Technically, Tony Francisco was a singer. But to his legions of adoring fans, he was far more. A bobby-sox idol of the late forties, movie actor of the fifties and sixties, television star of the seventies and eighties, he was a part of their lives. Even now, at the age of sixty-nine, his albums still sold in the millions and his concert tours were always sellouts.
He was certainly no paragon of virtue. But despite—or perhaps because of—his failed marriages, barroom brawls, and bullying ways (as colorfully detailed in the tabloids and in several unauthorized biographies), the fans loved him. Tony Francisco was the stuff that legends are made of.
Having reluctantly agreed to Emmett Druperman’s counteroffer, he was at the Galaxy for his contracted week’s appearance.
As usual, the number of premium players attracted by his presence, trumpeted to the world on the hotel’s mammoth Stripside electronic billboards, more than justified his $2.5 million paycheck.
And as usual, Francisco was being an unmitigated prick.
Surrounded by sycophants, he was seated at a reserved blackjack table. A curious crowd had gathered around the table, kept at a respectable distance from the aging superstar by a red-velvet rope barrier and four heavyset Galaxy security guards.
The dealer, a young Philippine woman, was close to tears.
Lucy Baker, the floor supervisor, normally enjoyed her job. But tonight was an exception. Facing an impossible situation, she was pale and tense.
“One more time. I want those cards dealt single deck. And I want mine faceup,” Francisco said ominously. “Or I’ll make sure you two broads get your walking papers.”
Struggling to maintain her composure, Lucy replied, “You know our rules, Tony—”
“Mister Francisco to you, lady.”
“Sorry. Mr. Francisco. We can deal to you faceup from the shoe or facedown from a double deck, but I can’t authorize single-deck, faceup play.” Lucy was stuck between a rock and a hard place. They had all been told to treat Francisco with kid gloves, but at the same time, she knew that casino policy on blackjack dealing was inviolate. “Maybe if I called the shift supervisor—”
“Fuck the shift supervisor. You make the decision. And it better be the right one.”
Steve Forrester’s phone buzzed softly.
“It’s Thurman Washington on three,” came Suzy’s voice over the intercom.
He punched the flashing button and picked up the phone.
“What’s happening, bro?” he asked his eye-in-the-sky officer.
“Looks like trouble on BJ seventeen. Francisco’s up to his old tricks. Giving the crew a hard time.”
“Christ, not again.”
“He wants to change the blackjack rules.”
This isn’t the first time that arrogant son of a bitch has created problems, Forrester thought. There was the incident in which he drunkenly drove his Ferrari up the front steps of the hotel, slightly injuring a doorman in the process. There were the unpaid gambling debts. Not to mention the broken mirrors and wrecked furniture that were often strewn in his wake. Yet the Galaxy always forgave and forgot, because, as Steve realized, we still need this egomaniac more than he needs us. And he knows it.
The only question was, who picks up the pieces this time? He could pass the buck to Emmett Druperman. Or he could handle it himself.
Forrester decided to bell the cat.
“Okay, Thurm, I’ll take care of our friend.”
He replaced the receiver, grabbed his jacket, and grinned at his executive assistant on the way out. “Better get our resumes ready, Suzy. We may not have jobs when I get back.”
The confrontation had degenerated into a Mexican standoff as Forrester ducked under the rope and approached Tony Francisco. As always, Steve marveled at the star’s relatively youthful appearance; he looked a decade younger than his almost seventy years. Thin, elegant, with a full head of silver hair, Francisco was living proof that good genes occasionally compensated for even the most dissolute lifestyle. Extending his hand, Steve greeted the venerable entertainer.
“How are you, Tony? Anything I can do for you?”
Francisco ignored the outstretched hand. “Yeah. Tell these bimbos to deal me single deck, faceup.”
While Steve disliked hypocrisy, he realized that he was obliged to defuse the situation without ruffling the feathers of the Galaxy’s prime attraction. Thinking quickly, he whispered confidentially to Francisco, “Suppose we set up a personal game just for you in the Jupiter Room”—a small private casino off the main gaming area, reserved for VIPs—“and we’ll deal the game any way you want.” This way, Steve reasoned, the Galaxy wouldn’t be setting any public precedents in its blackjack-dealing policies. Francisco could make all the fuss he wanted behind closed doors … and Steve would make sure that the assigned dealers and supervisors were thick-skinned veterans of the green felt jungle who wouldn’t be rattled by this egotistical bully.
“Sounds like a plan to me, mister. Let’s go, troops.”
Forrester picked up the pit phone and quickly made the arrangements.
“Why don’t you take the rest of your shift off, Maria,” he said to the dealer. “You’ve had a tough time, and you deserve a break.”
Still shaken, she smiled gratefully at Steve and headed for the dealer’s lounge.
Forrester turned to the young floor supervisor. LUCY BAKER, her name badge read. “Thank you, Lucy, for keeping your cool. I appreciate the way you handled the situation.”
“Thank you for coming along when you did, Mr. Forrester.”
“I’m surprised you know my name.” With more than four thousand employees spread over three shifts at the Galaxy, it was impossible to know every one of them. “Have we met before?”
“Kind of. You nailed a counter in my pit about six months ago. I guess you were too busy to notice me … .”
“Oh, right. The little fellow with the foreign accent and the large head—the one who wouldn’t shut up and leave quietly. It was you who called it in. And I never even said thank you!”
As Lucy’s color slowly returned, along with her composure, Steve couldn’t help but remark what a startlingly attractive woman she was. How had he missed noticing her before? With short dark hair framing a classically beautiful face, she had the bluest eyes he had ever seen. Great body—athletic but not overdeveloped. Forrester surreptitiously admired Lucy’s shapely ankles and well-proportioned calves, nicely accentuated by the medium heels she wore. She looks after herself—and she’s got guts, too, he thought. I’d like to get to know this lady better.
“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Forrester.” They shook hands. And she isn’t wearing a ring. “Honestly, I don’t know how much longer I could have held out. He’s such a … thug.”
“Please, call me Steve.” He sensed that the attraction might be mutual. “If you’re free for dinner tonight, maybe we could talk more about it.”
She hesitated.
“Of course, if you’re involved with somebody else …”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just …”
“Just … ?”
“Well, it’s just that we both work here.” Could I be exposing myself to an awkward situation because of his position? “You know what they say about mixing business and pleasure.”
“Who said anything about pleasure?” Steve replied, trying but not altogether succeeding to maintain a poker face. “We’re talking about a business dinner here. I think it’s vital that we discuss this incident fully and … set policy for future occurrences of this nature.” He winked. “Now if we just happen to have a little fun while we’re at it, where’s the harm?”
Ever since her failed affair on a cruise ship, Lucy had been supercautious in her relationships, choosing to go out with nice, interesting, nonthreatening men—men she could control, men she could keep at arm’s length. This would be different, she knew. She felt herself attracted to Forrester’s power, his competence, his sense of humor. What if I grow to like him too much? And what if—
Steve seemed to read her mind. “Look, I don’t mean to pressure you,”
he said, more seriously now. “I understand your … misgivings. Maybe we should take a rain check on the dinner.”
Well, kid, the ball’s in your court now. Are you going to run scared for the rest of your life? Lucy gathered her resolve. “How about,” she offered tentatively, “meeting for coffee after work? No strings attached.”
“No strings.”
“Good evening, Lucy, Mr. Forrester,” said Gladys Adams, hostess of the Cosmic Café. She prided herself on remembering people’s names, especially important ones such as casino executives. “Smoking, if I recall correctly?”
“Not for me, Gladys. I quit.”
Steve looked inquiringly at Lucy, who nodded approvingly. The Galaxy’s twenty-four-hour coffee shop—actually a full-service restaurant—was only half full. Armed with a stack of menus, Gladys shepherded the couple toward the booths ringing the floor. “Any preferences?” she asked.
“Maybe something near the orchestra,” said Forrester with a grin, trying to lighten the moment and put Lucy at ease.
“Best I can do is put you near the kitchen door,” replied their hostess, playing along dutifully with the old joke. As Steve had hoped, Lucy smiled.
“Your waitress will be right over,” said Gladys as they slid into a leatherette-upholstered booth. “Have a good evening, folks.”
“Thanks, Gladys.”
She left them alone.
“Just a coffee, Lucy?” Forrester asked.
“That’s fine.”
There was a moment’s awkward silence, then they both spoke together.
“Do you—”
“I think—”
They laughed.
“You first,” she said.
“I was going to ask if you came here often,” he said. “But then I realized what a dumb question it was. I must sound like a fifteen-year-old on his first date.”
“No, you don’t, Steve.” She smiled prettily. “To answer your question,
I hardly ever go to any of the restaurants here. Usually I brown-bag it. To save money.”
“Makes sense. Now, what were you going to say?”
“Nothing important. Only that I think our Mr. Tony Francisco needs to learn some manners and—”
At that moment, the waitress arrived. Steve ordered coffee.
One coffee turned into two, then three.
Forrester could sense Lucy’s relaxing in his company. The conversation began to flow more easily—mostly small talk, trade gossip, nothing too serious. But there was definitely chemistry happening. They both felt it.
“What do you like to do in your spare time?” Steve asked.
“Nothing special. I collect art. Mostly Impressionists. I can’t afford originals, of course, so I concentrate on prints. The only originals I have are a few landscapes by local artists I got at home.”
“Where’s home?”
“Back East.”
“So how’d you ever wind up here?”
“My family was in the hotel business. Dad and Mom ran a country inn in Newport, Vermont, just across the border from Quebec. As a matter of fact, they still do. Anyway, to make a long story short—or is it too late for that?—I started in the family business right after college. Which led to a job in a bigger hotel in Burlington. Which led to working on a cruise ship, in the casino.” Lucy decided not to mention the heartbreak she’d suffered on board. “Which led to this.”
Forrester smiled. “And I, for one, am very glad that it did.”
She looked at her watch. “Steve, do you realize we’ve been here for over an hour?”
He smiled. “And we have talked business. As agreed.”
“True.”
“Now that you know I’m a man of my word, how about that dinner? The invitation still stands.”
Lucy had known this moment was coming. She didn’t realize exactly when in the past hour she’d made up her mind. But all her instincts told her that this was a man she could trust. She decided to follow them. “I’d like that, Steve.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow night.”