Lucky Flash: A Lucky O'Toole Novella (The Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Series) (5 page)

“You’re not helping,” Romeo said out of the corner of his mouth.
 

“This is Vegas.
 
He was a god.”

Romeo held out his hand.
 
I shook my head.
 
“Belongs to the Big Boss.”

“It’s evidence.”

Reluctantly I handed it to him.
 
“Lose it, it’s your ass.”

He knew I was half-joking.
 
Without even giving it an appreciative look-see, Romeo dropped it in an evidence bag and pocketed it.
 
“You took this from Busta’ Blue?”
 
Romeo’s voice held a hint of awe.
 
“You might not have much, but you got balls.”

Johnny managed to look slightly incensed.
 
“He stole it first.”
 
He put his hand out, palms down as if pressing on an invisible table, or tamping down escalating emotions.
 
“Look, I can’t prove it, but there’s some guys in town, they’re stealing the real stuff replacing it with fakes.
 
Nobody’s the wiser.”

“How do you know that?”

“Pawnshop downtown.
 
I tried to fence a piece I lifted from the storage room at Hard Rock.”
 
Like I said, Johnny Pismo wasn’t the brightest bulb.

Romeo looked amused.
 
“Busts usually aren’t this easy.”

“You’re going to arrest me?
 
Hey, I put it back,” Pismo squeaked, a post-pubescent reaching for the high note.
 
“Besides, I’m on a case.
 
Yes, that’s it; it’s all part of a scavenger hunt.”

“And gunfire on Fremont Street, according to these ladies here.”
 
He motioned to Flash and myself.
 
“Patrol confirmed reports of gunfire.”

Johnny Pismo waffled.
 
“I didn’t mean for that to happen.
 
I was shooting for the stars, in a manner of speaking.”

“On a case?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking.”

“You a PI now?”

“In training.”

“He’s all yours,” I said to Romeo.

“What is it you think you know?”
 
Romeo’s voice was flat, angry with a hint of exhausted.

“The competitors were given a list of cool music shit.
 
Stuff that belonged to some of the greats.
 
The harder the stuff is to grab, the more points we earn.
 
The one with the most points wins.”

“Wins what?”
 
I asked while Romeo scribbled in his notebook.

The uniforms had secured the men in the back of the cruiser and now stood guard in a bored sort of way—this sort of thing was probably routine and therefore boring to them.
 
On the other hand, Flash seemed riveted as she too took notes in what I knew to be her own personal version of Sanskrit—illegible to most and unreadable to all unless they had access to her mental Rosetta Stone.

“The winner gets a recording contract.
 
Dig Me O’Dell of Smooth Sound Downtown Records is offering a one-year contract, a shot at opening for one of their big acts, promotion…you know, the whole enchilada.”

Scribbling stopped as all eyes landed on Johnny Pismo.
 
Unused to the scrutiny, he shrank into himself.

“You mean we have a bunch half-crazed wanna-bes running all over town, taking things that don’t belong to them, to try to win a shot at the big time?”
 
Romeo sounded incredulous.

Personally, even though the scheme sounded ill-advised, it didn’t seem all that far-fetched.
 
“You got a list of the icons you’re looking for?”

“Not on me.”
 
Johnny patted his pockets.
 
“It’s like a treasure map; I’ve got it stashed where nobody can find it.”

“I’ll take you to get it, then you’re coming downtown with me.”
 

Pismo didn’t argue.
 
Considering Busta’ Blue wanting to put a heap of hurt on him, jail probably seemed like a safe place to hide.

“How many contestants are there?” I asked Johnny Pismo.

The crooner shrugged.
 
“Who knows?”

“What happens to the items that are stolen?”

“Here’s the deal,” Johnny leaned in, lowering his voice.
 
“I can’t prove it or nothing, but the items get returned to their rightful owners—in theory.
 
But I’m thinking that’s how they pull the switch, giving the owners back the fakes.”

I couldn’t shake the feeling that Pismo’s story held about as much water as a sieve.
 
Time to move up the food chain.
 
The Big Boss had some explaining to do.

CHAPTER THREE

F
LASH

A big part of being an investigative reporter involved keeping my mouth shut and my ears open.
 
So I’d stayed in the background while all the excitement died down, letting Lucky and Romeo untangle Johnny Pismo’s story.
 
Romeo had tucked Pismo into the back of his unmarked—there still was that whole shooting into a crowd issue to be dealt with, along with the possession of stolen property thing.
 
Lucky had staggered home.
 
Between you and me, she needed less real world and more role play.
 

Bondage has been known to bring back the near-dead.
 

My friend Fabian would be just the man to whip her into shape.
 
His little House of Horrors was just what the sex doctor ordered.
 
Of course, talking Lucky into the fur-lined handcuffs would take some doing.
 
I wrote that onto my mental to-do list for tomorrow.
 
The handcuffs were essential.

But right now I wasn’t thinking about sex, an unusual state. Well, okay, I was thinking about it, just not for me.
 
And I was thinking about Johnny Pismo’s tall tale.
 
Yeah, that’s right, I didn’t believe a word.
 
Okay, maybe under the stench of all that bullshit lingered a hint of the sweet smell of the truth, but I couldn’t shake the feeling Johnny Pismo had layered the compost on pretty dang thick.
 
Something was going on.
 
I could feel it.
 

 
Right now I needed more info—this whole scavenger hunt thing.
 
What could possibly be in it for Smooth Sound Downtown Records?
 
I’d leave the big shots to Lucky and Romeo.
 
After years on the streets combing through the trash for stories, I had my own strategy.
 
While Lucky started at the top and worked her way down, I cut straight to the lowest rung on the ladder.

Ralph “Woodstock” Winslow was my go-to guy when I needed the inside skinny on the music biz.

Like a rat, I knew every back alley in Vegas, so it didn’t take me long to get to the Babylon, saunter up its grand curved drive, then push through the gold–and-glass front doors.
 
Even at four in the a.m. the place was packed, the vibe just hitting the peak of the evening.
 
Every time I stepped foot in Lucky’s place it hit me like a peak sexual experience, leaving me weak-kneed and tingly all over.
 
I don’t know what it was—maybe all that white marble inlaid with mosaic tiles in every bright color imaginable.
 
Or maybe it was the multihued cloth tented above registration.
 
Or maybe all the plants and little bridges over the stream complete with all sorts of waterfowl that made rabbits look like pikers in the breeding game.
 
Or maybe it was the indoor ski slope behind a thick wall of Plexiglas across from registration.
 
Or maybe it was the handsome servers in their tiny uniforms that left practically nothing to the imagination.
 
Yes, handsome servers—at the Babylon, the fiefdom of cocktail wait staff had been gender-integrated at Lucky’s insistence, God bless her.
 

Never one to ignore eye candy, I ogled a few of the hunks passing flutes of Champagne as I strode through heading toward the casino.
 
A couple of them triggered a spark of recognition.
 
Where had I seen them?
 
Fabian’s?
 
Everybody there wears a mask which made facial recognition iffy.
 
Most of the other defining physical attributes were not presently on display—Lucky and the Brass at the Babylon would frown on that.
 
Maybe I’d seen them at the Green Door?
 
I hadn’t partaken of the sexual free-for-all in a while, so I doubted that was it.
 
Whatever. Vegas had an abundance of handsome, willing young men—if one left the game, there were always two to take his place.

A couple stood in a passionate embrace tangled together at the apex of the small bridge over the Babylon’s version of the Euphrates.
 
Intent upon each other, they seemed oblivious they were stopping traffic both coming and going.
 
Other folks nicer than myself rerouted to one of the other nearby bridges.
 
I, on the other hand, put my head down and charged up the slight incline.
 
At the top, I poked the guy on the shoulder.
 
It took a couple of pokes to get his attention.

“What?”
 
He gave me a bleary eye.
 
His hair a mess.
 
Red lipstick smeared across his mouth, he didn’t smile.

“You’re blocking traffic, dude.”
 
I didn’t back down.
 
“Why don’t you and your lady get a room?
 
I hear they have some nice ones here.”

“She ain’t mine.”
 
He winced, prodded by that painful point of reality.

I wanted to say she didn’t look much like a lady either with her breasts popping out of her tight corset and her pussy skirt—so named because, with no underwear, that’s exactly what oglers got an eyeful of—but who was I to judge?
 

“Well, take it somewhere else then.”

“Who are you to tell me…”
 
His eyes shifted over my shoulder and widened a little.

“Let the lady pass.”
 

The couple beat a hasty retreat.
 

I smiled, but didn’t need to turn to know who was behind me.
 
“Hey, Renny.
 
Didn’t know you were in the business of rescuing damsels in distress.” I turned and recoiled in surprise myself.
 
“Shit.”

Renny Mitchum, fondly known as Renny the Reefer, because of his fondness for a certain tripointed leaf, looked like himself, except for the gruesome makeup, pirate scarf tying his salt-and-pepper locks back, one long earring dangling from his left earlobe, and a large snake coiled around his neck. “Honey, I’ve never known you to need rescuing.”
 

“What’re you doing here, with…that?”
 
I put a hand to my throat as I nodded at the snake who eyed me with lifeless eyes.

Renny adjusted the weight of the snake on his shoulders.
 
“Me and Christine…you know Christine, right?
 
The girl with the chicken show,” he prompted, his eyebrows raised.

I thought for a moment.
 
“Oh, the show where the chickens play tic-tac-toe against anyone willing to risk a ten-spot?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.
 
She’s my friend, and I stopped to watch her do her thing.”
 
His face clouded and his eyes grew misty.

“What happened?”
 
Before I remembered Renny didn’t like to be touched, I gently squeezed his arm.
 
Renny was running on a high double-digit I.Q., but he held his own and got by better than most, but he struggled in social situations.

He flinched but didn’t pull away. “Jake here…” Renny scanned the area like he was looking for a place to hide.
 
“I forgot to feed him, alright?
 
And when Jake gets hungry…”
 

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, bringing tears to my eyes.

Renny’s eyes drifted from mine as he became focused on his shoes, Converses with no laces.
 

“Did Jake eat one of the chickens?”

Renny nodded, still looking down.
 
“Her best rooster.”

“And Christine?”

“She was okay, nice even.”
 
Renny looked up.
 
“She’s my friend.
 
And she’s got lotsa chickens, although she says they’re not too smart so they’re hard to train.”

Training a chicken—now there’s a concept.
 
“I know some pansy-assed men who could benefit.”
 
Renny gave me a narrow-eyed look.
 
I shrugged.
 
“My point being,” I continued, “chickens we can find.
 
The training is up to her.”
 
I gave him a good once-over.
 
The look in Jake the snake’s eyes left me no doubt he considered the chicken nothing more than an appetizer.
 
Renny looked a little gaunt himself.
 
“Why don’t you and Jake come with me?
 
I got to find a friend at Pandora’s Box, then maybe we can catch a bite in Neb’s.”
 
Neb’s was the Babylon’s twenty-four-hour buffet fit for a Sultan and his harem.
 
“Whaddya say?”