Wanna Get Lucky? (25 page)

Romeo nodded slowly as he eyed me. “I’ll do my best, but if the reporters get wind of this, damage control is up to you.”

“Damage control—that’s my thing. Detective Richards is going to chew you up and spit you out for not bringing him in the loop.”

“Not when I walk through the door with Willie the Weasel.” Romeo grinned.

“That does add a couple of aces to your hand, doesn’t it?” The kid even had a backbone. Not a bad friend to have in the police department.

Yes, this had been a most satisfying day.

“So, where are you going next?” Romeo asked. “You look like you have something up your sleeve.”

“Oh, I got another hunch.”

“You need some help?”

“No, this one I have to do on my own.”

“You be careful.”

“I can take care of myself,” I said with a grin.

“No shit,” the kid said, not even trying to hide the awe in his voice.

Romeo and I stood there a moment, shoulder to shoulder, each savoring the moment as we surveyed the neighborhood. The squad car, along with the Spanish Trail security trucks, hadn’t attracted any attention at all. Not one neighbor had even bothered to saunter by to ask what was going on.

“Where is everybody?” asked Romeo.

“Like Willie said, nobody with somewhere else to go stays here in the summer. But those who can’t escape to cooler climes all hide inside—I’ve seen it before. These places aren’t like real neighborhoods; they’re like a movie set, each house carefully constructed to reflect its owner’s wealth. Neighbors separated by their own sense of self-importance.”

“Weird.”

“Welcome to Vegas, baby.”

I
watched the squad car, trailed by the security vehicles, as it left the neighborhood; then I locked the front door behind me and walked to the Ferrari.

Irv Gittings said he’d be in his office.

O
ne of the few remaining grand dames of the Vegas Strip, the Athena was an aging star—a throwback to the fifties. The growth of the megaresorts had taken off at the other end of the Strip. Stranded at the wrong end of the action, the Athena was an island surrounded by a sea of lesser properties gone to seed. Ripe for a cash infusion—or demolition—the Athena was sinking.

I had a hunch Irv Gittings was a desperate man, and desperate men do desperate things.

Braking the Ferrari to a stop at the front entrance, I threw open the door, leapt out and tossed the keys to the female valet. “Don’t move it. Don’t touch it. I’ll be back shortly.”

“You got it, Ms. O’Toole.” A young woman with long, dark hair and a runner’s physique caught the keys in one hand as I dashed by
her and through the front doors. I thought I recognized her from a class I had taught at UNLV in the hotel and restaurant management program.

Dark and stale, the lobby was almost empty, even during this, the busiest week of the year. Off to the right, the casino was eerily quiet. I’m sure the rooms were booked, the whole town was bursting at the seams, but obviously nobody wanted to stay and play here, which was the kiss of death to a casino. Vegas rule number one—you can’t make any money if you can’t keep it in the house.

In need of freshening up, I decided to hit the ladies’ lounge near the main bank of elevators. To be honest, my resolve needed a little fortifying as well.

I was about to come face-to-face with one of my biggest mistakes.

Back when I was young and stupid and still believed in fairy tales, I’d had an affair with the dashing Mr. Gittings. A whole year of sleeping with him, dining with him, appearing on his arm at fabulous parties attended by a whole parade of celebrities, our pictures in the society pages—I still don’t know how I could’ve been so naïve. Gullible, and inexperienced, I had been blinded by his star power, flattered by his attention, and seduced by his stories of us being the power couple of Vegas.

The sex hadn’t been bad either.

I clamped my mind shut to those memories—they could get me in trouble, especially in light of my current libido problem.

Twenty years older than me, Irv was every inch the successful Vegas casino owner. Tall, trim, perpetually tanned, he was the center of female attention wherever he went. A touch of gray in his hair, chiseled features and eyes that danced with delight every time he saw me, I was a goner the first time I met him. It had taken me a whole year to get the stars out of my eyes and to see through his well-oiled veneer.

But, whether he knew it or not, Irv Gittings had taught me a few hard lessons.

Irv liked his women pretty, young and stupid. Once I had fit that bill. Not anymore.

I pondered the made-over me who stared back at me from the mirror. I squinted my eyes. In a dim light, I could still pass for pretty, but I needed a touch-up. The cosmetics I had purchased at Samson’s as part of the whole makeover thing were in a small pouch at the bottom of my Birkin. Now, if I just remembered how to use them.

Finished, I surveyed the result. Sultry eyes, lips painted in come-on red, I poofed my hair and pulled a few strands down so they framed my eyes.

Not bad.

I threw back my shoulders.
You can do this, O’Toole
.

Even I didn’t believe it.

I wet a towel and dabbed at the blood on my elbow—Willie’s blood. I couldn’t do anything about the red splotches staining the white leather of my shoes—no matter how hard I scrubbed, they didn’t budge. This had certainly been a day of men from the past.

After popping Willie’s tape out of the recorder, I secured it in a zippered pocket in my bag. I shoved a new tape in the device, checked the battery level, then turned the thing on and put it in my pocket.

Showtime
.

IRV’S
office occupied the best corner, with the best view on the best floor—the top one. “Nothing but the best for Ol’ Irv,” he used to say, his arm wrapped around my shoulders as we stood before the wall of glass in his office—Vegas at our feet. As smooth as he was, Irv had the irritating habit of referring to himself in the third person. Back then he’d included me on his list of “bests for Ol’ Irv.”

The elevator deposited me on my requested floor. The doors closed, leaving me stranded and apparently alone. As I moved down the corridor toward Irv’s office, I felt like a condemned woman making her last walk.

The outer office was empty. Irv’s assistant had apparently gone home for the night. No witnesses. Luck still perched on my shoulder.

“Anybody here?” Light came from Irv’s office, so I headed that way.

Irv stepped through the door.

Damn, still gorgeous. A little worn around edges, but handsome as ever.

“Lucky?”

“My assistant gave me your message. I thought I’d stop by instead of calling.”

“Sure.” If he was surprised, he hid it well. Stepping aside, he motioned me through the doorway. “Have you been getting my e-mails?”

“Yes.” I walked through the outer office and into his inner sanctum.

Large, even by Vegas standards, Irv’s office had changed little over the years. The same monstrous antique desk occupied its place in the corner. According to Ol’ Irv, some important document in American history had been signed on that desk. I didn’t believe that, but I could name at least five women who had been screwed on the thing. Irv probably still etched his conquests’ names in the wood on the inside. Thankfully mine wasn’t one of them—I drew the line at doing it on desks.

Photos of Irv with every celebrity imaginable from the last two decades competed for wall space with clever forgeries of a few lesser works by the great Masters and a few strategically placed mirrors. That was Irv Gittings—all show and no substance.

I took a chair in front of the desk.

“So, if you got Ol’ Irv’s e-mails, why haven’t you answered?” He parked his butt on the corner of his desk. Fingers interlocking, he held one knee with his hands as he surveyed me with those inscrutable gray eyes.

“I don’t discuss future employment opportunities on my current employer’s time. And I certainly don’t negotiate by e-mail.” I crossed my legs and leaned back.

“Negotiate?” His gaze wandered to my legs, then back. “So you’re open to discussions?”

“Why else would I be here?” I leaned forward. “Look, Irv, let’s get this out of the way. You and I were over a long time ago.” He had tossed me aside for twin blonde gymnasts who could apparently do amazing things with their tongues.

He shifted uneasily.

“No hard feelings,” I added, even though he’d thrown me out for the trash. “I assume you aren’t offering me money to be your girlfriend. If this is business, I’m always open to bettering my financial position.”

“So you wouldn’t be Ol’ Irv’s squeeze again?”

“I’m about ten years too old for you.”
And much too smart
.

“So true,” the asshole said, but not to me. He was looking at his own reflection in the mirror on the wall behind me when he said it.

What had Mother used to say? A man in love with himself could never love anybody else? Of course, I hadn’t paid attention to her, so that had been the first of Ol’ Irv’s hard lessons.

“I’ve got to get back to work, so if you have a proposal, I’m all ears.” I leaned back again, this time crossing my arms in front of my chest. “But I warn you, it’s going to take an obscene amount of money to lure me from the Babylon. Frankly, the Athena would be a step down for me—a big step down.”

One dart straight to the ego.

Irv’s cheeks flushed.

Bull’s-eye.

He jumped off the corner of the desk. “Wild Turkey, neat. Right?”

“Right.”

Hidden behind a secret panel in the corner of his office, the bar boasted a variety of top-shelf liquor. Only the best for Ol’ Irv, I thought as I watched him busy himself with bottles, glasses and ice.

“Do you remember how we used to talk about being the Vegas power couple?”

I nodded. Like an old dog howling at the moon, he was going to make me sit through the same old song.

“We could still do that.” Worse than a self-conscious teenager,
he glanced at himself in the mirrored glass behind the bar as he finished our drinks.

I raised an eyebrow as he handed me my whiskey.

“Not as a couple but as business partners,” he continued, his eyes on my face. He took a sip of the clear liquid in his glass.

He drank very expensive tequila, if I remembered correctly. “At the Athena?”

“Oh hell, not in this dump. Our talents would be wasted here.”

I didn’t want to point out the obvious—Irv’s talent had run the Athena into the ground. Of course, it was probably somebody else’s fault. With Irv, it always was.

He set his drink down, then grabbed the arms of my chair and turned me so I was facing slightly away from the desk. Like a lawyer delivering his summation, he paced back and forth in front of me. “Ol’ Irv has bigger plans.”

“Really?”

Second dart straight to the ego.

“Yeah, really.” His tone turned defensive.

So far, I was batting a thousand. I waited, my heart in my mouth. Come on, Irv!

“You don’t think Ol’ Irv can pull it off, do you?” He stopped in front of me, a hint of bruised ego in his eyes.

I calmly took a sip of my drink, then lowered the glass and looked into it as I slowly swirled the bourbon around. His face had turned a deeper shade of pink when I again looked at him.

“You’re blowing smoke, as usual,” I said, trying to look mildly disinterested.

Third dart to the ego.

Irv’s face flushed crimson.

Home run.

“I’m going to make a tender offer for the Babylon,” he announced, pride oozing from every pore.

“What?” I felt the glass slipping through my fingers. I caught it just in time.

“That got you, didn’t it?” A self-satisfied smirk split his face as
he pulled a chair close to mine and took a seat on the edge. He leaned into me and said softly, “I’ve got the money all lined up. And . . .” He took my free hand in his. “I want you to run the place after I take over.”

“You want me to run the Babylon . . . for you?” I looked at my hand in his. His flesh on mine.