Wanna Get Lucky? (8 page)

I may not have a life, but I have a great place to take a bath.

However, first I needed a drink. The bar was hidden behind a panel in the far wall next to the fireplace. I pressed the secret button and, voilà, a fully stocked bar appeared.

My hands shook as I poured a stiff shot of Wild Turkey 101 into a Steuben tumbler, added a single cube of ice, then drained it in one gulp. This was becoming a habit, a bad habit. I’d had more hard liquor today than I could remember drinking in quite a while. Of course, the drinking affects the remembering. . . . Again, the amber liquid traced a fiery path down my throat, landing with a warm explosion in my stomach. The warmth radiated to the tips of my fingers and toes. I closed my eyes and embraced the relaxing heat, but I couldn’t escape reality.

Lyda Sue was dead.

What the hell had she gotten mixed up in?

I hadn’t a clue.

“So what do you think, Big Guy?” I picked up a piece of browned apple and pushed it through the bars of Newton’s cage.

“Screw you,” said Newton as he jerked the apple out of my hand.

“Bad parrot.”

“Asshole!”

I laughed out loud. The bird actually sounded like he meant it. I’m sure a shrink would have a field day with me. Not only did I talk to my parrot, but I took shit from him as well.

“Enough out of you, Big Guy. It’s time for you to rest.” I slid the cover over his cage. “And way past time for me to sleep.”

R
ise and shine!”

Bright light flooded my bedroom. I rolled over and groaned as I squinted at the clock, then slammed my eyes shut again.

Seven
A.M.
Pretty early for Teddie to be sounding so chipper. He usually arose in time for cocktail hour.

“Okay, I can see we need to work on rising first. You look like you were run over and left for dead. Here, this ought to help.”

I caught the aroma of coffee and breathed deep.

“It works better if you drink it.”

I pried one eye open, then the other as I pushed myself to a sitting position. Grateful, I grabbed the proffered mug and took a big gulp. I narrowed my eyes. “Are those my Manolos?”

Teddie stepped back, hiked up the hem of his gown and showed me the shoes. “Don’t they just make the whole ensemble? I came down and borrowed them last night before the last show. I would’ve asked but you weren’t home.”

Teddie was in full makeup, a long black wig and chandelier earrings that brushed his shoulders. He wore a skintight, silver-sequined strapless sheath with a split on the side that bordered on the obscene, a hot pink boa around his neck—and my Manolos.

“You know how I hate it when you wear my shoes; you stretch them out.”

“Oh, don’t grouse.” He pretended to pout. “I let you borrow my Chanel.”

“You have a point.” I inspected him over my coffee cup. “What keeps that dress up?”

“Modesty.”

“Good line.” That was the second time in the last few hours I’d asked a man what kept his clothing where it was supposed to be. What was up with me lately?

“I stole it from
American in Paris
.” Teddie, or as the world knew him, the Great Teddie Divine, was the premier female impersonator in Las Vegas. We’d hired him away from the Flamingo, and he packed his new theatre at the Babylon five nights a week, Wednesday through Sunday.

“I thought I’d heard it before.” We both loved old movies. Tuesday nights were movie fest nights at my place. Teddie brought the movies. I made the popcorn—it was the only thing he trusted me to make and not poison him. “Are you trying to channel Cher in that getup?”

“I’ve added her to my act. What do you think?” He pirouetted in front of me.

“Sing something for me.”

Teddie broke into a stirring rendition of “I Got You, Babe.”

After a couple of verses, I held up my hand. “You got her down. But that’s a duet. Who plays Sonny?”

“I was hoping I could talk you into it.”

I snorted. “I’m a foot too tall, and you know I can’t sing. Did you go out looking like that, or is all of this for my entertainment?”

“I did a private party after the late show. We sorta got carried away. I’m just getting home.” He sat on the edge of my bed. “It seems you had a busy night as well. Everyone was talking about the girl and the pirate show. Was it suicide like the morning paper said, quoting you as the source, by the way?”

“Tell you what. Why don’t you go change into the Ted Kowalski I know and love, and let me take a shower? I’ll meet you in the kitchen in twenty minutes.”

“You got it. I’ll bring down some eggs and bacon for breakfast. The stuff in your fridge is green.” With a toss of the boa over his shoulder, he sashayed out of the room in my Manolos.

I had to get him to teach me how to walk in those things.

TWENTY
minutes later, wrapped in my robe, I cradled a fresh mug of coffee as I stood looking out the picture window in my kitchen. In the daylight, the sun seemed to suck the energy from Las Vegas until the city blended with the desert that surrounded it, where it waited to be reborn again in glitter and high-energy glory when the sun went down.

Fresh-faced, Teddie had traded his gown for a baggy pair of jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt that had seen better days. He wore his platinum hair short and spiked. His blue eyes—bracketed by lashes a girl would kill for—always seemed to dance at some private joke. And when he chose to flash it, his megawatt smile could stop male or female at a hundred yards. With a strong jaw and high cheekbones, I guess he could be considered pretty or handsome, depending on which way he played it.

I noticed his feet were bare, my Manolos conspicuous in their absence, as he busied himself over the stove.

I let him cook for me—he enjoyed it. Besides, I didn’t know any restaurants open at this hour with a delivery service.

He put a plate of steaming eggs and bacon on the counter. “Come and get it.”

I hoisted myself up and onto the high stool. “God, it smells delicious.”

Teddie put a plate for himself down next to mine. “I’d make someone a good wife.”

I tucked into my food as if I hadn’t eaten in months. “No doubt,” I said through a mouthful of eggs.

“How about me being yours?”

“I could never marry a man with better legs than me.”

When Teddie played around like this, I never knew whether he was kidding or not. We were such good friends. Why screw it up?

“Okay, time to dish.” Teddie sidled onto the stool beside me. “I want to know everything. What do you know about the girl who took the dive?”

Relieved that he’d changed the subject, I launched in. “Her name was Lyda Sue Stalnaker. I didn’t know her that well, but she used to stop and gab when she caught me in the casino or Delilah’s. She was from some small town in west Texas, and I think she was a little lonely.”

“How’d a kid from small town Texas end up in Vegas?” Teddie asked with his mouth full.

“Same story you’ve heard a million times. She screwed up in high school, got knocked up. That screwed up her relationship with her folks. The abortion screwed her up.” I passed my cup to Teddie. “Pour me another, would you? You’re closest to the pot.”

Teddie freshened my coffee.

“She came to Vegas to be a dancer and ended up a hooker. All in all, she was sick of screwing . . . up or otherwise. At least that’s what she told me last night. She wanted to go home.”

“So why do you think she jumped?” Clearly engrossed in the story, Teddie cupped his chin in his hand, his elbow resting on the counter. He did love his gossip, but if I didn’t want him spreading it all over, he wouldn’t.

“I’m not sure she jumped.”

Teddy straightened, his eyes grew big. “What are you saying?”

“I think she was pushed.”

AT
8:50 in the morning, the casino resembled a beauty queen after an all-nighter—tired, bedraggled, sullied. The cleaning crew ran vacuums and spot-cleaned the carpet. The smell of cigarette smoke, now stale, lingered, mixing with the odor of spilled liquor and other, nastier things I didn’t want to think about. A few bleary-eyed stragglers, cigarettes dangling from their lips, fed coins into the slots, but for the most part the casino was empty.

I stood in front of my office door rooting in my Birkin for my keys; the damn things always managed to hide in the bowels of the bag. I had found one half-eaten, slightly stale Oreo, three pieces of used gum wrapped in tiny bits of paper, and one squashed protein bar left over from my very brief personal-trainer phase, when my fingers brushed metal. “Ah ha! There you are, you little buggers.” I was leaning over to insert the appropriate key in the lock when the door flew open.

I leapt back.

Miss Patterson stood there looking at me with that damn inscrutable expression of hers. “The door was open.”

“I thought I told you I didn’t want to see your face for twelve hours.” I brushed past her.

She followed me into my office. “And good morning to you, too.” She took my Birkin and deposited it in the closet. “You have an appointment . . .” she glanced at the clock “. . . in three minutes, with the Most Reverend Peterson J. Peabody. Security has been calling. They want to know if they should give Reverend Peabody his clothes or should they bring him ‘as is.’ ”

“The
Most
Reverend?”

Miss Patterson nodded, this time a fleeting wisp of a smile on her face.

“Oh, give him his clothes. I’m evil, but I’m not mean. Besides, it’s way too early to see Reverend Peabody in his altogether again.”

“I’ll get you some coffee.”

“After Reverend Peabody, I don’t have anything else until two, right?”

“Right, the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock at two, then your friends from Hollywood are due to arrive around three, with the Trend-makers shortly thereafter.”

“Ah yes, how could I forget?” I walked over to my closet and opened the door. “Let me know when Reverend Peabody arrives.”

I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the closet door. Teddie had kept me until the last possible minute. I’d had to race to get ready and out the door. I definitely looked like I’d had three hours of sleep, but I was semipresentable in my new Diane Von Furstenburg wrap dress and sassy little sandals—another day saved by good clothes. The hair was a bit wild, and the makeup—well, I’d have to get Teddie’s help there, too.

Satisfied I wasn’t going to scare anyone, I shut the closet and retreated behind my desk. Miss Patterson, bless her, had set a cup of steaming java next to a stack of papers sitting there—I didn’t remember the pile being so high last night. I grabbed the papers and a pen, hunched over my desk and started in on the day.

I had almost made it through the lot when my intercom buzzed and Miss Patterson announced the Most Reverend Peabody’s arrival. I depressed the intercom switch. “Show him in.” I rose and smoothed my dress as I stepped around my desk to greet my guest. I had never met a Most Reverend before.

As the door opened, I extended my hand. “Reverend Peabody.” I tried to keep my eyes focused on his face. For some reason, I was a bit embarrassed. Sorta like when you face a one-night stand the morning after.

I already knew he was a big man, but he carried all that weight on a frame about the size of mine. Like a fallen halo a neat fringe of gray hair circled his head. Apparently Security had given him a comb but not a razor—day-old stubble dotted his jowls. Dressed in khakis, a button-down and Nikes, he looked every inch a respectable patron from out of town. No self-respecting Las Vegan would wear
that getup unless he hadn’t yet adopted the local customs or he was on his way to play golf. We’re a bit edgier here in Sin City. Or tackier, depending on your point of view.

He shook my hand but wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Call me Jeep.” His voice was soft, almost childlike—a far cry from the fire and brimstone I was expecting.

“Jeep?”

He shrugged. “I was always . . . big. In high school, they used to say I was as big as a jeep. The name stuck.”

“I see.” Stifling a smile, I motioned to the sofa on the far side of my office, away from the windows. “Take a seat.”