The 7th Tarot Card (9 page)

“
I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”—Douglas Adams, English author

*******

After we reached altitude and leveled off, Lauren brought us our drinks. Julie blew on her steaming coffee then asked me, “So how’s your mysterious neighbor?”

“
Still smokin’ hot,” I replied wistfully. I took a sip of my Mimosa and sighed. It was just right—not too orange juicy, not too champagney. First class is the only way to go. You get free drinks and the ride is really much smoother than in coach.

“
Have you learned anything more about him?”

“
A little: he has excellent aftershave, killer pecs, and is highly skilled at picking locks.”

She gave me a sidelong glance.
“What? How do you know that?”

“
Which part?”

“
The lock-picking part, of course,” she replied with exasperation.

“
I, uh, had a little problem with my front door yesterday, so he helped me out.” I felt it best not to divulge the trapped upside-down incident. No need to make her think I’m even more of a lamer than she already did.

Setting down
my Mimosa, I craftily changed the subject. “So, how’s Jerry, Jerry Bo-Berry?”

“
Jerry and I broke up,” she said flatly. She took a careful sip of her coffee, made a face, then put the cup down on her tray table.

I was
stunned. “What? You broke up? When?”

Julie
shrugged. “About two weeks ago, I guess.”

“
Two whole weeks? Why didn’t you tell me? I feel like a terrible friend. You’re going through a break-up and I haven’t been there for you. What on earth happened? I thought you two were having a great time together.”

She
looked at me with doleful eyes. “Sorry, I just didn’t feel like talking about it. Jerry’s a wonderful man, and yes, I was having a nice time with him, but . . .” she trailed off.

“
But what?” I pressed. “Did he do something to hurt you?”

“
No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that . . .” She trailed off again, pulled a magazine out of the seat pocket in front of her, and started flipping through the pages.

I waited a
moment, then waved my hands. “Hello. Earth to Julie.”

Her posture sagged as she
closed the magazine and turned to me. “Frankly, it’s painfully obvious that he’s still in love with his ex-wife, and I can’t live in the shadow of another woman. I’m nobody’s sloppy seconds, if you know what I mean.”

“
Certainly not. Not a hot number like you.”

She gave me a mirthless smile and said,
“So this is the best thing, really. Case closed.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, then crumpled it into a little ball and stuffed it into her coffee cup. End of discussion. Julie was never one to brood, and obviously was done talking about it.

After waiting
a few minutes, I said hesitantly, “There’s a guy I work with who’s really nice and he’s single and—”

“
Don’t even think about it, Victoria Morgan. I’m not ready to jump back into the dating world just yet. Maybe never. I think I’ve given up on men.”

I patted her on the shoulder.
“His name is Raj, so when you’re ready, just let me know.”

“
Is that R O G, like short for Roger, or R A J, like someone from India?” she asked.

“
No, Uzbekistan I think. He doesn’t speak very much English, which would be perfect for you.”

“
You are such a smartass.”

Lauren
came by again and handed Julie a tiny food tray containing a miniature sandwich measuring only slightly larger than the accompanying mustard packet, a Barbie doll size bag of pretzels, and a plastic knife. Then she turned to me and said, “I’m so sorry, but that was the last meal we had. You two ladies purchased your tickets after our galleys were already loaded.”

“
What? You don’t have any food?” I asked, choking on my Mimosa.

“
We have a cookie.”

Beggars can
’t be choosers, so I accepted the cookie and took tiny bites to make it last. Julie offered me half of her sandwich, but I declined. It wasn’t much bigger than my cookie anyway. Lauren felt so bad, she came back later and gave me a handful of liquor miniatures, which I stowed away in my purse for strictly medicinal purposes.

Two hours later, a
fter an uneventful flight, the plane landed smoothly at McCarran Airport. When we rolled to a stop at the gate, Julie and I remained in our seats, waiting for Mark to go ahead of us. Andy Garcia walked past without so much as a glance in our direction, and we gave out a collective sigh as we watched him walk away. So close, and yet so far.

As the rest of the passengers slowly deplaned with bags and squirming children in tow, we kept our heads down, pretending to be studying an airport map in the in-flight magazine. Out of the corner of her eye,
Julie spotted Mark as he slowly came up even with our row. She nudged my arm and we held our breath waiting for him to pass. When he accidentally rammed his duffel bag into the seat in front of us, we both jolted. He said a quick, “Sorry,” and turned back to face us.

Julie
responded, “No problem, sir,” in a sing-songy East Indian accent, keeping her head down, and waved him off.

I frowned.
“Julie, you just answered him in an Indian accent. Do we have any US soldiers from India?”

“
You got me all mixed up with your talk about that guy from Uzbekistan,” she groused. “Maybe he thought I was gay.”

“
Gay women don’t sound like they’re from India,” I argued.

Julie
ignored me and, after several more people filed by, turned and said, “Okay, let’s move out.”

“
Aye, Aye, Captain.”

She
stopped and looked at me. “That’s Navy—not Army.”

“
Navy, Army, what’s the difference?”

She shot me a
stony glance. It’s so easy to mess with her.

We
left the plane and followed Mark in stealth-mode out into the terminal. Hats pulled down low over our faces and sunglasses in place, we tried to keep a reasonable distance. So far, so good. He looked around nervously as he headed for baggage claim, but obviously hadn’t noticed us. Probably because of our natural cunning and excellent tailing abilities.

The
concourse leading to the baggage claim area was a frenetic mixture of bright lights and giant LCD screens advertising exciting Las Vegas shows. Scores of scantily clad showgirls danced provocatively on screen in skimpy sequined costumes. Ringing bells and loud music from clusters of vibrantly colored slot machines dotting our path, mixed with the show ads, created a surreal cacophony of sound and light. When I got distracted by “The Thunder Down Under” display, Julie grabbed my arm and yanked me away.

W
e proceeded onward.

In the baggage claim area, c
ircled around multiple carousels, a menagerie of eager tourists in assorted styles of clothing waited to grab their bags and head off to begin their vacations and win their fortunes. I consoled myself by rationalizing that I may not be happy with my outfit, but at least I’m not wearing a T-shirt that says “I’m with Stupid,” which I actually saw more than once.

I
n the midst of all the chaos stood Mark, scanning the crowd, apparently searching for someone. We hung back, lurking behind an adjacent baggage carousel, still unnoticed. After a couple of minutes he pulled out his cell phone and made a call.

“
This is it.” Julie said. “We should see that home-wrecking skank any minute now.”

“
You know, for someone who’s about to meet his lover, he doesn’t look very happy.”

“
Yeah, you’re right. He actually looks nervous. Maybe he’s feeling guilty.”

Within minutes
, a man in a black uniform and cap hastily approached Mark. They exchanged a few words, then Mark followed him towards the exit.

“
A limo driver?” Julie said in amazement. “That tramp must have some money.

“
Wolverine is on the move,” I whispered. “I repeat, Wolverine is on the move.”

Julie looked at me.
“You don’t have to speak in code. I’m standing right here.”

“
Okay, fine. Whatever. Let’s grab a taxi and follow him.”

We
pushed our way through the teeming mob of travelers as swiftly as we could, and exited the terminal just in time to see Mark climb into the back of a black Lincoln Town Car.

I searched for the taxi line and gasped.
“Oh no—look! There must be at least fifty people waiting for a cab. We’ll never catch him. Now what do we do?”

“
Well, we could use one of your famous signs right about now,” Julie said as she took off her sunglasses and watched helplessly as the limo pulled away from the curb and disappeared down the airport drive. We were too far away to read the license plate, but even if we did have the number, what good would it do? We didn’t have a cop friend on the force in Vegas.

In
the taxi line, we inched along in dejected silence, wishing for a solution to our dilemma. “I can’t believe we came all this way, only to fumble the ball in the end zone,” Julie moaned. “It was a rookie miscalculation on our part. We need to come up with a new offensive plan and get our heads back in the game.

“
And stop using football metaphors.”

She shot me a look.

“Okay, okay, I have sort of an idea, but it’s a Hail Mary.”

She sh
ot me another look. This time it was murderous.

“
Sorry.”

“
If you can control yourself, Vic, what was your idea?”

I proceeded with caution.
“What if the Bell in Crystal Bell is the Bellagio? Then the number 2365 could be her room number.”

A knowing grin spread across Julie
’s face. “You are a genius! That has to be it.”

I
smiled tentatively, praying she was right, and relieved she wasn’t going to hurt me.

After a
twenty minute wait that seemed more like an hour, we finally reached the front of the line, got into a taxi, and Julie instructed the driver to take us to the Bellagio.

“
Everyone wants to go to the Bellagio,” our driver said. “Been there five times already today.”

“
There’s the sign you ordered, Colonel,” I said, and I instinctively knew we were on the right track.

“
You ladies going to a costume party?” the driver asked, looking at our reflection in his rear-view mirror.

Julie
gave him a cool stare. “No, it was a last minute trip. We didn’t have time to change.” I shifted in my seat and adjusted my tie.

According to the certificate posted on the seat in front of us, our driver
’s name was Lou. He looked to be about fifty years old and combed his sparse brown hair over the bald spot on the top of his head. Lou felt compelled to tell us his life story as we progressed through heavy traffic on our way to the hotel. It must be lonely driving cabs all day, I thought, so I listened politely. My focus drifted off, though, as I gawked at all the incredible casinos along The Strip. We passed the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State Building, and a huge pirate ship in a matter of minutes. I returned to attention when I heard him say, “and then that lying broad took all my money and ran off with a clown from Circus Circus.”

“
Is that a figure of speech, or was he a real clown?” I asked.

“
Do you think this is funny?” he said as he whipped his head around and shot me a look.

“
No, sir, I just wanted to clarify. I’m sorry if it sounded otherwise.” Jeez, tough break. How bad does it have to be for your wife to leave you for an actual clown?

Fifteen minutes later Lou deposited us at the entrance to the
fabulous Bellagio Resort and Casino. As we pulled up to the curb, the famous dancing fountains in front of the hotel began their scheduled performance.

“
You ladies have fun, but be careful,” Lou warned. “There are a lot of sleazy people in this town.”

“
We will. Thanks, Lou,” Julie said, handing him a big tip.

“
Sun, glorious sun!” I said, lifting my face to the sky. “Let’s go look at the fountains.” We hurried over to the railing, and the dazzling water show sparkled in the brilliant sunlight. The combination of water, music, and light was mesmerizing. The graceful choreography of the water moved in time with classical music against the backdrop of the blue sky, and we stood watching until the last water droplet settled back into the magnificent pond.