One more thing. Where are you two staying?”

  “The French Quarter.”

  Of course they were. My pseudo-aunt, Darlin’ Devereaux’s, hotel. They say everyone has one of those relatives—I had two, my mother and Darlin’. And her hotel gave me the creeps as much as she did, but for the ladies, I’m sure the price was right.

  “If you’re lying to me, I’ll hunt you down and take you to Metro myself, got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Stella proffered her room key.

  Satisfied I’d gotten some of the straight skinny and had given them a good dose of scared, enough to maybe get their attention, I opened the elevator doors.

  “He’s going to kill us,” the brunette said to Stella as they shouldered past me.

  “He won’t know. I got your backs on this one.”

  Their looks of disbelief presented a Kodak moment. “Be careful; I might live down to your expectations.”

  They looked like they didn’t understand.

  “You’re welcome at the Babylon as patrons, but no transacting business here, no soliciting business here. My last warning.”

  Lost in thought, I followed them off the elevator, relinquishing it to a huddle of players and their hangers-on.

  Their story sort of hung together but something niggled at me. My gut told me there was more, that they had lied by omission or deflection or both.

  A party in my hotel? A secret place? Under the radar? No one would know where to look?

  The two-by-four of realization hit me between the eyes and I sagged under my own stupidity.

  CHAPTER SIX

  M AKING LIKE a salmon, I fought my way upstream through the crowd in front of Registration. Leaning over the desk, I flagged down one of our trainees. Young, stick-thin, perky, strawberry-blonde, she ignored me at first, focusing on the guy in front of her. Tall, wide, blonde, and unhappy, he leaned slightly across the counter trying for subtle intimidation. Poised to intercede, I paused to see how our gal would handle him. All our front desk reps had to learn how to deal with the angry and the privileged used to getting their way. True to Babylon form, she stood her ground with a smile and an open, accommodating stance. When she pushed something across to the guest, the situation defused and he shouldered his way through the rest of the folks waiting their turn. She motioned for another clerk to take her place, then darted over.

  I lifted my chin toward the guy who was winning friends and influencing people as he pushed them out of the way on his way to the elevators. “You handled that well.”

  “He just needed a key. Some folks get angry when we ask them to prove they are indeed registered in the room for which they want a key.” With flawless skin, no dark circles under bright eyes, she didn’t look old enough to get a hardship driver’s license. Either we were flaunting the child labor laws or I was getting old. I couldn’t remember being that young. Scratch that; I could remember being that young, I just couldn’t remember looking that young. For the first time, I wasn’t jealous. After years spent earning a Ph.D. from the School of Hard Knocks, I wouldn’t trade problems with anyone.

  Was that part of being a grown-up? Or just not being stupid? Were they synonymous?

  The guy brought back memories of my time on the front desk—a long time ago and a different property, but a similar experience. “Most of them are just angry you don’t recognize them. I’m sure the NFL types are worse than most.”

  “He’s more of a wannabe.” For a moment she looked worried as she glanced at his retreating back, then she rearranged her features into a smile as she refocused on me. “They’re the worst. What can I do for you?”

  A glance at her nametag. “Ginger, I’m Lucky O’Toole.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I know who you are.” She managed to stifle a slight eye roll.

  “You do?” Despite the years in my job, I never ceased to be amazed when employees I’d never clapped eyes on somehow knew who I was. Of course, numbers were in their favor—thousands of them and one of me, but still. “Okay, I need your help.”

  She stepped closer. “Of course. I’m in the management-training program. You addressed our class last month.”

  “I remember.” Sort of, but I didn’t remember her, not that I would have unless she’d tripped me or punched me in the stomach or something. Young people with their bright-eyed optimism and unbridled exuberance were imminently forgettable. The ones harboring hurt and fear—those made an impression. “I don’t remember you at the front desk.”

  “I just rotated from Security. This is my second day on the desk. My rotations are six months.”

  “Are you aware of the Secret Suite?” Most of the hotels in Vegas had a Secret Suite—an exaggeration of a silly trend that started with secret menu items and ended with hidden hotel rooms. Like the off-menu food, the Secret Suite had to be specifically requested by someone in the know. We didn’t advertise it. It wasn’t on our website or our list of rooms and rates. As one might suspect, one had to pay dearly for that kind of cool with back hallways and secret entrances.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Have we put anyone in that suite for tonight?”

  Ginger and I waited until a desk clerk finished a transaction, then Ginger pounced on the computer, her fingers flying through the menus. She gave a slight downturn to her mouth as she read the monitor. “That’s odd.”

  “Let me guess. No name but there’s a hold on the room.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Check the keys.” We had real keys, big old-fashioned brass keys, but unlike the old ones, ours were embedded with digital chips. They hung on two-foot braided silk ropes ending in pom-poms, ensuring no one would pocket the thing and go home with it. Straight digital keys that could be duplicated didn’t provide the kind of privacy that gave the Secret Suite the requisite cachet to be worth serious five figures a night.

>   While Ginger disappeared into the back, I pulled the nearest computer around and entered my ID and password. Ten seconds and I’d changed the passcode for the Secret Suite, locking it down—no one would be going in or out without going through me. Then I returned all to its original position and turned around to survey the lobby.

  After all the years in the business, I could tell by the crowd gathered what big event pulled them in. Fight weekend drew the beautiful people, human sharks attracted by the hope of blood. Conventions had their own personalities: the clothing crowds all dressed to the nines. The Olympia crowd, barely dressed to show off rippling muscles. A special concert—well, that depended on the performers, but each had crowds with personalities as unique as their own.

  Knowing my clientele was critical to anticipating needs and problems.

  The NFL crowd was new. They were reminiscent of the monster truck crowd and the NASCAR crowd, but with a dash of the pocket-protector geek vibe of the card counters and March Madness odds-players.

  Still trying to get a bead, I watched everyone milling around. Despite the cool weather—it was January after all—men wore team gear as if, despite dad bellies and receding hairlines, they were ready to jump off the bench and join the game at the raise of an eyebrow from the coach.

  Men and their fantasies.

  I didn’t begrudge them—God knew fantasy beat the crap out of reality most days. But I sure wished they’d get the memo that no matter the state of your physique and the wad spent on laser hair removal, sleeveless shirts with huge armholes were never a good idea.

  Questionable fashion choices aside, the men I could handle. The women were more problematic. Herds of over-done and under-dressed women salivating over the possibility of rubbing body parts with NFL millionaires sashayed their exaggerated hip swivel—hell, exaggerated everything—through the lobby, their antennae on high alert for the next target. While I empathized, I thought, as women we often sabotaged our own battle cry to be taken seriously as sentient beings.

  But each of us has her own path.

  “Ms. O’Toole?” Ginger had returned.

  I took a deep breath before absorbing the bad news her tone promised. Coward that I am, I decided against the face-to-face thing. “Bad news?” A word grenade lobbed over my shoulder.

  “Not sure. Of the four keys to the Secret Suite, I can account for three.”

  I processed her particular choice of words while I watched a young woman thread her way through the crowd. In a business suit, decade-old Ferragamos with a kitten heel, a silk camisole, and a serious expression, she carried a briefcase, also Ferragamo, and held a phone at the ready. I could just make out the logo on the back. The Las Vegas Marauders, silver and red. She appeared to know what she was looking for but had no idea where to find it.

  I could so relate. Although, right now, what I looked for was a bit of a muddle as well, but I chose to ignore that in the interest of pretend sisterhood bonding.

  Of course, looking for anything other than a stiff drink and a stiff…never mind…was a waste of time. This was Vegas—whatever you were supposed to find usually found you. Not that I’d tell her, but she should probably grab a bottle of righteous Champagne, sit back, enjoy, and wait for the curtain to rise on the shit show.

  A life strategy I could get behind.

  “Tell me where the keys you can account for are.” I still hadn’t turned back around, and I let the words drift over my shoulder. Ginger’s breathing had escalated. And her verbal obfuscation only piqued my interest.

  “Two are in the back.” Her words were measured, her tone noncommittal.

  I waited, tensing to absorb whatever she was working so hard to hide. Was she covering for someone? Hiding fault? Or simply deflecting possibility? I watched the gal I assumed had some association with the football team. She looked tired, worried, and more than a little irritated as she stopped under the Chihuly glass and pirouetted slowly as she scanned the crowd.

  “Mr. Fabiano has apparently taken the third one.”

  “Sergio?” I had asked him to find Lake and Boudreaux. If he had the scent of a trail, I wondered why he hadn’t called me. “And the last?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I reached back and Ginger deposited a key in my hand. My hand closed around cold metal as I pushed myself off the registration desk and launched into the crowd. I made a beeline for the gal in the suit. The skin in between her eyebrows bunched in a frown as she scanned over the crowd. She looked right through me as I approached.

  I touched her lightly on the arm, drawing her disinterest. “May I help you?”

  Despite spotting me several inches, she had the bearing and presence of someone taller. “I can’t imagine with what,” she said after giving me a cool once-over. She shifted her briefcase from one shoulder to the other. The logo said Ponder Enterprises.

  Ouch. “Suit yourself, but if you’re looking for Nolan Ponder, you’ll have your troubles getting to him.”

  That earned me a sharp stare. “Why is that?”

  “He’s in a bit of legal trouble at the moment.” I gave her an overview, hitting the high points but skimming over the detail.

  Pressing a hand to her chest, she lost the haughty pinched look. A softening of concern replaced it. Her nails sported a perfect, squared-off youthful French manicure, but her skin put her closer to my age, at least by my calculation. Dark smudges of mascara shadowed the skin under her eyes.

  “There must be some mistake.”

  “I was there.” I wanted to give her something positive to hang onto, but my encouragement tank was pegged on empty. “If you have anything that might shed light?”

  “I just got here. Mrs. Ponder had the Citation. It took longer than anticipated to come get me in San Antonio. This is the first I’ve heard of all this.” She visibly pulled herself up by her metaphorical bootstraps.

  “You came from San Antonio?”

  “I manage some assets for the Ponders. Their house closing was this evening. I’ve got some calls to make. Do you know if they’ve contacted our legal staff?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  She looked over my shoulder, then around the lobby, then refocused on me. “I need a room. This trip was last-minute.”

  “We’re sold out. The NFL is a big draw.” I took her measure as she deflated a bit. If I pulled a few strings for her, maybe she’d feel obligated to return the favor. Who knew when I might need some insider insight into this whole mess? “But perhaps I can help you with that?”

  GINGER ASSURED me she’d take care of my new friend, saving me precious time. I dove into the open maw of elevator eleven as the doors were closing. The group inside wasn’t too happy—my bulk forced them to invade each other’s space in a big way. Of course, that was most likely their hope for the evening, but usually some verbal foreplay and liquid lubricant helped vanquish the inhibitions. Not that I much cared about the discomfort I caused.

  Why had Sergio gone to the Secret Suite without me? As far as he knew, I was looking for both Senator Lake and Beau Boudreaux. So, why leave me out of the loop?

  What did he hope I wouldn’t find? My cynicism disappointed me. Sergio had been a stellar and trusted employee for a long time. But that degree from the School of Hard Knocks taught me no one was above reproach, not even me.

  Lost in thought, I felt the elevator doors close behind me. I keyed Security and got the same young, male voice. Fox. The guy was worse than a bad penny. “Give me Jerry, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but didn’t you send him off with the EMTs to UMC?” The kid lowered his voice. “Something about a drug overdose?”

  Feeling eyes on me, I glanced up from my phone. Six pairs of peepers, wide peepers, stared at me. No one said a word as they shifted uneasily. Facing the back of the elevator and my co-riders face-on clearly made everyone nervous—I wasn’t following the unwritten social protocol.

  Rules.

  With my profound authority issue, half of me wanted to stay that w
ay just to see how twitchy everyone would get during the short ride. But the other half of me, the half that won, didn’t have time to play silly mind games…although the temptation was almost overwhelming.

  “Fox!” I barked into the mic—I still had my earbud in place. I never knew how useful the hands-free thing could be.

  How I wished Jerry was on the other end to help me. I felt my self-control evaporating. At my adrenaline threshold, my brain had started taking circuits offline to protect them from the overload…or that’s what I told myself.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Fox.” As I paused, reaching for the right words, I felt the elevator slow. “Jerry didn’t ingest any drugs; you got that? Fentanyl. If you don’t know about it, you need to. Touching it can be lethal.”

  “I know. We had a briefing on it last week. But protocol calls for him to take a leave while all is worked out.”

  Nothing I loved more than some kid quoting verse from a chapter I wrote. “We’ll see.”

  “I’m in charge here.”

  Oh, grace be to the Powers that Be, I got the fight I so wanted. “I’m afraid you are misinformed, Fox. You work for me.” Cursed once again by an idiot with a Y-chromosome, I filled my tone with lethal. “Don’t you forget it.”

  What the hell quirk of one-upmanship got him hired over Jerry’s opposition? And why the hell was he so friggin’ cocky? I mean, other than being young and male, which meant that whole judgment thing had yet to be wired into his thought processes—an explanation, not an excuse.

  I so wanted to rip him limb from limb. But while I lacked the necessary self-control and could overlook the serious downside, I lacked the time.

  Priorities—an adult concept that took the fun out of everything.

  First, find the party room, and then dismantle Fox.

  The doors opened and the noise of the party ramping way up hit me with the force of a straight-line wind. The storm had intensified in the few minutes I’d been gone. Rooted to the spot where I stood, I didn’t move and the inhabitants of the elevator eased around me on either side.