Wanna Get Lucky? (5 page)

The air was so full of smoke it amazed me anyone could breathe the stuff and actually survive. My eyes watered, and my lungs screamed. Ah, Vegas!

So, how was I going to find a missing helicopter? I hadn’t a clue, but I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Vegas was a tiny oasis in a vast desert. The Weasel could have refueled and be halfway to L.A. by now.

Think, O’Toole. How would the FAA look for a missing aircraft?
I had no idea, but I knew who might. As I navigated toward the bar, I keyed my Nextel. To be heard over the din, I held it close to my mouth. “Dane, are you there?”

His response was quick. “This is Dane, over.”

“Lucky, here.”

“Lucky me.”

“Truer words were never spoken. You’re a pilot, right?” I thought I remembered Jerry telling me something about Dane’s military service that included flying. I hoped I remembered right.

“Yeah.”

“Would you have any idea how to find a missing helicopter?”

“I’m already on it. I figured the guy might get scared and bolt. I’ve put in a few calls and am waiting to hear back. Shouldn’t be long. Can you give me fifteen minutes or so and I’ll get back to you?”

“Sure. I’ll be in Delilah’s with Mr. Fujikara.”

“Roger.”

DELILAH’S
Bar was a comfy oasis set on a raised platform smack in the middle of the casino. Here, surrounded by palm trees and trellises of trailing bougainvillea, one could rest from the rigors of wagering, slake thirst, fortify resolve and hit the ATM. The stench of the tropical flowers diluted the natural, organic purity of the cigarette aroma, and hit me in the face as I teetered up the steps. Someone had definitely gone a bit overboard on the flowers.

Mr. Fujikara and his three friends rose as I approached. They
were all short men. In these heels, their eyes were level with my chest. I think that was part of the game we played. Standing there surrounded by short men reminded me of junior high school; I was an Amazon and everyone else, especially the boys, were pygmies. I stifled that familiar feeling of awkwardness as I dropped into a small bow. “Mr. Fujikara, how nice to see you again.”

“Ms. O’Toole,” he said as he bowed in return then motioned to the chair next to his. “Please, sit.”

Mr. Fujikara introduced his friends as I took my seat. I nodded to each in turn. I noticed they were well into a second bottle of wine. “Are you enjoying yourselves?”

A smile spread across Mr. Fujikara’s face. “The suite is magnificent! From the balcony we can see all the way up the Strip. And the service has been impeccable.”

I reached over and touched his knee, then leaned into him. “I’m so glad you’re satisfied.” I turned toward Mr. Fujikara’s friends. “Mr. Fujikara is a very important guest of ours . . . of mine.” I gave him a smile and squeezed his arm. “And you like the wine?”

“It is sublime.” He beamed. “But I think now your presence calls for a bottle of champagne.” His eyes twinkled. “What do you think? Perhaps a nice bottle of Dom Perignon?”

I smothered a smile. Mr. Fujikara was going to play this for all it was worth. I thought for a moment. The insurance deductible and the value of lost rental time on the Ferrari would run six or seven grand, so I could afford to give him a couple of bottles of four-hundred-dollar wine, a five-hundred-dollar bottle of bubbly, and a bit of attention. “Of course! Perhaps the ’95?”

“Splendid!”

I motioned to the waitress hovering nearby. “Kimmy, a bottle of the 1995 Dom Perignon, please, and four glasses.”

“You’re not going to celebrate with us?” asked one of Mr. Fujikara’s friends.

“Unfortunately, my workday isn’t over.” I sighed dramatically. “It’s been a very long day, and I still must see to the Ferrari.”

Mr. Fujikara’s smile disappeared. A look of concern replaced it.
“Yes, the car. So silly of the valet to injure such a fine piece of machinery.”

I nodded.

“I had driven it to Carne, the steakhouse on Charleston Boulevard. I’m sure it was fine when I brought it back.”

“I
am
sorry,” I said with as much sympathy as I could muster.

“Will your Boss be angry?”

“Most likely.”

“Will he be angry at you?”

“He does hold me accountable for these sorts of transgressions.” We both knew it was a lie, but that was part of the game.

Mr. Fujikara puffed out his chest in indignation. “Well, we can’t have that. I will pay for the car!” We both knew he was only agreeing to pay the few grand of the deductible, a paltry sum in his world, but his friends probably didn’t know that.

“Oh, Mr. Fujikara! Do you mean it?” I reached over and grabbed his hand in both of mine. “What a kind and generous man you are!”

Mr. Fujikara beamed. His friends looked suitably impressed.

“Mr. Fujikara, you are indeed one of my favorites!” I leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“Now, now. It is but a small thing,” he stammered.

I rose as Kimmy arrived with the champagne. “Gentlemen, enjoy.” I smiled and bowed at Mr. Fujikara. “I’ll look forward to seeing you soon. Perhaps dinner this week sometime?” I thought I caught a wink as he nodded in return.

Waving Kimmy away, he turned to his friends and proffered the bottle of champagne. “Let’s drink!” He popped the cork and began to pour.

They all stood and bowed as I took my leave. It was very awkward, all this bowing—I’d never gotten used to it. Finally, I turned and tottered toward the steps. I almost made it to the casino floor. On the next to the last step, my ankle twisted. I yelped and grabbed for the rail, which slipped by just out of reach. I started to fall. Out of nowhere, a pair of strong hands grabbed me.

“Whoa. Steady there.”

I looked up into the twinkling eyes of Paxton Dane. Eyes that took in my cleavage, and my fuck-me shoes.

“Very nice,” he said as he easily set me right. “And well played.” He cocked his head in the direction of Mr. Fujikara, who, thankfully, was out of earshot. “Would you like to practice on me sometime?”

Intensely aware of the warmth of his hands on my bare arms, my heart tripped.
What
is
it with my taste in men?
Regaining my balance, if not my pride, I stepped away from him and smoothed my dress. “That’s just a game Mr. Fujikara and I play.”

“And you played him pretty well.” Dane smirked.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.” I grabbed his elbow and drew him into the crowd and away from the bar. I looked back at Mr. Fujikara and his friends. They were laughing. Mr. Fujikara caught my eye and raised his glass in a silent toast. I smiled and nodded in return. “I helped him be a big man in front of his friends. What’s so bad about that?” Realizing I still had hold of Dane’s arm, I let go and stepped back.

“If word of your personal touch gets out, we may have a rash of whales with fender benders.”

“Not likely. Now, how do we go about finding a missing helicopter?”

“Want to go for a ride?” Dane asked.

“Don’t tell me you found it already?” Just thinking about getting my hands around Willie’s neck made me salivate

“Unfortunately, no. But my contact arranged for us to view the videotapes of tonight’s air traffic at the control tower at McCarran. Maybe we can figure out where the pilot went.”

“I’m in, but I’ve got to do a couple of things first. Can we meet out front in a half an hour?”

“You got it.”

I watched Dane walk away. When he was out of earshot, I keyed my Nextel. “Jer, what do you have on the megamillions lady?”

“Mrs. Paisley? The tapes and machine are in agreement—she only played two quarters.”

“What did she win?”

“Three hundred and sixty-five thousand.”

Not a bad payday, but nowhere near the eighty-five million she would have won had she played six quarters. And I was going to be the bearer of the bad news. On nights like this, being the messenger not only put me in the line of fire but also put me in a bad mood.

“You want me to tell her?” Jerry asked.

“You’re a sweetheart, but this is what I get paid for.” Reluctantly, I headed for the elevators.

Soon I was standing in front of the gilded double doors of the Sodom and Gomorrah suite. One of our best suites, it encompassed half of the top floor of the northwest wing. With its three bedrooms, great room with a bar, dining room for private dinners, and a large, Roman-inspired bath with a hot tub for you and ten of your closest friends, the suite was a favorite with the Hollywood and professional athlete crowds. Decorated in an over-the-top Egyptian motif, with gold columns, huge potted palms and clouds painted on the ceiling, the suite reminded me of the set of an old Egyptian horror movie. I had no idea how anyone could sleep in there—not that anyone spent much time sleeping in Vegas. In my opinion, the view was the best part, looking straight up the Strip.

I
so
didn’t want to do this. The Big Boss would probably fire me if he knew how badly I wanted to give away eighty-five million dollars. I forced myself to pull the rope beside the door. Deep inside, a bell chimed. I stepped back half expecting a tall, scantily dressed Nubian to appear at my summons.

Instead, the lady who opened the door couldn’t have been even a fraction over five feet tall. And she was most definitely not Nubian; she was more like middle North American. Almost as wide as she was tall, she sported a cap of graying curls and the best set of dimples I’d seen in quite a while. Wrapped in one of the Babylon’s terry-cloth robes, which looked to be about three sizes too large, sleeves rolled up, and hem dragging the ground, her feet bare and her eyes bright, the little lady flashed a big smile.

“Mrs. Paisley?” I asked.

“For heaven’s sake, call me Velma. Mrs. Paisley is, or was, my
mother-in-law.” She stepped back, opening the door wider and motioning me inside. “You must have drawn the short straw.”

“I’m Lucky O’Toole, and I’m in charge of customer relations here at the Babylon. My job entails a lot of short straws.”

“It can’t be much fun coming to tell me I didn’t win the eighty-five million.”

So she knew. “No, this is not one of the better parts of my job.”

Her three friends, also dressed in oversize robes, gathered around us. They all looked flushed, as if they’d been enjoying the hot tub.

“Goodness.” She laid a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry yourself. I knew I had only played two quarters. I’d been playing six most of the evening, but then, about a half hour before I hit, I switched to two quarters per pull.”

“How much did you win, Velma?” asked one of her friends.

All eyes swiveled to me.

“Three hundred and sixty-five thousand,” I said.

“That’s wonderful!” Mrs. Paisley positively beamed. “After taxes that should be almost enough to get my grandson through Harvard.”

“You have a grandson at Harvard?” I asked.

“Not yet. He’s applied, but hasn’t heard. He’s wanted to go there practically forever.”

“You don’t seem upset about hitting the big one, but not winning the eighty-five million.”

Mrs. Paisley held onto my arm as she directed me to a couch in the great room.

I took a peek at the fabulous view. The lights of the Strip stretched off into the distance. For some reason I felt like shouting, “I’m king of the world,” but that had already been done.

“Sit, Ms. O’Toole. May I offer you a drink?”

“Please call me Lucky. Perhaps a small one.” I was entitled to a drink; I’d spent the better part of the last sixteen hours at work—above and beyond by anyone’s definition. But I hadn’t eaten in a while, so the drink had better be small or I’d find myself sleeping it off in a stairwell just like our naked guy.

At the clap of Mrs. Paisley’s small hands, a buff blond guy dressed in a loin cloth appeared.

“Chad, bring Ms. O’Toole whatever she wants.” Mrs. Paisley sounded imperious and impish at the same time. Who wouldn’t enjoy having buff-body Chad waiting to grant their every wish?

“Scotch, neat.”

Chad nodded and disappeared.

Mrs. Paisley settled in next to me. Her friends took the chairs across from us.

“Eighty-five million is a life-changing amount,” Mrs. Paisley announced. “Some lives don’t need that much changing. Mine’s one of them. Mr. Paisley left me well taken care of. After he passed, I was bored, so I started baking pies for the local restaurants back in my hometown of Griffin, Indiana. Do you know of it?”

I shook my head. “Sorry, no.” Chad reappeared with my drink. I took a long sip, gasping as the liquid burned down my throat.

“It’s a small town, mostly farming folk, but we’re on Interstate 70, so we get a fair amount of traffic.” Mrs. Paisley wiggled like a puppy, clearly enjoying her moment in the spotlight. “My pies were pretty popular and then Margaret over there . . .” She pointed to one of the ladies sitting opposite us. “Well, she was taking names of the out-of-towners who would call asking for us to send them a pie. After the names started adding up, she convinced me, and Paisley Pies was born.”

“Paisley Pies?”

“We’re small, but growing. All my kids and most of my grandkids, at one time or another, have worked with me. My friends process the orders and handle all of the shipping. According to my grandson, I even have a ‘Web presence.’ I’m not sure what that means, but he seems thrilled. And the orders are increasing almost faster than we can keep up. So, Lucky, what more could I possibly want?”

“You’re a real glass-half-full kind of woman, aren’t you?” I took another sip of my scotch enjoying the warmth—as much from Mrs. Paisley as the alcohol—spreading through me.

“Most folks only think about what they don’t have. I know what I’ve got. Eighty-five million wouldn’t make it any better.”

I patted Mrs. Paisley’s knee. “You are a breath of fresh air. And you have made my night.” I pulled one of my cards out of my pocket and turned it over. “Does anyone have a pen?” I put my drink down on the side table. I’d just about polished it off.

One of the ladies found a pencil and handed it to me.

“Velma, what’s your grandson’s name?” I asked, pencil poised. “The one who wants to go to Harvard?”

“Pete. Peter Paisley the Fourth. He’s named after my late husband and the other Paisley men before him.”