Wanna Get Lucky? (11 page)

Dane nodded in return.

I handed Mother the sack. I knew better than to come to Mother’s house empty-handed. Today I brought her two treats—new porn and a handsome man. Maybe I’d get extra daughter-of-the-year points, although I doubted it. “Here’s the new batch. Smokin’ Joe put three stars next to
Going Down on the L.A. Subway
. Guess he thought it was the best.”

“Sweetheart, how thoughtful! The girls are so tired of the last batch you brought.”

“These ought to liven things up.”

“I thought you might forget or not have time. I called Miss Patterson earlier to remind you, but you had already left and you know there is no cell service between here and Vegas.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have too long. I have to be back for a two o’clock meeting.”

My mother nodded.

For a moment I thought I saw disappointment in her eyes.

“I understand, dear. You two must be parched from the trip. Why you insist on riding in that car with the top down, I’ll never know. That dry desert air sucks the moisture right out of you. If you’re not careful, dear, you’ll be a wizened old prune by the time you’re fifty.”

“Something to look forward to,” I said.

Mother gave me a disgusted look. “You know, sweetheart, sarcasm is so unbecoming.”

“I play to my talents.”

“I guess you have to make the most of what you have,” she shot back.

“Did somebody declare it Pick on Lucky Day, and I missed it?”

She opened the front door and motioned us inside. “I have lunch set up in the solarium. I thought that would be nice.”

The main floor of the house was empty as we trooped through the foyer with its grand sweeping staircase, white Italian marble floors and gleaming white walls. It smelled of gardenias and Pine-Sol. Snatches of music drifted down from the upper floors.

Mother had spent hundreds of thousands updating the décor to resemble a contemporary, luxury home. Two VIP suites with fireplaces, plasma televisions, DVD players and state-of-the-art sound systems occupied most of the main floor, in addition to the kitchen and a playroom with a whirlpool bath. Each girl had her own room, some in the main house and others in the additional building out back, with a shower and bath and maid service from one in the afternoon until six in the morning. A gourmet chef and a small army of drivers, with cars to pick up patrons and then return them when they wished, rounded out Mother’s staff. In the interest of protecting clients’ identities, Mother had even installed a private VIP entrance and helipad so high rollers could come and go undetected.
I had a feeling this feature was turning out to be more of a liability than an asset.

A table replete with white cloth, silver and crystal awaited us on the screened porch, or the “solarium” as Mother called it, that stretched the length of the back of the house. Once seated, and Mother was satisfied with the arrangement, she picked up a small bell from the table and shook it demurely.

A young lady I had never met before appeared like an apparition. Skin the color of coffee ice cream, silky dark hair, piercing blue eyes that challenged rather than welcomed, she was tall and lithe and couldn’t have been a day over sixteen.

I raised my eyebrows at my mother.

She shook her head. “Don’t be silly, dear. This is Tamara. She helps out around the house when she’s not in school. Right now, she’s home for lunch. Tamara, honey, would you bring us some nice iced tea? Maybe with some of that mint you picked this morning?”

The girl nodded, then drifted away like smoke on the wind.

My mother, the rescuer. After I left home at fifteen, a parade of girls about the same age took my place. They usually lasted through high school. Mother sent to college the ones who wanted to go. None of them were ever allowed to return and work for her when they became of age.

“Mother, you look divine in your battle dress. Whom are you crossing swords with today?”

“I have to be up in Carson City tonight. The legislature is back in session. There’s a possibility they will hear arguments on the tax bill this week or next.” She smoothed her pencil skirt and checked her cleavage, then she turned in her chair to extend her legs out from under the table. Her legs always were her finest asset and she used them to full advantage. She crossed them suggestively, her short skirt riding even higher on her thigh.

Dane’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. He shifted in his seat, crossing his legs. Apparently, he was no different than all the others.

I hadn’t yet met a man immune to Mother. She feasted on men like a lioness on baby gazelles—hungry, but indifferent. Why couldn’t somebody develop a Mona vaccine? Competing with her for men totally sucked.

“The tax bill?” Dane finally found his voice.

Unable to help herself, Mona preened at his attention. “The legislature is thinking of taxing our business much as they do all the other businesses.”

“Mother is a lobbyist for the Nevada Brothel Association,” I added.

Dane looked dumbfounded but retained his composure. “I see. And you are working to defeat the bill?”

“Oh, no. We want to be taxed like everyone else. That would give us some respectability, some legitimacy, if you will. At least that’s the general consensus.”

“Do you think you have a chance this time?” I asked.

“There’s always a chance, dear, but it’s not looking very good. Prostitution is still such a hot potato. The counties love the income, but the politicians like to pretend we don’t exist. Afraid to be seen as proponents of the industry and afraid to outlaw such a revenue maker, all of them have parked their fat behinds on the fence.”

“That explains why they all walk around like they have sticks up their asses,” I said.

Mother hid her smile behind her napkin. “Crude, dear, but accurate.”

“I need some help here,” Dane said. “You
want
to be taxed?”

Mother shrugged. “It’s tiresome always being the bastard child.” She reached over and patted his hand. “You’ll get used to Sin City. The people who don’t fit anywhere else find their spot in Vegas.”

“Square pegs and round holes?”

“Precisely.”

“Lucky, too?”

“Good heavens, no. She’s my iconoclast—she strives to be normal.”

Dane threw back his head and laughed. “Exceptional, maybe. But normal? Never.”

He thought I was
exceptional
—okay, maybe exceptional? Who knew? For some reason the thought pleased me. I tried to remind myself that all men are pigs, but I was having a hard time believing myself.

My mother settled back in her chair, a smile lifting one corner of her mouth. “I think I’m going to like you, Mr. Dane.”

High praise indeed.

Tamara materialized with three frosty glasses of tea decorated with sprigs of bright green mint. The tablecloth, silver, crystal and now the mint, I had no doubt our lunch would be dainty and served on bone china. My mother was seriously entrenched in a Southern-belle phase. I had no idea what she was trying to prove—nor to whom.

I took the opportunity to alter the course of the conversation. “Mother, can you tell us about Lyda Sue?”

Dane snapped to attention. “Lyda Sue?”

“One of the reasons for our visit. She used to work for Mother, and apparently she’d been coming out here to meet a high-rolling john. I’ll let Mother explain.”

“You keep you cards close to your vest, don’t you?” Dane said out of the side of his mouth.

“Vegas survival skill.”

The look he threw my way gave me the impression he was rethinking that “exceptional” remark. Ah me, it was nice while it lasted.

Mother waited for us to finish before she started. Basking in the klieg-light glow of our attention, she patted her hair, sat up straight, played with her pearls until they hung just right then, satisfied she held us spellbound, she began, “Lyda Sue—”

“Wait. Her
john
? You mean she was a
hooker
?” Dane interrupted.

Mother hated being interrupted. She cast an imperious look down her nose. “Mr. Dane, I can assure you, this is not the place to trot out your prejudices.”

“Sorry, ma’am. That’s not what I meant. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

“I see. And why are you surprised? Did you know Lyda Sue?”

I knew I could count on Mother. Arms crossed, we both looked at Dane and waited.

Gazing over Mother’s shoulder he cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Of course not. I’m just not used to this whole prostitution thing and sex being so out in the open here, that’s all.”

It was a lie, and all three of us knew it.

Mother and I said nothing. We waited.

Most men don’t last twenty seconds under the heat of Mother’s stare, but Dane was made of sterner stuff—he lasted a full minute. “Okay, here’s the deal. Lyda Sue was from my hometown. Her older brother married my kid sister. A couple of weeks ago, Lyda Sue called her parents, said she was in some kind of trouble but wouldn’t give any details. She told them she’d work it out, then come home.”

“And you chose not to tell us because . . . ?” I asked.

“I do better running under the radar.”

“I see.” This time I did see—pretty clearly in fact. He didn’t want us to know what he was doing. “Are you going to share what kind of trouble Lyda Sue was in?” I asked.

“She didn’t say, and I didn’t have time to find out before she was pushed out of the helicopter.”

“Pushed?” Mother asked, her voice hushed.

“It’s just Dane’s theory right now.” I patted her knee. “And just for the record, Dane, taking a job under false pretenses and snooping around behind people’s backs isn’t the best strategy if you want to get them on your side.”

“How did I know I could trust you?”

“Oh, like the higher-ups at a multibillion dollar casino conspired to kill a lowly hooker.”

“Ex-hooker.” Mother’s words landed with a thud, then their meaning exploded through my consciousness.

“She wasn’t hooking?” I’d given her a part-time job as a cocktail waitress for the high rollers, but I’d thought that was just supplemental
income for her. I had no idea she was trying to put her past behind her.

Mother shook her head. “The last she’d told me, she was in the running for a very prestigious, high-profile job at one of the big hotels—her chance at a real life, she said.”

“Then why meet someone here?”

Tears sprang to my mother’s eyes. She dabbed at them with the corner of her napkin. “It was a cry for help, and I didn’t hear. It’s all my fault; I killed her.”

“Trust me, it’s not your fault,” Dane said, a vicious undertone to his voice. “You weren’t in the helicopter, were you?”

Mother shook her head.

“Then you didn’t kill her.” He leaned back in his chair surveying both of us. “And we need to figure out who did. Tell us everything you can remember.”

Mother took a deep breath, collecting herself. “Once a week or so, Lyda Sue would show up, generally unannounced. She’d go to the back building and wait for the Babylon helicopter. I never saw who came to see her. They’d meet briefly—no sex was involved—the room was still clean when she left.”

“Did you quiz the girls?” I asked.

“Tamara helped me and between the two of us, we’ve talked to all but a half dozen. We’ll get to them today. So far nothing. However, I do know someone you need to talk to.”

“Willie the Weasel,” I said, stealing her thunder. This was rapidly becoming another one of those days.

“How did you know?”

“Somebody had to fly them here and this has the Weasel’s fingerprints all over it.”

My mother nodded, her brows crinkled in thought—apparently she was due for her regular Botox injection.

“After what he did to you, you should know.”

DURING
the rest of our visit as well as the ride back to Vegas, I succeeded in steering the conversation to more pleasant topics.
Thankfully, Dane hadn’t pressed me about Willie. The memory of past humiliation was tough enough without being dragged through it all over again.

Lunch, if you could call it that, had consisted of finger sandwiches—cream cheese and watercress I think, but I wasn’t sure—a cup of vichyssoise, and one tiny lemon bar for dessert. Mother was really taking the whole Southern-belle thing to heart. Next thing I’d know, she’d want to join the Junior League. The thought made me smile. I’d pay good money for a ticket to watch Mona and the Junior Leaguers.

Dane had prevailed upon me to swing through McDonald’s for fortification. I was a willing accomplice. Nothing was quite as much fun as driving a fast car across the desert while stuffing my face with a quarter-pounder. I have to admit though, having a handsome male sharing the fun made it that much better.

UNDAUNTED
by the summer heat, the Babylon had awakened and was in full swing as we pulled up the long circular drive to the front entrance. A horde of photographers materialized and swarmed around the car. Flashbulbs popped as they took pictures on the off chance that we were somebody. Ignoring the paparazzi, I hopped out of the car and tossed the keys to the valet. The crush of people, all pointing cameras and shouting at me, closed in.

Dane appeared at my elbow. “People! Out of our way!”

He took my arm and, like a hot knife through butter, slid me through the crowd.

“Impressive.”

“Rescuing damsels in distress is one of my many talents.” He gave a low bow as he opened the front door and invited me through.

People packed the lobby—nomads seeking an oasis of cool air. The lines at registration, easily twenty deep, snaked across the vast expanse. People shifted from foot to foot, but waited patiently in the conditioned air. Cocktail waitresses worked the captive crowd, which I’m sure added to their good humor. Reporters, followed by
men shouldering television cameras, who in turn were trailed by minions working the cables, trolled for somebody “important.”

I took one look at the swarm in front of the elevators and headed toward the stairs.

“What is all of this?”

“Welcome to Hell Week.” I threw my weight against the stairwell door.

“Hell Week?”