Wanna Get Lucky? (34 page)

“So, did Irv plot the murder or was it Felicia Reilly?” Dane asked.

“That we don’t know—not without Miss Reilly.”

“She’s long gone,” Dane said, then waited while Roham delivered fresh drinks and whisked away the empties. “She didn’t strike me as stupid—she’s smart enough to know she’s up shit creek without a paddle.”

“Maybe so, but it’s hard to go far without any cash.”

“How do you know she’s short on cash?”

“Let’s just say I’ve made an educated guess.”

Dane took a sip of beer, his eyes never leaving mine. “You know where she is?”

“I’m working on that.”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

I held his gaze. “No.”

Roham interrupted the tension with our dinner. We both sat in silence as he placed our plates in front of us, then removed the covers with a flourish. My mouth watered at the aroma rising from the sea bass. One bite and I knew the master himself had assisted in the preparation.

When we were alone again, I asked Dane, “Did The Big Boss know you were playing both sides?”

“No, but to his credit he didn’t trust me. He made you my keeper. I’ll have to remember to thank him for that.” Dane forked in a bite of the bloodiest piece of steak I’d ever seen, a look of gustatory delight on his face.

“Does cannibalism run in your family?”

“No? We’re Methodists,” he said. “Why?”

I motioned to the steak.

“Oh, it’s a Texas thing.”

As I settled into my meal, I said, “Why don’t you tell me about Texas?”

WE
lingered over the exquisite food. Omer would have had my head if I’d rushed, so it was a good thing Dane was a fairly adept conversationalist—for a Texan. And he could spin the tale tall about three boys growing up in west Texas.

Dane polished off dessert and two cups of fully leaded coffee, both of which would have kept me awake into next week. I watched in awe.

Finally, when the plates were cleared, I rose to go and said, “Come with me. I need to make a quick trip through the kitchen.”

Dane followed as I burst through the kitchen doors. “Omer! What a feast! You outdid yourself once again.”

The rotund chef bristled with pride. He bowed his head, acknowledging my praise.

“And Roham—a delight as always.” I turned and applauded the entire staff in the kitchen. “Bravo to all and many thanks.”

Dane again trailed in my wake as I made my way through the bar calling each of the waitstaff and bartenders by name. I paused at the hostess stand to add a tip to the bill and sign it.

“Do you know everybody in this hotel?” Dane whispered.

“Almost. These folks are my family.”

“Hey, the dinner was supposed to be on me,” Dane said when he realized what I was doing.

“Tonight it’s on The Big Boss. I figure he owes us.”

“How so? He’s still in up to his eyeballs.” Dane reached for my hand.

I shook my head and put my hands in my pockets as we pushed out the doors and into the barely controlled chaos of another night just getting underway in the casino.

“He’s in the clear—at least that’s what Willie told the police.”

Dane stopped midstride, then he shook his head and chuckled. “You really play your cards close to the vest, don’t you?”

I didn’t feel the need to answer. The question was probably rhetorical anyway.

“So what about Felicia Reilly?” Dane put a hand on my elbow, steering me through the crowd. “What do we do about her?”

“I have a plan, but I need to work on it a bit before I tell you.”

“Still don’t trust me?”

“Would you trust you if you were me?”

“Somewhere in that fractured syntax lurks a good question.” Dane’s lips curled into a smile, this time one that actually reached his eyes. “And my answer would be no, I wouldn’t trust me if I were you.”

At least he’d dropped the lying thing.

“So, you left Pahrump when you were fifteen?” Dane maneuvered me around the blackjack tables toward the rear doors.

“If you really must know?”

“I must.”

“I’ll give you the short history of Lucky O’Toole, then I want to talk about something else. I moved here when I was fifteen and started working for The Big Boss as a cabana girl. Worked my way up from there. Got a college degree. Kept moving up the food chain.”

“And your mother?”

“She waved good-bye as I left.”

“I see.”

He didn’t see at all, but I didn’t want to discuss it. What kind of mother would let her fifteen-year-old daughter move to Vegas, lie about her age, and go to work every day in a bikini?

“Any other family?”

“You got the short history. Now, pick another topic.”

“Okay.” Dane stood and extended his hand. “Let’s walk.”

Again I ignored his proffered hand. “A walk would be good, then I need to hit the trade show opening.”

“Trade show?”

“In conjunction with the adult movie awards. Sex-a-Rama. You might want to come; I understand Miranda’s doing a pole dance.”

He shot me a pained look. “I think I’ve reached my humiliation quota for the week.”

WE
decided on a stroll through the hanging gardens. Dusk diffused the sunlight into gossamer shimmers that filtered through the leaves of the trees high above. A few straggling sun worshipers, either desperate to catch the waning sunlight or comatose after an afternoon of margaritas, lay prostrate on the lounge chairs in the few remaining pockets of sunlight. Soon the shadows would chase them inside.

The deck hands and cabana girls busied themselves with cleanup. One cocktail waitress wandered through the dwindling crowd.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Dane said.

“Another one?” I bent down to retrieve a plastic cup from under one of the chairs. “One was your quota.”

“What’s up with you and Theodore?”

I searched for a trash can and disposed of the cup.

“Avoiding the question,” he asked when I returned.

“No, formulating an answer.”

We sat on boulders next to one of the waterfalls. The sound of cascading water had a primal effect on me—I could sit for hours listening to the gurgles and crashes as if the water could wash my soul clean. Trailing my fingers through the cool water, I smiled at its sensuous feel as it tripped past.

“I really don’t know what’s up with Teddie and me.”

“That’s not an answer, that’s evasion.”

“No, it’s honesty,” I replied. “Teddie is my best friend, but he wants to be more. I don’t know if I can handle that.”

“So you’re still fair game?”

T
his year, the organizers of Sex-a-Rama had titled the show “The State Fair.” Being fairly provincial, I couldn’t imagine a state fair focused on fornication, but one thing was certain—if they had any farm animals in there, I was leaving.

A man in a leather G-string, boots and mask, with a whip tied at his waist, greeted Dane and me at the door. “Your names?”

I tried to remain focused on the S&M guy’s eyes, but I was having my troubles. All rippling muscle—buff, polished and denuded—his body begged to be stared at—and touched. I resisted that part.

“O’Toole and guest.”

This was a private party so the guest list would be relatively short—hundreds rather than thousands—I took solace in that. My name associated with this bang fest probably put me on some FBI
list of perverts. At the very least, I was sure my presence earned me a black mark on my soul.

The sadist or masochist—I never could keep the two of those straight—checked his clipboard, and motioned us inside.

We pushed through the slit in the curtains covering the doorway—no Peeping Toms allowed at this peep show. A stage on risers commanded the center of the room. Half of a Ferris wheel, complete with hanging chairs, arced over it, attached by a single pole rising out of the center of the stage. A wall of speakers, pumping out a pulsating rhythm, formed the backdrop.

Drinks in hand, people wandered the hall in various stages of undress. The ones angling to catch the eyes of a movie producer were the easiest to spot—siliconed, sculpted, swathed in spandex and Lycra and fake tans. Knots of people gathered around celebrities, most of whom were there to pitch products or their latest celluloid adventure.

“What’s through there?” asked Dane, nodding toward an arched doorway to the right of the stage. Above it a large banner announced The Midway.

“All manner of toys and games, I would suspect.” I extended my arm in that direction. “Shall we?”

We ducked under the arch and joined the flow of people wandering from booth to booth.

“I think we’re overdressed,” Dane said as his head swiveled to catch the rear view of a young woman, her breasts like ripe fruit under her wet tee shirt, as she passed. “That woman’s shirt is completely see-through.”

“The invitation did say ‘clothing optional.’ ”

Dane’s head swiveled back to me, his eyes huge. “Really?”

I nodded as I tried not to look at him, focusing instead on the products displayed in the first booth. Big mistake.

As I surveyed the devices on the table, a lady who could’ve been the premakeover Miss Patterson’s sister picked one up and said, “Honey, this little lovely will rock your world.”

“You think?” About ten inches long with a fork at the end, the
thing looked more like something a shaman would use to divine the location of water than a pleasure device. The forks, one longer and thicker than the other and strategically curved, ended in bristled rubber nubs.

“Watch,” the lady said as she flipped a switch. “This will hit all of your pleasure points. You can do yourself.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I groused as I grudgingly watched. The rubber nubs twirled and the whole thing vibrated. All it lacked was a pulsing red light and a siren.

Dane appeared at my elbow. “Did you know there’s a whole army of women wandering around who make that tee-shirt girl seem dressed for the prom? This place is amazing.” He glanced down at the table. “What’re you doing?”

“Here.” The lady thrust the device at Dane. “It’s great for fore-play.”

“What am I supposed to do to it?” Dane asked, a twinkle in his eye.

I laughed and pushed him on down the aisle. One booth halfway down on the other side caught my attention. “Oh, I like this one,” I said as I got a good look. “It’s just like the water guns at the fair when I was a kid.”

Only the guns were shaped like erect penises, the testicles forming the grip. When you squeezed hard, water shot out of the end, inflating the balloon end of the condom attached over the penis-gun. The harder you squeezed, the larger the volume of water squirting and inflating the condom—the person holding the first one to break won.

“New game’s starting,” announced the hawker—a woman who looked to be barely legal—clad only in a thong.

“Want to play?” I asked Dane as I grabbed one of the two open guns.

“I can’t,” he said as he shook his head. “There’s something about squeezing that thing’s balls . . .”

“Yeah, it’s fun.” I grinned, then turned to focus on the battle.

A bell rang, and we were off. Two guys on the end were ahead
early, their condoms expanding at an alarming rate. The blonde to my right and the redhead to my left and I grinned at each other and squeezed as hard as we could. We caught the guys and left them in the dust.

I braced myself for the inevitable explosion, but it didn’t come—the balloon on the end of my gun growing to the size of a basketball. Who knew a condom could stretch that far?

And who would need it to?

When I thought it wasn’t possible for the thin rubber to expand farther, mine burst—seconds ahead of the redhead’s. Everyone put down their guns and congratulated me. Ever gracious in victory, I raised my arms and did a Rocky-esque dance.

The young lady, wearing little more than a big smile, awarded me my prize—a box of thirty-six Always Ready glow-in-the-dark condoms, size large—for the “big guy.”

I clutched them to my chest and turned to Dane. “I won!”

“So I see.” He grinned at me.

“I have no idea what I’m going to do with these.” I looked at the picture on the cover of the box. “Seriously, glow in the dark?” I fought back the image of a dark room, a glowing, disembodied penis . . .