AUNT MATILDA wasn’t really my aunt at all.
And she shot anyone who called her by her given name.
Known far and wide as Darlin’ Delacroix, she was my mother’s best friend (a status that conferred honorary family membership over my objection), and had been a fixture in my life—and a pain in my ass—as far back as I could remember.
My dear aunt was a proud member of the leading family of Ely, Nevada. The Delacroixes had made their fortune in mining—silver, uranium, borax, molybdenum, and other sundry minor minerals. Minor minerals or not, the Delacroix stake was worth major money. When the old man died, Matilda had taken her share, fled to Vegas, changed her name, enlarged her bust, dyed her hair, and bought an off-strip casino. That had been years ago, when I was a little girl.
Now, on the downhill side of seventy, Darlin’ reigned as the doyen of the French Quarter, the most successful local casino. The Quarter’s largest drawing card besides loose slots was a slate of prizefights held every Friday night, which always attracted a huge, rabid crowd.
In an effort to avoid squandering even a single opportunity to separate patrons from their money, the Quarter also boasted a bowling alley, a twelve-screen movie extravaganza, and a kid zone where parents could deposit the scions of the clan while they gambled with the milk money. Darlin’ had added a small theatre a couple of decades ago, which now hosted headliners who had passed their career apex in the 1970s. The ugly stepsister to the glittering Strip properties, the French Quarter made money hand-over-fist, much to the chagrin of the big dogs who had poured billions into their megacasinos.
One look at the jammed parking lot, and I headed for the valet. I pulled in behind a black Hummer. After taking a ticket from an out-of-breath kid, his shirttail hanging out, his hair wild, Jeremy stepped out of the Hummer. Apparently we ran on coordinated internal clocks.
Noise assaulted us as we pushed through the front doors. Dixieland jazz pumped through the sound system at a mind-numbing level. Ropes of cheap Mardi Gras beads circled the necks of most patrons, many of whom clutched tall glasses of hurricanes—the French Quarter’s signature drink. Like too many fish in an aquarium, the jean-clad crowd filled every conceivable space.
An almost nauseating mixture of aromas filled the air—deep-fried beignets, strong Cajun spices, chicory coffee, stale beer, cigarette smoke. For a moment I even thought I could discern the stench of the previous night’s excesses that coated the sidewalks of the real French Quarter. My imagination added the smell of the dirty water of Old Man River as it rolled through Nawlins. At least I hoped it was my imagination.
An eardrum-shattering trumpet blast interrupted the revelry, announcing the aerial show. Every hour, on the hour, floats filled with costumed revelers tossing beaded trinkets into the crowd traversed a track hanging from the ceiling as carnival music blared. If a pretty young thing in the crowd flashed her cantaloupes, she was awarded special medallions from the King, who rode in his own regal raft.
What little movement there was within the packed crowd stopped as eyes turned skyward. The crowd whooped and hollered, trying to attract the attention of the bead-tossers. With me in the lead, Jeremy and I ducked down and wormed along. Before facing Matilda, I needed to make a stop at the lobby liquor store.
Aunt Matilda had two vices, handsome young men and cheap gin.
With a bottle of Admirals firmly in hand, Jeremy and I again dove into the crowd and pushed and shoved our way to the elevators. The crowd there was six deep. Four elevators deposited their loads and took on another before we forced our way onto one.
Hands trapped at my side by the crush of people, I shouted, “Top floor, please.” Matilda would be receiving in her parlor. I couldn’t tell if anyone heard or responded. It didn’t matter. Imprisoned, I was along for the ride.
After stopping at almost every intervening level, the elevator spit us out at the top. Jeremy and I walked the long corridor in silence. I know I was girding myself—I assumed Jeremy was also.
The man standing guard at the door nodded and ushered us inside.
With red flocked wallpaper, dainty Queen Anne couches covered in plush purple velvet, skirted end tables boasting lamps with fringed shades, and potted palms weeping in the corners, Matilda’s parlor had given me nightmares as a child. Now it just gave me the creeps. Especially when you added the bevy of beautiful young men who lounged on the couches as additional decoration and Rod Stewart warbling “I’m in the Mood for Love” from the speakers.
Sitting in the midst of this invitation to debauchery was my Aunt Matilda.
Four foot ten and eighty pounds dripping wet, she commanded attention from her perch on a raised chair, her legs stretched in front of her, her feet resting daintily on a footstool.
For a woman sliding toward eighty, she pushed the fashion envelope. Her hair long and blond, her lips a red slash across her face, she wore fishnet hose on her dancer’s legs and red stilettos. A black Lycra mini, a beaded top, and her standard leather jacket that I knew had an image of Elvis in leather mosaic on the back completed the picture.
Like a black hole, Matilda sucked all the energy out of the room, leaving us to revolve around her like spent planets.
She bounced to her feet when she saw us. “Lucky!”
Hoping my pants had enough give in them, I half-squatted, then bent down to give her a hug—four foot ten is a long way down from my six feet. “Aunt—”
“None of that aunt stuff.” She waggled a finger at me. “You’re supposed to call me Darlin’.”
“I am incapable of calling anyone Darlin’.” I extended the bottle of gin. “But before you write me off as too big a disappointment, I brought you a present.”
“Redeeming,” she said, as she gripped the bottle in her red-tipped claws. “The handsome man doesn’t hurt either.” She flashed a coquettish look at Jeremy. “Good to see you, Aussie-boy.”
“You, too, Darlin’.” A hand under her elbow, he guided her back to her chair. “We’ve come on business.”
With a dismissive wave, Darlin’ cleared the room. She pointed to a couch on the far side of the parlor. “Lucky, make yourself comfortable over there. Jeremy, why don’t you sit right here.” She patted a stool next to her.
Then she turned her attention, capturing me from head to toe in a glance. “Honey, those clothes! You look cheap.”
Some people set my teeth on edge without even trying. Matilda was their Queen. “You have no idea how much I paid to look this cheap.”
“Just because that outfit is expensive doesn’t mean it’s not cheap,” Darlin’ opined, a serious expression on her face.
“Yeah, the cheaper it is, the more it costs,” I agreed, having too much fun to stop now.
Darlin’ stared at me, clearly at a loss for words.
I didn’t know they still sold blue eye shadow.
She blinked, her eyes wide. Lined with two sets of false eyelashes, it was amazing she could blink at all.
Victory was in my grasp.
Jeremy had that semi-amused, caught-in-the-crossfire look. “You two behave. We need her help, Darlin’, so be nice.”
“We do?” Darlin’ asked, her doubt evident.
Matilda never read the papers—she preferred to live in her own world—so I waited while Jeremy filled her in on the recent developments regarding Fishbait Neidermeyer.
“Sounds like she had it coming.” An old-timer, Darlin’ couldn’t understand why society frowned on someone ridding themselves of a menace.
Jeremy started to explain, then quit. I understood his frustration—I had the same conversation with the Big Boss time and time again.
“Darlin’, I brought Lucky here so you could tell her what you told me.” Jeremy put a hand on Darlin’s knee. “I don’t want to violate client confidentiality, so the decision is yours. But I think she can help.”
She eyed me for a moment. “She did save Al’s hotel from that frightful man and his murder scheme.” She gave me an ironic smile. “And she is family.”
I always suspected she knew I didn’t cotton to the idea of us being “related”—now I knew for sure.
“I don’t guess it could hurt,” she said, then she launched in. “My Sports Book manager came to me with a problem a week or so ago. He’d noticed some trends in the betting. Betting is usually fairly random. When trends develop and repeat, they raise suspicions.” Darlin’ clapped her hands, and magically a young man appeared with a glass pitcher of gin martinis, dirty, and three glasses.
When Matilda drank, everybody drank.
Cheap gin, dry vermouth, and olive brine—I’d rather sip battery acid—but I took my drink when offered and pretended to be delighted.
“We don’t have any proof, just gut feelings, really.” Darlin’ took a big gulp of martini. “Big money would come in at the last minute, just before betting closed—before we had time to adjust the odds.” She idly stirred two olives skewered on a toothpick around her glass.
“What kinds of bets are we talking about?” I asked.
“Local book only. Mainly our Friday night fight series.”
“Did Numbers Neidermeyer set the odds?”
“On some of them, but not all. Even though she has ... had ... the reputation, I like to spread my business around.” My aunt looked up from her drink. Her eyes locked with mine. “I’ve seen greed get to the best of them.”
“Who was placing the action?”
“That’s my girl, follow the money.” This time my aunt looked pleased. Was this some kind of test and I’d missed it?
“Following the money, that’s what I was doing.” Jeremy joined the conversation. “Word on the street had it that someone was making private book.”
“Ms. Neidermeyer?” I asked.
“I’d just started turning over rocks, but more than one snake writhed in her direction.” Jeremy stood and started pacing. “I can’t prove anything, of course.”
“So, back to my original question: Nobody knows who places the action?” I asked.
“They don’t send the same guy each time.” Aunt Matilda said, choosing her words carefully. “But my manager thought he recognized Scully Winter as one of the carrier pigeons.”
“Scully?” My eyebrows shot up. “Didn’t he go underground after the State Bar yanked his license to practice law?”
“It appears he might have resurfaced.” Aunt Matilda took a sip of her martini as she eyed me over the top of the glass.
“Did the security cameras get him?”
“If they did, the tapes were erased before we knew to start looking.”
Unsure of what to do with my glass of witch’s brew, I looked around for a resting place. Finally, I scooched the wide crystal flute onto the side table next to the couch and hoped my aunt wouldn’t notice. Needing time to think, I leaned back. Scully! Single-handedly the slime had almost imploded the district attorney’s office. Daniel had been on the brink of homicide when he learned one of his own had been making deals with the scum of the city. The police brought them in, and Scully pled them out and took a nice kickback for it.
After paying his debt to society, Scully had vanished. So why had he chosen now to reappear?
“You got any ideas?” Matilda’s voice brought me back.
“What?” I sat up and looked at the two faces turned in my direction.
Jeremy and Matilda looked like believers waiting for words of wisdom from the Oracle of Delphi.
“I have ideas,” I said. “But I need some time to work all the angles.”
“Sure,” my aunt said, her voice flat, devoid of any intonation that might hint at what she meant. Did she mean, Sure, take the time you need, or, Sure, I don’t think you have anything?
“Lucky, you’re picking me up on Friday, right?” Matilda shifted gears so seamlessly she left me in the dust.
I stared at my aunt, trying to think why I would ever do such a thing. “Friday?”
“For the virginity auction at your mother’s place.” Matilda held out her glass, and Jeremy refreshed her drink from the pitcher as he looked at me with wide eyes. “She was supposed to talk to you about it.”
“She’s probably been too busy holding press conferences,” I explained earnestly, then added, lying through my teeth, “I’ll try to get away.” Spending the afternoon with Matilda and Mona at a virginity auction was about as palatable as attending a weenie roast with a tribe of cannibals.
The three of us visited a little longer. When another unsuspecting victim arrived, Jeremy and I seized the opportunity and made our escape.
Riding in Jeremy’s Hummer, I could imagine what it felt like to cover ground in the belly of a Sherman Tank. Encased in metal, sitting high off the ground, the vehicle chewed up road with ease. I felt invincible. All we were lacking was a 105 mm howitzer and a turret bristling with machine guns, which would really be useful in traffic. Tonight the traffic was light, so I didn’t really miss the weaponry.
“Want to tell me where we’re going?” Jeremy asked, as he followed the directions I had given him.
“Summerlin.”
He piloted his big black beast west on Tropicana, then south on Decatur. After a few blocks, we hit the 215, heading west, then north, around the city.
“A guy named Jimmy G has an Italian place there. He’s had his fingers on the pulse of this city for fifty years. If there’s even a hiccup, Jimmy hears about it.”
“A hiccup like someone going rogue and making his own book?” Jeremy asked.
“Perhaps.” My phone vibrated at my hip. Before I flipped it open, I glanced at the number—it put a smile on my heart. “Hey. Still slaving over a hot piano?”
Teddie laughed. “No, I’m at the hotel. I wanted to catch the end of the show.”
Once or twice a week, Teddie would watch his old show, the one he now produced. Quality control, he called it.
“How was it?” I asked. “Anything you need to fix?”
“Little things, but they can wait. Where are you?”
“On my way to Jimmy G’s. I’m riding shotgun in Jeremy’s Hummer, and I’m not properly accoutered. I need fatigues and an M16.”
“I can see you on the cover of Soldier of Fortune,” Teddie said, joining the game. “The Big Boss would be thrilled. His big-shot hotel executive and right-hand man turned to a life as a mercenary, helping despots and third-world dictators.”
“If I’m ever forced to make a career move, I’ll keep it in mind. In the meantime, we’re on our way to see Jimmy G.”
“Where’s your car?”
“With the valet at the French Quarter.”
He whistled. “You’ve had an exciting evening. How was dear old Aunt Matilda?”
“She told me I looked cheap. I took it as a compliment.”
This bit of news elicited another laugh from Teddie. He had a nice laugh. Of course, I was biased.
“You must be so proud,” he teased. “Look, why don’t I go get your car out of hock, then I’ll swing up to Summerlin and pick you up.”
“Deal. See you when you get here.” I closed the phone and leaned my head back.
I must’ve had a goofy grin on my face or something because Jeremy took one look at me and said, “Man, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.”
“That’s the pot and the kettle.”
“You have a point.” He took a right onto Summerlin Parkway, heading east toward town again. From our vantage point as we traversed the foothills of the Spring Mountains, the valley stretched before us. Like a sparkling blanket, the city covered the low-lying areas—the clustered bright lights of the Strip, a small vessel in the glittering sea. “Who is Jimmy G?” he asked.
“One of the old guard.” I pointed at the street sign announcing the next exit, Town Center. “Take the next exit, hang a right, you’ll see it.”
“I’ve been snooping around this burg for quite a while,” Jeremy said. “How come I haven’t heard of him?”
“You haven’t been properly introduced.”
“What?”
“The old guys don’t talk to anybody who hasn’t been vouched for by someone they trust,” I explained.
Jeremy turned into the parking lot. “Who’s going to vouch for me?”
“Me.”
A quick tour and we found a parking space. Actually we found two spaces—the city planners hadn’t factored in Hummers when they approved the parking lot.
A neighborhood place, Jimmy G’s was upscale yet casual, mirroring the fancy neighborhoods surrounding it. Summerlin was the high-rent district. The folks here had more money than God, but they didn’t want to flaunt it ... much. So Summerlin was an interesting island of attempted subtlety surrounded by a sea of gaudy excess.
This close to closing time, Jimmy’s place was almost empty. The restaurant, with its mauves and grays accented with shiny brass, was spit-and-polished for a new day. Like boats torpedoed at the pier and now listing to port or starboard, a few hard-core drinkers were anchored to the bar. At least one bottle of almost every conceivable brand of booze occupied the rows of shelves behind the counter.
On the top shelf, next to the expensive stuff, Jimmy had placed a picture of his daughter. Wearing a very small bikini, a fake tan, and a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder—her muscles oiled and bulging—Glinda stood on a podium and held a pose for the camera. She looked ready to bite off someone’s arm. Supposedly she was a natural bodybuilder, but I didn’t see anything natural about it.
Jimmy G held court at a small square table tucked in the corner of the bar between the baby grand and the front window. A small wiry guy, with dancing eyes and a ready smile, Jimmy clutched his signature glass of Pinot Noir.
A couple of old-timers sat in rapt attention as the natural storyteller regaled them with a tale they likely had heard before—one about the old days when he had owned a place near the Strip where all the big names used to eat a late dinner after their shows. No matter how many times I’d heard Jimmy’s stories, I’d gladly sit through them all again. There was an energy about him, an enthusiasm, that was impossible to resist.
A recent spate of bad health had doused his fire a bit, but from the looks of him, tonight was one of his better nights. I was flabbergasted when he jumped to his feet, dodged the table, and gave me a big bear hug. The last time I saw him, he’d needed help to stand—multiple sclerosis is a horrible disease. “Death by inches,” Jimmy called it.
“Look at you!” I held the slight man at arm’s length. “You look fantastic!”
“So do you.” He gave me the once-over with a twinkling eye. “If I was twenty years younger ...”
“If you were twenty years younger, you’d be the death of me and half the women in the Valley.” I took a seat at the nearest table. “Seriously, you’ve been transformed. Do you have a new girlfriend or what?”
He colored. His cheeks hadn’t held such a rosy glow in months. “It’s this new stuff my daughter has me on. You know how she’s into all this natural stuff. I don’t know what’s in it, and I don’t care. It’s a miracle, I can tell you that much”
I stepped aside and introduced Jeremy, who had been standing behind me.
Jeremy extended his hand. “Sir.”
Jimmy G eyed the Aussie, sized him up, then he took his hand. “I heard about you.”
“He’s straight up, Jimmy,” I said.
The older man let out a low whistle. “Son, if you got Lucky vouching for you ... well, it don’t come any higher than that.” Jimmy motioned for us to sit at the nearest empty table. When we were seated and the bartender had put a fresh glass of wine in front of Jimmy, he continued. “Pretty late for a social visit.”
Jeremy leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, as I took the lead. “You heard about Numbers Neidermeyer?”
“Yeah.” Jimmy rolled the stem of his glass between his thumb and forefinger and pretended to be fascinated with the red liquid. “Can’t say it was a shame.” His head still tilted down, he glanced at me from under his eyebrows. “Mind you, I ain’t being uncharitable or nothing.”
“She had it coming,” I said, stating the obvious. I didn’t get any disagreement from the two men. “The street has it somebody was making private book—mainly on local fights,” I continued. “You know anything about that?”
“I heard a whisper.” The little man glanced at Jeremy, then his eyes drifted back to me. “I ain’t saying who it was—don’t know for a hundred percent—but there was big money in on it.”
“Movers and shakers?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Could you find out who was running the show?”
“Now that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.” Jimmy G gave me a shrewd look, the look of a gambler setting his price. “You’ll owe me.”
“I’ve always paid my markers.”
“That you have.” The little negotiator drained his glass in one gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and gave me a grin. “This one’ll cost you big.”
“Not so big. I heard Scully Winter was involved.” I tossed off the line casually, as if I knew more than I did.
Jimmy’s eyes grew hard, then he spit on the ground. “Yeah, that foul wind blew in my direction, too.”
“I want to know who’s pulling the strings, and why Scully?” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms across my chest. “Think you can handle that?”
Jimmy G snorted. “Piece a cake. But remember, you’re gonna owe me.”
Business done, Jimmy looked as if he wanted to tell stories. I asked Jeremy to go check on Miss P at the office, giving him an excuse to escape. After he’d said his good-byes, I settled back with a glass of very nice Zin, as Jimmy G started in. I let him talk. My mind wandered a bit as I watched him gesturing, his eyes alight with wonderful memories.
Teddie had sounded like he was in one of his I-want-to-talk moods. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Who knew? Either way, I had a feeling we were going for a drive.
As if on cue and just as Jimmy ground to the end of his second story—or was it his third—I heard the familiar Porsche growl. Headlights flashed across the window. A car pulled up by the front door. Teddie didn’t kill the engine so I took my leave.
Jimmy gave me another hug. This time he held tight. “You be careful,” he said. “I don’t gotta tell you this is a nest of rattlesnakes.”
“I’ve waded around in the snake pit before.”
The little man shrugged, but I could see the worry he was trying to hide. “It’s your funeral.”
I really wished he hadn’t said that.
Thankful I didn’t have to drive, I folded myself into the passenger seat. Teddie greeted me with a kiss, which I lingered in, testing his mood as much as enjoying the sensations. The heat of his kiss seeped into me, making me all hot and melty inside. If he was mad or worried, he hid it well, although I detected an undercurrent of something. I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“I brought a blanket, a jacket for you, and a couple of cold Buds.” He said as he maneuvered through the parking lot and onto the street. He didn’t slow down as he hit the traffic circle. “How about we go up toward Red Rock?”
Now I knew for sure he had something on his mind. “Are you going to tell me what’s bugging you, or are you going to make me wait?” I closed my eyes and leaned my head back as he accelerated up the ramp and onto Summerlin Parkway, heading west.
“Waiting will do you good.”
No, waiting would just make me angry. I’m into immediate gratification, even when it comes to getting bad news.
Teddie knew that.
I got the distinct impression I was being punished.
Most visitors to Vegas never think of renting a car, which is a shame. The Strip is but one Vegas Valley offering; Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area is another. Just to the west of town, the thirteen-mile paved loop wanders through pristine desert with its yuccas and scrub, past breathtaking red rock monoliths, and two-thousand-foot cliffs. Here you can see wildlife of a different sort—herds of wild burros, and, if you are very lucky, an occasional wild mustang.
A developer, in his infinite arrogance, bought the top of the mountain just to the southeast of the park entrance. He planned a whole community with thousands of houses, retail shops, and commercial properties, the whole enchilada. When the fair citizens of Vegas got wind of it, Mr. Developer found himself unable to get the requisite permits. Imagine that! Eleven mil right down the slop chute. It put a song in my heart, I can tell you that.
Since then, tacky had been confined to the Strip.
Of course, Red Rock was closed at this hour, but that didn’t matter. Teddie and I had a favorite place just outside the park. He turned off toward Calico Basin and bumped along on a fairly well-maintained oiled road for a half-mile or so. Finally he eased into the empty parking lot at the trailhead.
The night air had turned downright cold for a thin-blooded desert-dweller like me. I shrugged into the jacket, then we both scrambled up a boulder—a real challenge in my fuck-me shoes. Teddie spread the blanket, then settled in, his back propped against the rock behind. I felt the stored heat of the day still lingering in the hard surface as I curled in next to him, my head on his shoulder.
From the vantage point of our magical perch, we could see the whole of the Vegas Valley, a place of contrasts almost beyond comprehension. The city itself, blooming with life, glowed in the deep, lifeless void of the vast Mojave.
When I was a child and prone to fanciful imaginings, I thought Vegas was a lot like Berlin—each a city surrounded by its antithesis. I used to dream that I was an intrepid pilot flying a C-54, dropping essentials to the trapped citizenry of my fair city. I always saved them, each and every one. There was a reason I found my home in the customer relations office. Now I saved people from their excesses and minor lapses in judgment.
Always the rescuer, never did I think I needed a line thrown to me ... until Teddie came along with his rope.
Cuddled against him, his arms tight around me, I realized I had needed saving most of all.
Teddie rescued me from myself. Having left home at fifteen, I’d learned to rely on myself; trusting others didn’t come easily. In fact, I avoided it at all costs. Teddie had delivered me from a self-imposed exile of loneliness. Most days I was really glad he did, but I had a feeling today was not going to be one of them.
“Here’s your beer,” he said, clearly intent on dragging this thing out.
I thought for a moment before answering. Let’s see. The two glasses of champagne were so long ago they didn’t count. A large tumbler of bourbon and a snifter of brandy with the Big Boss—those counted. A sip of a nasty martini? Didn’t count. Then a glass of smooth Zin. That counted. How did the saying go? Liquor then wine, you’ll be fine? So far, so good. But what about beer? I had no idea.
“Sure, why not?” If I was going before the firing squad, I needed liquid fortification.
After twisting off the cap, he handed me a longneck. “I got an interesting call this evening.”
“Who from?”
“Dig-Me O’Dell.”
“The music impresario?” I tried to keep my voice level, my curiosity appropriate. “The head of Smooth Sound Downtown Records?” I stuffed the bottle of beer in a crack in the rock. Then I worked my hand under his sweatshirt, splaying my fingers on his stomach. The heat of him radiated to my very core.
Teddie inhaled sharply; he felt it, too. Then he forced a laugh, the sound reverberating through his chest under my ear.
“You’re good, O’Toole. Really good. I almost believe you’re surprised.” He pulled my hand from under his shirt, then held it against his chest.
Okay, he didn’t want me touching him—not a good sign. I lifted my head and looked at him. In the dark, I couldn’t see him clearly enough to get a good read on exactly how angry he was. “I am surprised. Truly. I just ...”
“You just what?”
“Nothing.” I returned my head to his shoulder. Lying would be so much easier if I didn’t look at him.
“It’s funny,” he said after a moment. “I write a few songs, talk about my dream to be a legitimate singer, make a CD for you, and six weeks later I’m getting a call from one of the big boys in the business.” Teddie must’ve felt me shiver because he reached across and pulled the blanket around me. “This has your fingerprints all over it.”
“Why would you think that? Somebody could’ve heard you in the bar or even taken in your show. They could’ve put a bug in Mr. O’Dell’s ear.”
“But they didn’t, did they?” His voice rode on an undercurrent of semi-contained anger. “Sweetheart, the man had my music.”
What in the heck was he mad about? “So? I really don’t know how Mr. O’Dell got that disc.” That was the truth. I had my suspicions, but I didn’t exactly know.
“Quit prevaricating.” Apparently Teddie’s syllables multiplied when he was steamed. “Here’s how I think it went down. You copied the CD I gave you and sent it to your buddy the music agent. What’s her name?”
“One-Note Wylie.” I slapped a hand over my mouth, but it was too late. I’d already inserted my foot up to my ankle.
“Right, Ms. One-Note.” Teddie shifted, pulling me closer to him. “She passed the thing around L.A., and I ended up getting a call from Dig-Me O’Dell. How’m I doing?”
“Not bad.” When push came to shove, even to save myself, I couldn’t lie to Teddie. What I didn’t get at all was why he wasn’t doing handstands. Fool that I was, all of these revelations seemed like really good things. But what did I know? Not much, apparently. “What did Mr. O’Dell want?”
“He wants me on the first plane to L.A. in the morning to lay some tracks and play the rest of my stuff for him.”
“That’s terrific!” I pushed up to my elbow, narrowing my eyes at him, which I doubted he could see. “One would think you would be over the moon.”
“I am.” The words were flat, devoid of enthusiasm.
“Well, yippee. Alert the media.” I ran a hand through my hair, swiping it out of my eyes. ‘I’m having a little problem here. You sound like you’re ready to spit nails.”
“You got that right.” Teddie’s voice rose. “I knew you were one tough broad, but I had no idea the cojones you swing.”
“Don’t be foul,” I snapped, starting to see red. I would’ve pushed to my feet, but that didn’t seem wise considering I was sitting in the pitch-black dark, on a rock, wearing six-inch stilettos. Fighting with myself, I resisted the urge to fight ugly, especially after that tough broad remark. “Let me get this straight. You’ve spent your life building the foundation for a career in music—legitimate music. You get an enthusiastic call from one of the bigs in the business. And you’re pissed at me because I got the ball rolling?” Unable to control myself, I shouted the last bit.
“Damn right! You should’ve asked.”
“Asked you what?” The ungrateful SOB! “You want me to get your permission to send my copy of your music to a friend in the business? And what would you have said?”
“No.”
At least he was honest.
“Well then, at least it’s a good thing one of us is swinging a set of cojones.” Okay, that was a low blow, but, hey, I’m human. Trapped by the darkness, I sat there in a huff. Men! If God had wanted women to put up with the beasts, why hadn’t he provided an owner’s manual?
“You had no right.”
“Look, Kowalski, you know well enough that helping people is what I do—I see a problem, I fix it. I admit, it’s a horrible character flaw, but I can’t help myself. And, like it or not, I am front and center in your life. You asked for it, you got it. Deal with it.”
Teddie reached up and pulled me back into his embrace. I resisted for a fraction of a second to let him know I was steamed but hadn’t quite reached blinding fury ... yet.
“And what problem did you fix?” His voice still held the traces of his anger.
“I was the only one who got to hear your incredible songs.”
He was silent for a moment, then he gave a resigned laugh. “You know just how to take the fight out of me.”
Once again, I relaxed against him. Our first dust-up, and it looked like we’d make it through relatively unscathed.
“I guess I have a lot to learn about life by committee,” I said, which was my way of apologizing.
“Lucky, we’re just a committee of two.”
“Double the number I’m used to working with.”
“Point taken. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate what you did.” He hesitated. “I’m just not sure I’m ready.”
Now he was in my wheelhouse. I knew all about the courage it took to face the reality of your dreams. “It’s one of the great ironies of life—just when you get comfortable, the cosmic powers pull the rug out from under you.” Remembering my beer, I reached for it and took a long swallow.
“I think you pulled this rug out from under me.” Teddie didn’t sound mad anymore. He sounded half-amused.
I took that as a good sign.
“I don’t have to go to L.A. The music can wait.” He sounded as if he wanted me to agree with him.
“Yes, you do,” I said. “And, no, it can’t.” I sought strength from the warmth of Teddie next to me as I stared into the night sky, wishing I could divine the future from the alignment of the planets and stars. What did life have in store for us?
“You really think I’m ready?” Teddie tightened his arms around me.
“You don’t have to take my word for it. Isn’t that what Dig-Me O’Dell is trying to tell you? “ I snuggled in close. Closing my eyes, I tried to capture the moment—the feel of his arms around me, the hint of his Old Spice, the warmth of his body next to mine. I had a feeling it might be awhile before we had another moment like this. Maybe the memory of this one would bridge the gap…Who was I kidding?
Teddie was quiet for a moment. “Maybe I’m ready, but I’m a bit…”
“Scared? You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t. Dreams are damned scary things.” I put my empty bottle down, then reached across Teddie, holding him tight. “Just remember, regret is ever so much more terrifying than fear.” I should know.