TWO BITES into my tuna melt I was waylaid by my push-to-talk. It was just going to be one of those days.
“O’Toole.”
“Hey, Gorgeous, miss me?”
Teddie! The sound of his voice warmed me all over. “Miss you? Why would you think that?”
“Because I started missing you the moment the elevator doors closed behind me.”
“I can work with that.” Nodding to Miss Patterson, I excused myself and stepped through the outer doors into an adjacent garden area where I could talk freely—and giggle without risking ridicule. “How’s the City of Angels?”
“The angels have fled. Sin is making a comeback.” Teddie laughed at either an unspoken observation or a private memory.
I didn’t know which and didn’t have the guts to ask. Of course, he’d only been there half a day. How much trouble could he have gotten into? I didn’t have the guts to ask that, either. “I’m not surprised. Hollywood is the perfect confluence of too much money and too little sense.”
“No kidding.” This time, when Teddie laughed, I knew why. “Remind me to tell you about the new trend in recreational sex. They call them polyamorous parties.”
“Do I really want to know? Casual sex gives me hives. And remember that whole visual thing I have going on?” Were we flirting or bantering? Never having had much experience with the former, I couldn’t distinguish between the two. Maybe sleeping with someone turned banter into flirting? Who knew? Whatever it was, there was a comfort…an unanticipated feeling of connection. I liked it. “And, since we call the same address home, I have the right to ask how you came by this juicy tidbit.”
“I was invited to one, but I respectfully declined.”
“Wise fellow.” I switched the phone to my other hand as I bent to retrieve a piece of trash from under a rose bush. “Monogamy will enhance your longevity.”
“Then I will live to a ripe old age.” He didn’t try to hide the warmth in his voice.
“How’s the music?” Half-oblivious to my surroundings, I wandered over to a trashcan and deposited my offering. “In contrast to their filmmaking cousins, do the jingle writers have any sense?”
“I don’t know about sense, but they love my music.” The excitement bubbled in Teddie’s voice. “When I first got here, I wasn’t sure how the whole thing was gonna go. Your Ms. One-Note met my plane and gave me the rundown. It seems it’s easier to break into the business if you write songs for specific people or if you perform your own stuff. Apparently, crooners are considered one-trick ponies and are a ha’penny a dozen.”
“So you got it covered either way.” Teddie could certainly sing all his original songs, and I also knew he had composed some pieces with certain voices in mind.
“The response to my stuff was great when I sang it straight. But, when I started imitating certain celebs singing the songs I had written for them, man, the whole vibe changed. Magic happened. Dig-Me started calling in other folks to listen, then they called more people. Pretty soon I was playing to quite an audience. It’s so much easier to feed off that energy than to try to create it with only a piano and a mike. It was amazing! I wish you’d been here.”
I could picture it—Teddie channeling Mariah, Madonna, Ne-Yo, Akon, Tim McGraw, Streisand, Sinatra…he even did a pretty fair Johnny Mathis. And his Liberace would put you under the table. Of course, Liberace didn’t really sing, but that didn’t stop Teddie—he had the man down cold. My love had yet to realize he was a born performer. “The roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd” was in his blood.
“I’m sure you wowed them.”
“Don’t know about that—they’re pretty tough. But, they are bringing in Reza Pashiri this afternoon. She’s looking for an opening act. Then there’s some event tonight. They want me to run through a few numbers.”
“Intoxicating.”
“It’s more than I could ever have hoped for.” Teddie’s voice sobered. “And I have you to thank.”
Little did he know, but I was feeling real conflicted about that right now. “I opened a door; you stepped through and grabbed them by the throats,” I said.
“I wish you were here,” he said simply.
As a wave of nauseating jealousy roiled around in my stomach, I seconded that notion. “Teddie?”
“Yeah?”
“You are coming home, aren’t you?” I hated myself the minute I said the words.
“Of course. That’s where my stuff is.”
His attempt at humor hit a sour note. “Break a leg, or whatever they say to ivory ticklers. Let me know how it goes.”
“Lucky,” he said, his voice no longer bantering, “I’ll see you soon. Count on it.”
The sad thing about all of this was the guy really got me. I wondered how much of me he would take when he left.
An empty plate sat in front of Miss P when I returned.
“Sorry,” I said as I plopped into my chair, fresh out of good humor. No longer hungry, I pushed my plate away as I settled back. I grabbed my glass of Diet Coke and stared into the murky depths trying to divine the future. If it works with tea leaves…
“Teddie’s news wasn’t good?”
I looked up from my Coke into the troubled eyes of my friend. “Ignore me. I’m just having a poor-pitiful-me attack. His news was great…for him. The Great Teddie Divine is cutting a wide swath through Hollywood. He’s even being considered as the opening act for Reza Pashiri.”
“Doesn’t she go on tour for years at a time?”
I nodded, but refused to say the words. If I spoke them aloud, then all of this would be real.
Miss Patterson leaned back, a stunned look on her face as the ramifications hit home. Apparently she couldn’t find an appropriate platitude, so she sat there in disbelief.
After a morose minute or two, which seemed like an eternity as I pondered my future long-distance bill, even I was getting tired of my act. I slapped my hands down on the table and pushed myself to my feet. “Enough of this. The future will take care of itself.” I reached down and pulled Miss P to her feet. “In case you’ve forgotten, our job is the present, which is about to take off at a dead run. I suggest we get a head start.”
Getting a head start had been a good idea. Unfortunately, we were too late. The day had galloped off without us. Brandy had a phone at each ear and a bland expression on her face when Miss P and I strolled through the door.
Young, tall, with brown hair, blue eyes, a wide smile that made you grin in spite of yourself, and a body that doubtlessly fired male fantasies, Brandy had seized her responsibilities as my second assistant like a mongrel grabbing a bone.
She’d been parking cars at the Athena when, by sheer luck, I’d found her. Our paths had crossed before. She had shown herself a diligent and clever student in a class I taught at the University of Nevada Las Vegas School of Hotel Management. I had admired her even more when I learned of her family life. Her parents were both deaf and had never learned to read, making education a difficult and lonely path for their sole offspring. Due to her background as a cage dancer, Brandy had found it difficult to get a suit-and-tie job. I don’t suffer from the heightened sensibilities that infect the management of other major hotel groups in town. Brandy was my kind of gal.
Like proud parents, Miss Patterson and I crossed our arms, leaned against the glass window separating our office from a plunge to certain death in the lobby below, and watched our protégée handle a sticky problem.
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. I am so sorry, sir. Could you please hold?” Brandy said into one receiver, then pressed the hold button. Into the other receiver she said, “Paolo, Mr. Hollywood Asshole is in the bar near the security entrance to concourses C and D. At least, that’s where he thinks he is. He’s not speaking in complete sentences, and he’s starting to sound like he has rocks in his mouth. I doubt if he can stand unassisted, much less walk. Is Filip with you?” Brandy nodded while she listened, then continued, “Good. Get your butts over there and get him out the back door before somebody with a camera finds him.”
She took the first phone off Hold. “Sir, our staff is three minutes away. Again, I’m sorry for the mix-up …Very good, sir…Yes, we have a suite with a bar full of Patron Añejo awaiting your arrival.”
She paused for another moment, listening. “No, sir, no female chasers. Those will be up to you.” She slammed both receivers into their respective cradles, then gave us a grin.
“Impressive.” I levered myself away from the window. “Which Hollywood asshole are we dealing with? An important orifice or a minor sphincter?”
“An important orifice—Spin Monkey Red, our DJ for Saturday night.”
“I didn’t think he was coming until Friday.”
“That was the plan, but he got his days mixed up and there was something about a bust-up with his girlfriend of the week.” Brandy shook her head. “He really wasn’t making much sense.”
With a name like Spin Monkey Red, sense wasn’t a trait I expected him to have, but my assistant apparently had a slightly higher expectation.
“When no one was at the airport to meet him, he headed for the bar. The bartender called us.” Brandy blew a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “We found him. Paolo is praying the guy doesn’t lose his liquid lunch in the back of the limo.”
“Hazards of his chosen profession.”
My very naive and inexperienced assistant grimaced. “I’m so glad it’s not part of mine. Vomit makes me sick.”
Miss Patterson shot me a grin. I gave her an almost imperceptible shake of the head in response. The young Miss Brandy Alexander had a rude awakening coming. The laws of biology dictated that when one overindulged, the body responded. If Vegas was about anything, it was about excesses of all kinds. And our job was to deal with the sometimes not-so-pretty ramifications. But now was not the time to dump reality into the girl’s lap.
“He’s Filip’s problem now,” Brandy said, and settled back in her chair, a look of self-satisfaction on her face.
Filip was one of our VIP hosts. Even though not terribly experienced, he had been around the block enough to know how to corral a shellacked mini-luminary.
“But it’s not even one o’clock,” my new assistant said. “How can the guy be drunk already?”
“Not already. Still.” I picked up a small pile of phone messages with my name scribbled at the top and said as I leafed through them, “If experience has taught me anything, the guy is still on last night’s bender. Once here, he’ll hit the hay until about midnight, then start all over again. Unless he gets arrested, I’m not sure he’ll even notice he’s not in L.A. anymore.”
When the outer door opened, all three of us swiveled our heads to get a look at our visitor.
A young man slouched in. His hair stood from his head in a multicolored, foot-tall Mohawk that faded from black to shades of red and pink, with orange and purple thrown in for good measure. He wore numerous rings in each earlobe, a ring through his nose, and a look of youthful disdain on his face. Hollow-chested and wearing a dirty white muscle shirt with jeans slung low across his narrow hips, flip-flops, and brilliantly hued snakes and other reptiles tattooed from wrist to shoulder on each arm, he glanced at Brandy, gestured with his head toward the hallway, then left without saying a word. Rising from her chair, the young woman blushed as she rushed out the door.
“What was that about?” I asked.
Miss Patterson shrugged.
We made small talk while furtively glancing at the youngsters out in the hall. Their conversation animated, I couldn’t imagine what the two of them would have in common—my designer-addicted assistant and her…my vocabulary failed me as to what the young man was or what he could do for a living. Or, for that matter, why such a brilliant, beautiful girl like the young Miss Alexander would come when so rudely summoned. So I remained mute.
When Brandy returned, Miss P and I pretended to be knee-deep in work, without the slightest interest in the young man. But I couldn’t pull it off. “Okay, who was that?”
Brandy moved some papers around on her desk so she wouldn’t have to look at us. “Just a guy I know.”
“Surprisingly, that much we could figure out on our own.”
This time, she looked up. I sensed a bit of defiance there. “He’s a nice guy, okay? We hang out sometimes, no big deal.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s in between jobs right now.”
“No surprise there,” I shot back. “Unless he’s really good with Harleys, I’d say his prospects for gainful employment on this planet are slim.”
Brandy frowned. “I would think you of all people wouldn’t be judgmental.”
“I’m not judging him; I’m merely pointing out the obvious. Look around you. How many of the guys working here look like your friend?”
“Not many,” she mumbled.
“Try none.” I parked a hip on her desk. “Brandy, remember, you are in management at one of the premier resort properties in the world, and you earned it. You don’t park cars anymore. When you move up, sometimes you leave people behind.”
“I didn’t know your influence extended to my choice of partners.” Brandy’s voice was hard. Foolish and young, she had spunk, and I liked that.
“It doesn’t. I only own your soul. Your personal life is yours to keep. Believe me, I have enough trouble with my own.” Levering myself back to my feet, I turned to Miss Patterson. “Take a run through Babel, will you? Make sure they’ve got the step-and-repeat where we want it and the red carpet is enough of a stroll that all the shutterbugs will have ample opportunity to capture the celeb of their choice.”
The step-and-repeat was the banner with the names of all the sponsors of the opening night of Babel, our rooftop club/lounge. One of the games we played in Vegas was to make sure that the celebrities we had paid for were photographed only at our club and in front of the step-and-repeat. Heads would roll if one of our high-priced hosts ended up in the paper at a competitor’s club—my head being at the top of the list.
“They were hanging the banner this morning.” Miss P turned for the door. “I’ll make sure it’s the way you like it.”
Brandy’s face had cleared. Now she looked like a puppy ready for a bone, so I gave her one. “Get Mr. Padilla on the phone. I’d like to stop by to see him for a few minutes at his convenience, but preferably sooner rather than later.”
I heard her pick up the phone and ask the operator to be connected as I strolled into my office. Already staggering under the burden of the impending weekend, I groaned at the mess of papers still covering the beautiful black walnut desk. As I rounded my desk, I saw one perfect red rose with a note attached lying across the seat of my chair. I picked it up, held it to my nose, and inhaled. Ah, the unmistakable scent of a fresh flower grown in the desert sun. No hothouse rose from this sender.
The message, in a flowing script I knew well, put a smile on my heart. “Think of me and know I’m thinking of you. Miss you more than you know.”
The guy was definitely a keeper. If only keeping him was within my power.
Inhaling the strong scent again, I strolled back into the outer office. Brandy was off the phone. “How did this flower get into my chair?”
‘I’m not at liberty to say.” She grinned at me. “I caught Mr. Padilla having breakfast in his suite. Apparently he’s on a different schedule than the rest of us. He said now would be perfect.”
“Great.”
“Oh, and Jerry asked if you could swing by Security. Apparently he has some information you wanted. He said it would only take a minute.”
“Call him. Tell him I’m on my way. Then tell Mr. Padilla I’ll be there within the half hour.” I took the efficient note out of my voice. “And, for future reference, while it might be true and somewhat appealing to refer to our guests as assholes, when you are on the phone with them there is a risk that you might not have gotten their call put properly on hold. If that happens…trust me, the ensuing fallout is not worth the momentary pleasure of calling a spade a spade.”
Brandy’s face clouded.
I held up my hand. “No rebuke intended. And promise me you won’t ask me how I learned that lesson.” At her responding grin, I pushed through the outer door, leaving Teddie’s rose on Miss P’s desk.
An intoxicating drug, the faint whiff of fight weekend craziness met me halfway down the stairs to the lobby. As I leaned on the crossbar to open the door at the bottom, I braced myself, but even I wasn’t prepared as I pushed through into the throng. Riding on an undercurrent of excitement, a cacophony of raised voices hit me like a prizefighter’s jab. Lit by the high-octane combination of liquid fuel and adrenaline, people mixed and mingled, shouting at friends, giving others an appreciative wolf-whistle, as they shrugged out of the strictures of their everyday lives.
Others waited near the front entrance, like a school of hungry piranhas, cameras at the ready, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the current icons of pop culture, but they waited in vain. Eager to avoid the paparazzi, most recognizable faces arrived through the VIP entrance. Hidden and well guarded on the other side of the casino, that entrance led directly to the Kasbah suites and apartments—our celebrity enclave, and the current residence of Tortilla Padilla—my second stop this morning.
But first, a swing through Security. Jerry was waiting.
With the practiced moves of an NFL halfback, and thankful I had left the stilettos at home, I dodged our drink-wielding guests and made my way to the main bank of elevators. As I waited for the next car, I checked myself in the reflective surface of the metal doors—nary a drop of sloshed drink on my dark blue Dana Buchman trousers and cashmere sweater.
My hair was reasonably in place. I still fought with it every morning as I struggled to master my new style. Makeup highlighted my reluctant cheekbones, full lips, and blue eyes while hiding my facial flaws. Too bad I couldn’t find anything short of lipo to mask the flaws running rampant over my thighs.
All in all, my reflection was not the me I used to find so comfortable, and, frankly, being well turned out was more trouble than it was worth. Personally, I liked it better when my hair was wild and my makeup nonexistent. It made me look more menacing. I’m not proud of it, but love had made me a pathetic slave to vanity. I hoped this was the low point. Balancing precariously on this slippery slope, I lived in fear that one day I would follow in my mother’s footsteps—right through the revolving doors of a plastic surgery center.
A dim, formerly smoke-filled cave, Security was the command center, if not the beating heart, of the hotel. Like large mosaic tiles, video screens decorated every inch of the far wall, floor to ceiling. Security personnel were seated at intervals along a low counter in front of the monitors, where they scanned the feeds from the cameras scattered throughout the public areas of the hotel. Along an adjacent wall, also covered by monitors, gaming specialists watched the games currently in progress on the casino floor, looking for anomalies.
Jerry, a tall, trim black man (he never cared for the whole African American thing—I was white, he was black—distinctive, yet no different) was the captain of this starship. He stood with feet spread, his back to me, hands behind him, staring at the monitors as he gave each one his undivided attention for a few seconds. With his practiced eye, a few seconds was all he needed to subconsciously identify a problem in the making, if there was one.
The two of us had worked side by side for the Big Boss for as long as I could remember. Security and Customer Relations were halves of the same whole, and the years had given Jerry and me an easy camaraderie and confidence. We guarded each other’s backs, no questions asked.
Today Jerry wore a pair of casual slacks and a camel jacket in place of his usual suit and tie. Baby-soft Ferragamo loafers, a polo shirt, and a flash of gold at his wrist completed his ensemble. Comfortable, yet stylish, he was dressed for what we both knew would be a long weekend.
Sensing my presence, he turned. Nodding at me, he dispensed with the pleasantries. “We cobbled together some interesting footage from the tapes you asked me to review.”
“You must’ve had your staff working overtime.” Stepping in beside him, I pretended to be fascinated by the ever-changing show on the monitors. Watching others go about their business was too close to voyeurism for my comfort level.
“It didn’t take as long as you might think. We used Jeremy’s face-recognition software.” Jerry rubbed a hand over his shiny pate. The hair was gone, but the habit remained. “That’s pretty slick stuff.”
“So I hear.” I waited a moment. Jerry was lost in the movies playing in front of us. “You want to show me?”
“Oh, right.” He shook his head as he turned away from the wall of screens. “Something’s going on. I don’t know what, but something doesn’t feel right. Maybe it’s just fight weekend—I don’t know.”
I followed him to a tiny cubicle in the back of the room. Two chairs had been placed in front of a computer screen for us. Jerry took the one in front of the video controls and punched a few buttons.
The screen came to life as I settled myself in the seat next to him.
Numbers Neidermeyer appeared on the screen. She looked as I remembered her—tailored suit, long hair, screw-you expression. Even though I knew she was dead, looking at her still set my blood simmering. Isn’t it funny how love and hate both make you hot and bothered?
“Okay, I spliced all the footage together with the time imprints in the corner so you can keep track of the chronology,” Jerry said, as he started the tape. “This is about two-twenty yesterday morning. We got her coming into the hotel, apparently alone.”
I watched as she marched across the lobby. Was that her normal gait, or was she loaded for bear?
“There’s Jeremy,” I said, pointing as he appeared.
We both watched as the argument I had witnessed played out on the tape. Numbers disappeared into the casino. Then after talking to me, Jeremy followed. My heart skipped a beat. “Don’t tell me Jeremy followed her.” I shifted my eyes to look at Jerry.
He shook his head. “No. Here’s where it gets interesting. Your Ms. Neidermeyer was pretty clever. She knew where the cameras were, so we lost her for a bit, but we have some tricks of our own.” He worked a few dials and buttons, and again Numbers appeared on the screen. This time she stood in front of the bank of main elevators between the casino and the lobby. She had doubled back.
“I guess she knew we didn’t have the manpower or the time to check all the tapes,” Jerry said, grinning. “But she didn’t know about Jeremy’s face-recognition software, which cut our search time by a factor of ten.”
Silence stretched between us as, on the screen, Numbers rode the elevator, then got off on the twelfth floor.
I raised my eyebrows at Jerry.
“I told you this is where it gets interesting.”
Riveted, I turned my attention back to the screen. Numbers entered Room 12410, the Lovatos’ room. Then, according to the time imprint on the tape, ten minutes later Daniel Lovato entered the room, swathed in his sheet and using the key I had given him. Twenty minutes later, a fully clothed Daniel, a hand shading his face, left. Numbers followed three minutes later and marched in the opposite direction. As she waited for the elevator to appear, she rooted in her bag. She pulled something from her purse. As the elevator doors opened and she entered, she sprayed first one side of her neck then the other; the thing must’ve been a perfume atomizer. Then she sprayed her wrists and rubbed them together. She held them to her nose as the elevator doors closed.
“Who’s this?” Jerry asked, as he pointed at the third player to leave the room.
Small, blond, her muscles filling out a painted-on sheath of a dress—I knew her without seeing her face. But when she glanced over her shoulder toward the camera, that confirmed it. Glinda Lovato, in all her glory. “That is the Mrs. District Attorney.”
Jerry leaned back in his chair, a self-satisfied look on his face. Reaching into his pants pocket, he extracted a silver cigarette case. Flipping it open, he extended it toward me. “Want one?”
“You know that’s not one of my vices.”
“Lucky you. I’ve tried everything to quit. Nothing took.” He extracted a thin, unfiltered Gauloises, struck a match and held it to the tip, inhaled deeply, then shook out the flame.
“Did the Big Boss give you special dispensation to ignore the no-smoking policy?”
“I had to threaten to go to work for the competition,” Jerry said smugly. “But he finally caved. I’m confined to my cubicle here, but that’s enough.” Jerry took another hit, then blew a perfect circle with the smoke. He nodded toward the screen. “Interesting menage à trois, wouldn’t you say?”
Was it French Bon Mot Day and I missed it? “So they left separately. Numbers and Mrs. Lovato leaving in the same direction, Daniel in the other.”
Jerry watched me as he enjoyed his cancer stick. He knew I was thinking out loud.
“Can you go back to the part where Numbers left?”
“Sure.” With the cigarette dangling from his lips, Jerry leaned forward and worked his magic with the controls.
“There.” I pointed at the image. “Numbers left with a purse. She didn’t have it when she went in.”
“Anytime you want to work in security, you’ve got a job.” Jerry grinned at me, which dislodged the ash from the end of his cigarette. He brushed it away.
“She had been in that room before.”
“She and the Mrs. arrived together yesterday afternoon. The check-in tapes show the Mrs. at Registration by herself, doing the paperwork and giving them her credit card, but we were able to capture Numbers in the background. They both went up to the room.”
Terrific. The three of them came and went like the Keystone cops.
What was the connection between the district attorney, his wife, and pond scum like Numbers Neidermeyer? Who had tossed Numbers Neidermeyer to the sharks? Were the two related? Had Jeremy really just wandered into the whole thing? Too many questions, too few answers—actually, no answers at all. The whole thing made my head hurt. “So what does all this mean?” I sagged back in my chair.
“That’s for you to find out.”
“Just my luck. I came here for answers, and all I get is more questions.” I levered myself up as Jerry stuck another cigarette between his lips and lit it with the stub of the first. “I don’t have to tell you those things will be the death of you,” I scolded.
He cocked his head toward the screen and the last image of Numbers Neidermeyer. “There are worse ways to go.”
If Vegas was a temple to wealth, the Kasbah was its sanctuary. Built with the über-wealthy in mind, it oozed opulence, service, and comfort. A security guard at the tall hammered-bronze doors nodded at me as if I were entering the gates of Oz.
In stark contrast to the darkness of the casino, the Kasbah was well lit. Single, self-contained apartments surrounded an open courtyard with burbling waterfalls, a pond, and flowering vegetation. The sanctuary was so inviting that a pair of ducks returned every year to hatch their eggs and raise their young.
Tortilla Padilla had set up camp in Bungalow 7. The doors to each bungalow mimicked the door at the entrance to the Kasbah, only in a slightly smaller scale. As I stood before them, I felt like Indiana Jones on a harrowing hunt for some antiquity. My heart beat a staccato rhythm as I pondered what tests of courage and guile my quest would require. I’d checked on Tortilla Padilla before, but I’d never come face-to-face with the man himself. I imagined him to be a hulking blockade on my path to enlightenment.
Not only had I never met Mr. Padilla, I knew little about him—fights and fighters weren’t my things. I never could understand the lure of watching two guys bludgeoning each other, blood flying, faces being turned to pulp, brains incurring irreversible damage... the whole thing turned my stomach. But, unfortunately, I wasn’t paid to pass judgment or to cater to my own sensibilities, so there I was, ready to do battle with the former reigning middleweight champion of the world... or the universe... or whatever.
At my knock, the doors eased opened on well-oiled hinges.
“Ms. O’Toole?” It was Tiny Tortilla Padilla in the flesh. His thousand-watt smile, the very same one that graced all the posters around town, gave him away.
While he wasn’t huge, he certainly wasn’t tiny. Mr. Padilla fit the fighter mold—at least my version of it. Of average height, he sported a strong jaw, dancing dark eyes, a mop of tousled black hair, and a chiseled physique, which his chosen attire—workout pants and nothing else—showed to perfection. I tried not to stare, but one thing was certain—if I were his wife, fifteen children would be on the low side.
He stepped aside and motioned me into his bungalow.
I shook my head and stayed where I was. “I’m sorry to bother you. This won’t take a minute.”
“Suit yourself.” With perfect balance he leaned against the knife-edge of the door, crossed one leg over the other, and his arms across his chest.
If I’d tried that I would’ve fallen on my ass. God, he was distracting—I focused on his face. “Have you been reading about the woman who was found in the shark tank at Mandalay Bay?”
“Who hasn’t?” Lifting one corner of his mouth into a wry smile, he shook his head. “Man, only in Vegas.”
I felt like telling him that even by Vegas standards the demise of Numbers Neidermeyer was pretty spectacular, but I don’t think he would’ve believed me. “Had you seen her around?”
“Only once,” he said. “She cornered me in the casino one night. It may have been the night she died—I don’t remember. It didn’t seem important at the time.”
“What did she want to know?”
“How was I feeling, what did I think my odds were…the usual.” The fighter eyed me. “Why do you ask?”
“She set the odds for most of the fights in town,” I explained, trying not to be unnerved by his glare. “Obviously, she’d stepped on somebody’s toes. I just wondered if you’d gotten wind of anything unusual going down or if Ms. Neidermeyer had approached you at all.” My eyes drifted from his. I never was very comfortable dancing around the real issue. As my mother said, both barrels blazing was more my kind of approach.
“You want to know if she was trying to buy me off or something?” His voice was hard. His eyes no longer danced. “Get me to throw the fight?”
“I didn’t mean to suggest that.” Well, maybe I did, but I was smart enough to deny it when the man I was busy insulting was considered by most to be the best all-around fighter in the world. “Why would you throw the fight? You’ve been promised a king’s ransom, win or lose.” My eyes locked onto his. “I just want to know anything you might know regarding Ms. Neidermeyer.”
“Why do you care?” He still glared at me, not giving me an inch.
“Ms. Neidermeyer cast a wide net. She caught a good friend of mine—a P.I. who was sniffing in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
As if he could see into my soul, Mr. Padilla stared at me with those inscrutable black eyes for a moment. Then he shouted over his shoulder, “Crash!”
We both waited. Nothing.
He shouted again. “Yo, Crash!”
“Yeah, yeah. I can hear, you know. Whatcha shoutin’ for anyways?” A huge black man wearing an apron and drying a dinner plate with a dishrag filled the doorway. One cauliflower ear, a nose mushed slightly to one side, an eye that didn’t quite track, Crash had the look of a heavyweight who had fought past his prime. His hands shook a bit as he worked the rag around the dish.
Tortilla Padilla tilted his head toward the newcomer. “This is Crash Crawford, my trainer.” Then he shifted his gaze to the big man. “Tell Ms. O’Toole here what you told me about the lady who got eaten by the sharks.”
The big man gave me the once-over, then shrugged. “Not much to tell. She came sniffin’ around the ring the other day asking all the normal questions about my man’s preparations. You know, stuff like had he lost a step, and all that?”
I nodded, even though I only had the barest inkling as to what the “normal” questions might be.
“But, you know, the weird thing was, she reminded me of somebody. I couldn’t quite place her. But then, last night, I was eatin’ pizza and it came to me, all of a sudden like.”
He stopped. For some reason I got the distinct impression he was milking the limelight. So I gave him my best look of exaggerated patience.
“Crash, quit jerking the lady’s chain.” Tortilla shot me a wink. “Don’t mind him. He has a flair for the dramatic.”
Not the least bit chagrined, Crash waited a moment longer then continued, “Ms. O’Toole, right?”
I nodded.
“Thought so. My brain isn’t what it used to be.”
“Madre de Dios, Crash.” Tortilla Padilla rolled his eyes, but his grin was a mile wide. Unlike me, Mr. Padilla was apparently enjoying the show.
The big man shot a sideways glance at his boss. “Ms. O’Toole, I’ve been around the fight business a lotta years. I seen a bunch of things, know what I mean?”
“Only too well.”
“There was this snot-nosed kid hanging around the ring when I was managing a fighter back in Atlantic City, maybe fifteen years ago. Maybe more. She was a slip of a girl, not over fourteen, with hair the color of a pale strawberry. She said she was writin’ for her school paper. I don’t know whether that was true or not, but she sure had a nose for the business.”
“And you think that kid was Numbers Neidermeyer? There’re a lot of people with strawberry blond hair.” Hope flared in my chest—the timing would be about right…
“Yeah. It wasn’t only the hair, though. It was her attitude. The way she asked questions like she was challenging you. And the questions she did ask, they were said in a way to make you believe she didn’t know as much as she did.” He looked at me with a questioning glance.
I nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“But she did know—a whole lot. That’s why I remember her. Here was a flat-chested little scrap of a girl who knew the fight game. Only one I ever met who did.”
“It sounds like Numbers Neidermeyer, all right.”
“But it wasn’t.” Like a lion surveying the herd for his next meal, Crash swung his head slowly from side to side as his eyes shifted to focus on something over my shoulder. “Her name, I mean. Not back then. Not Numbers. Not Neidermeyer.”
“No?” My pulse quickened. Oh, God, he’d already given me more than I thought he would, but now let him give me something really good.
“Naw, the kid went by Shelly-Lynne Makepeace.”
“You sure?” I tried to keep my voice even, my emotions under control.
He made a rude sound. “Like I said, the kid sorta stuck in your memory, know what I mean?”
I threw my arms around the big man’s neck, surprising both of us. Self-control was never one of my stronger suits. “Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!” Throwing caution to the wind, I kissed him on the cheek. Then I turned on my heel, leaving both men staring after me.
Whistling a jaunty tune I couldn’t name—where was Teddie with his encyclopedic mastery of all things musical?—I strode out of the Kasbah and once again immersed myself in the horde packing the casino. As this Wednesday afternoon marched resolutely toward evening, and our guests toward a big weekend, the energy would ratchet up one notch at a time until, like a spring wound too tightly, it would threaten to erupt at any minute.
Pausing for a moment, I closed my eyes and listened. While close to a fevered pitch, the throng had yet to reach the combustible stage. This was the calm before the storm. Add a few more minor luminaries, a bit more money wagered on the fight, and a few more gallons of liquid accelerant, and we’d be there.
Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes. Surveying the crowd, I grabbed my phone from its perch on my hip, flipped it open, and dialed. My eyes wandered, looking for trouble in the making.
Jeremy answered before I even heard it ring. “Don’t even ask. I’ve got zero, nothing, nada. It’s like that woman materialized out of thin air.” From his tone, I could picture him running a hand through that wonderful wavy hair of his, exasperation clouding those gold-flecked eyes. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep the hint of worry out of his voice.
“Having a good day, are we?” I asked, as a couple of guys barreled into me from behind. One of them reached out to steady me as I staggered. Neither of them said they were sorry. “I might be able to make you feel better.”
“You’ve got something?” In an instant, his voice sounded recharged.
“A name. Try Shelly-Lynne Makepeace. See if you can pick up a trail around Atlantic City, say fifteen to twenty years ago. Let me know what you find out.”
“For sure.”
I started to close the phone, but Jeremy’s voice stopped me. “Lucky?”
“Yeah?”
“Atlantic City. That’s New Jersey, right?”
“Right.”
I had survived the casino and just entered the lobby when my phone rang again. With a practiced motion, I flipped it open with one hand. “O’Toole.”
“Lucky?”
I recognized Jimmy G’s distinctive voice.
He cleared his throat. “We gotta talk.”