"Are you flirting with me?"
Romeo punched the paramedic on the shoulder. "I told you she was one ballsy broad."
I puckered my lips as I glared at Romeo, then turned and ran headlong into the medic's bemused expression. Afraid my brain might leak out my ear, I cautiously cocked my head at the young detective. "The kid has a death wish."
That got a laugh out of both of them. Defusing tension, I can do.
With a couple of Steri-Strips in place, I felt good enough to try standing. Romeo extended a hand, which I gladly accepted.
The EMT steadied me with one hand holding my elbow, the other firmly pressed into my lower back.
"How're you doing?" he asked as I tentatively stretched to my full six feet.
For some reason, the fact that he still had me by a couple of inches made me feel infinitely better. "I'll rally."
"You don't know how lucky you really were." Still holding my elbow, he eased me to the door. "When those windows blew…" Leveling those eyes, now dark and serious, like the sky before a storm, he captured my eyes. "Have you ever seen a human flayed alive by flying glass?"
***
Sitting sideways on a gurney parked in some obscure hallway at University Medical Center—UMC to us locals—I half-listened to the conversation in the curtained-off cubicle across the hall, straining to hear through the residual ringing in my ears.
A bored voice with forced energy—presumably the doctor's—said, "So," a pause as papers rustled, "Mr. Jones. What do we have?"
A male voice, mellifluous, melodic, sexy…vaguely familiar."Well, a few years ago my girlfriend and I were into some pretty rough stuff."
"S and M kind of stuff? What are we talking about?"
"Cock stuffing."
I blinked. The doctor didn't say anything—I would've paid good money to see his expression. Or mine for that matter.
"You know, that's where you take—"
"I understand, Mr. Jones."
Wait. Don't cut him off! I didn't understand. What were they doing? My mind freewheeled until I stomped on the brakes—imagination is a terrifying thing.And I was dizzy enough as it was. I didn't need to add hurling to today's indignities.
The patient continued. "Anyway, the thermometer broke…inside. I bled…a lot. But the doctor got everything under control, said there was no permanent damage."
"I hope they also told you to never use thermometers. They have surgical instruments; you can purchase them at any S and M store. They're called sounds. Same sensations, none of the downside."
"Good to know, but that sort of play was a short term thing. I'm married now and my wife has her limitations."
I narrowed my eyes. He made it sound like not getting her jollies from bondage and stuff was a shortcoming to be overlooked. To be honest, I sorta agreed.
"And you are here because…?" The doctor sounded nonplussed by all of it—just another night in the asylum.
Mr. Jones continued, "My toddler, he's only three. Would you like to see a picture?"
"Perhaps later."
"He's the greatest kid." Mr. Jones chuckled in that doting-parent way. "Anyway, he was running and, well, he head-butted me in the groin. And, I've got a bit of a problem."
I heard the doctor set down his chart, then snap on a pair of latex gloves. "Let's see what's going on. You can take the towel off."
"Oh."
Then silence. Leaning so far toward the curtain closing them off from view, straining to hear every word, I almost fell off the gurney. I caught myself, barely. Thank God somebody had locked the wheels.
"Oh my!" Pained or alarmed—or a bit of both, it was hard to tell—the doctor no longer sounded bored. "Put that towel back on. I'll be right back." He rushed out of the cubicle, glanced at me, then charged down the hallway in a flurry of white coattails. He disappeared through the door, which closed behind him.
Well that was fun. Show over. Tucking my hands under my thighs, I swung my feet and tried to picture what in the world that guy had been doing with that thermometer. Then I decided, being visual and all, I'd had enough trauma for the day. I thought about asking him myself but abandoned that idea as being a bit tacky. Although, I
was
really bored.
An orderly had brought me down here months ago, parking me outside radiology while he went to check on the timing for my CAT scan. My stomach empty, my patience long since exhausted, I glanced through the curtain and up and down the abandoned hallway, plotting my next move. Aspirin had dulled the pain behind my right eye. The ringing in my ears had muted to the point where I no longer had to strain to make sense through the noise.
The door at the end of the hall banged open admitting two orderlies who ran in my direction. They dove into the cubicle next to me. "Sir, you need to come with us."
"Where are we going?" Mr. Jones's voice held a hint of panic.
"The doctor needs to get the swelling down, relieve some of the pressure, before permanent damage is done."
As they wheeled Mr. Jones out, I strained to catch a glimpse.
Oh my God. I was right! I knew him.
Mr. Jones, my ass. That was Creighton Crider. He'd been a big shot at Metro when I was a kid. We used to call him Crayfish Crider—a Bayou Boy with a limp, clammy handshake. I guess his handshake wasn't the only limp member he had.Somebody I knew had dated him—sort of a walk on the wild side with an older guy as I recall. One of those stupid things young women do. Which friend was it who had done Crayfish? I couldn't remember—my brains were all scrambled.
I shuddered at the thought as I watched the trio trundle down the hallway.
The doorway at the end swallowed them whole leaving me, once again, alone with my thoughts. Normally, I could tolerate my own company, enjoy it even, but I'd been alone with me so long I was boring myself.
With the entertainment over, I seriously considered making a run for it. Somehow I couldn't work myself down to the indignity of an ignominious escape, mooning the world as I dashed away in my hospital gown. Pride can be such a hindrance.
On the verge of throwing dignity out the window, I sipped off the gurney, clutching my gown closed behind me. I whirled at the sound of the pneumatic doors at the far end of the hallway swinging inward.
My mother, Mona, charged through the opening. In leggings and a loose white tunic to hide her baby bump, with her brown hair swinging loosely to her shoulders, her make-up impeccable, her skin glowing, and her eyes dark with emotion, she looked like my kid sister.
That
certainly made me feel better. Add her unparalleled ability to punch every button I had, and her presence had me clinging by my fingernails to the ledge of civility.
Returning to my previous position on the gurney, I pasted on a weak smile and promised myself I would shelve the sarcasm. Okay, I would
try
to shelve it—making promises in my condition was iffy at best.
Mona hurried to my side, then clutched one of my hands in both of hers. Her skin was cold. I guess she really wasn't faking her worry, although, with Mother, one never could be certain."Lucky! My God, honey!" She leaned in and whispered, her voice shaking. "It's like before."
Another time. Another place. Another bomb. I shut my mind to the assault of the memories. "Don't go there, Mother. I'm okay." I looked around her but didn't see anyone.
Amazingly, Mona understood. "I left your father out front talking to the doctors. He'll be here in a minute." She grabbed my hand her face turning serious. "There's something going on, Lucky."
"I'll say.
That
message was delivered with quite a punch this afternoon."
She waved her hand as she glanced over her shoulder at the hallway doors. "Not with Jimmy G. It's your father. He got some kind of note yesterday. It made him nervous…and angry. I haven't seen him like that in a long time."
"What did the note say?"
"He wouldn't tell me. But I thought, with you two being thick as thieves, maybe he might tell you."
If she was jealous of my relationship with my father, she kept it hidden. Our bond was understandable really—my father and I had the hotel business in our blood. A businessperson as well, my mother had experience of a different kind, although it was remarkably similar in some respects. Until a couple of months ago, she'd been the proprietress of Mona's Place, the self-styled best whorehouse in Nevada. She and Father had married recently, terminating my illegitimacy. I still wasn't sure how I felt about that. Glad for them, of course, but missing a ready excuse for the boulder I carried on my shoulder.
"Father can be awfully private, but I'll try…when the time is right."
Mona's worried look fell away—transferring responsibility always lightens the load. She graced me with a soft smile. "I heard you're a hero," she said, her voice breathless with a grudging awe.
"Overstating." I tried to extricate my hand, but she wouldn't let go.
The doors swung open again, this time admitting my father, Albert Rothstein, lovingly referred to as the Big Boss. One of the top-tier players in town, he was integral in making Vegas what it was today. Currently he owned several properties, the Babylon by far his most grand. Yes, not only was he my father, he was also my boss. Not really advisable, but we seemed to be making it work.
Hands in his pockets, he strolled toward me, his weak flash of a grin unable to fully camouflage his concern. A short man with salt-and-pepper hair, a square face, and chiseled physique, he oozed masculinity and something else—power, perhaps? In his perfectly tailored, dark gray Italian suit in summer-weight wool with a very faint pinstripe, starched white shirt, deep purple tie, diamond-encrusted collar bar, and Gucci wingtips, he was every inch the power broker. With worry tingeing his eyes and pulling his lips into a taut line, he was also every inch a concerned parent. He moved close but didn't reach out to me. "The doctors say you're going to be fine. The CAT scan is just prophylactic."
I gave him a lopsided grin. "You know how I feel about prophylactics."
"Lucky!" Mona feigned shock.
I rolled my eyes. Apparently playing the owner's wife included heightened sensibilities not normally found in a former hooker.
Father patted her hand. "Humor, honey. It's how Lucky deflects, you know that."
Most people yearned for that kind of insight from their loved ones. Not me. It just made me uncomfortable. Picking at the hem of my gown, I stared at the floor commanding my thoughts into a logical formation, which sounds way easier than it was. "Father, you remember Boogie Fleischman?"
"Boogie the Bomber." His eyes widened slightly as they held mine. A few beats passed before he answered. "That's going way back." My father reached into his back pocket and tugged at his wallet—a slim, well-worn piece of leather. He opened it and extracted a hundred dollar bill. Flipping the wallet closed, he tucked it back where he'd found it and began working the paper bill. His hands shook a bit, which surprised me. Creasing and folding, he glanced at me. "What'll it be?"
"Your choice."
My mother and I watched him, his brows scrunched in concentration, as he created. A few moments, and he was finished. Taking my hand, he turned it over and pressed the finished product into my palm. After leaning in for a quick peck on my cheek, he let go of my hand and stepped back.
Glancing down, I smiled. A heart. "Origami," I said. "Your way of deflecting." I hoped he'd heard my smile. "Now, Boogie and Jimmy G? Weren't they partners or something? I can't remember; I was young."
"Very." My father's eyes had turned dark, his expression serious as he crossed his arms. "This reminds me of that time…"
"Yeah, startling similarities." My tone shut him down. A close call, so long ago. "A bomb. Jimmy's Place."
"You don't need to remind me." My father's voice was flat, hard.
"Tell me about Boogie and Jimmy G," I prompted. "You've never really talked about it before—I've never heard your take."
"Never had to give it to you."
"Perhaps now might be a good time to fill me in."
Amazingly, he didn't argue. "Not only partners, but the best of friends, they'd moved out here together. I can't remember exactly, but neither one of them was much more than legal at the time."
I finally extricated my hand from Mona's. When I patted the gurney next to me, she boosted herself up. Reflexively, my father helped her, right-side-of-the-tracks manners from a wrong-side guy. "This was when? The sixties?"
My father nodded. "They'd both grown up in the restaurant business back in Jersey. So they came out here and set up shop together—a popular little Italian joint over on Eastern. The neighborhood was much more upscale then—all the casino folks and their families lived there."
"What happened between them?"
My father ran a hand over his eyes. "Why're you asking me this? You can't possibly think…"
For a moment I chewed on my lip, remembering.
Mona looked at me owl-eyed. "Lucky?"
I shut them both down with a look. "I don't know what to think. Tell me what happened."
He shot me a questioning look but did as I asked. "Boogie fell in with the wrong crowd. You know Jimmy, he kept his nose clean, ran a nice place. Jimmy forced Boogie out—he didn't need that kind of trouble. Jimmy paid him fair, but Boogie held a grudge." My father glanced around. I knew what he was looking for—a window. He loved to stare out through a window when he trotted down memory lane.
"No pretty vistas here, Boss. This is a hospital, one of the most depressing places on the planet. I'm sure the lack of ambiance, although a bit sadistic, is purposeful. Makes us all want to go home."
My father shrugged. "You know the rest of the story."
"Tell me again. I want to be sure."
"I'd like to hear it again, too," Mona said, adding an encouraging nod.