Death On the Flop (8 page)

“Did—you—
Ack
—hear—
Blek
—that?” Pete forced out of his compressed airway.

Uh-oh.

“What?” demanded Electric Blue Rambo.

Pete groaned loud enough to make me think his throat was free of Rambo’s hands. “That sound?”

“The only sound I hear is you trying to distract me from killing you,” Electric Blue Rambo said. I swallowed my sigh of relief as he went on. “Listen, just because we are partners doesn’t mean we like you enough to keep you around. Take care of things for the next couple of days without bothering us or you are taking the fast track to hell. You got that?”

I felt like I was caught in the middle of a gangster movie. Who says stuff like that . . . “fast track to hell”? It reminded me of The Godfather. Which reminded me of horse’s heads in bed. I shook my head, trying to snap myself back to reality. It occurred to me that they were wrapping up their quaint little tête-à-tête. What was I going to do if they came down the stairs toward me? My Steve Maddens weren’t soundless. Damn, should have worn the moccasins after all.

As Electric Blue Rambo (I assumed) made a few more loud thumps on Pete, I considered slipping off the boots and running the rest of the ten floors on socked feet. But before I could decide, Electric Blue Rambo advised his buddy to get lost and footsteps scuffled above me.

Damn. Without any further brain bending, I lurched for the door to the tenth floor, opened it and ran faster than I had when my sorority housemother caught me in the broom closet with a Sigma Phi. The door slapped closed behind me. I had no plan, a tight skirt, high-heeled boots and the world’s longest, straightest hallway with absolutely no place to hide, but suddenly luck on my side. An older man appeared out of the elevator and began meandering down the hall. I escalated, slowing to a walk before I came even with him. As I heard the stairwell door slam open, I wrapped an arm around his waist and said loudly, “Uncle Jack! I’ve been looking for you all night.”

He grinned at me and the alcohol fumes made my eyes water. “Oh? Where was I?”

Heart pounding, I refused to glance back. Instead I winked at “Uncle Jack.” “Where you don’t belong, no doubt, you rascal.”

“This old dog might have seen his prime, but I’ve still got some go to me, girlie.” He chortled, then frowned. “I might have some go, but I don’t have a lick of memory. You must be Martha’s girl, right? Be sweet and remind a silly old man of your name.”

Thankfully, before I had to answer, he pulled up unsteadily. I could hear footsteps hurrying up behind us. “Oops,” “Uncle Jack” said. “Here’s my room. Almost passed it. That memory really is going.”

I held my breath as his wavering hand fished in his shirt pocket for his room key. His gnarled fingers shook as they fitted the plastic card into the lock. “Uncle Jack” held the door for me. I was halfway through when my luck ran out.

“Excuse me,” Electric Blue Rambo called out behind us.

I gently shoved my dear uncle forward, but the bad guy with the bad ass voice commanded attention, and he got it. “Yeah?”

I suddenly found a reason to primp in the mirror, yanking my hair loose to further hide my face.

“Hey, old man, did you come up the stairs just now?”

“No, went by the elevator, sonny.”

“How about her?” Electric Blue Rambo scared me so much I couldn’t look at him. I hoped he couldn’t see my legs shaking. I cocked my head and examined my lip gloss, smoothing it with a pinkie. I smelled the Iceberg again and tried not to shiver as I saw him reach for me out of the corner of my eye.

“This is my niece, sonny,” my gallant savior announced bravely if slurringly as he stepped in the way. “Paws off.”

“No offense, I just wanted to know if she came up the stairs. I’m looking for something I lost.”

I shook my head, not wanting to speak, partly because I thought my voice might sound like Minnie Mouse, but also because I didn’t want to give Electric Blue Rambo any more hints to who I was other than my backside.

“Sonny, you’re gonna lose something else if you don’t skedaddle out of here right quick.” With that “Uncle Jack” slammed the door in Electric Blue Rambo’s face. Ta-da. Gotta love it.

I was so relieved, I threw my arms around his neck and gave him a peck on the cheek. It threw him a bit off balance and I had to steady him by his elbow. I looked closer at him and saw his watery blue eyes couldn’t even focus. Damn. I couldn’t leave the old guy like this. He was going to be harder to get away from than The Godfather pair.

“I’m sorry about that,” “Uncle Jack” said, peering through the peephole to make sure Electric Blue Rambo was gone. “He was a rude young ’un, that’s for sure. I never want to see you with a no mannered whippersnapper like that, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” I smiled.

He smiled back, then sighed, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I’ve already forgotten your name again, Martha’s girlie.”

I patted his shoulder. “It’s Belinda.” I couldn’t bear to lie to the old guy.

I pointed at the clock on the bedside table. “It’s late, I ought to let you tuck in for the night.”

“You’re not leaving yet, are you?” His watery blue eyes almost broke my heart.

“I can stay a few more minutes,” I assured him, thinking it wasn’t a bad idea to give the bad guys more time to get lost.

His eyes brightened at that. He was beginning to sway again. “I imagine you’re of drinking age by now.”

“Just barely.” I hid my grin by coming around the couch, putting my hand on his shoulder and easing him back until the backs of his legs hit the loveseat and he plopped down. “What can I get you to drink, Uncle Jack?”

He chuckled. “You keep calling me that. You’re entirely too young to have as bad a memory as mine, Belinda. I’m Uncle Felix.”

“Oh, I am so sorry. I get you and Dad’s brother mixed up.”

Felix sat ramrod straight. “I remind you of that no account—”

Oops. I put up a hand. “Just in looks, Uncle Felix. I always thought Uncle Jack was so handsome . . .”

“Oh, well, in that case. I guess I don’t mind.”

He grinned, and I grinned back, pouring him every little bottle of whisky in the bar, with a little ice and no water. I poured myself a ginger ale.

As we made small talk about what he’d done while he’d been in Vegas, I sucked down my ginger ale fast enough to make him want to keep up. I poured us both another, relieved to see his eyes beginning to lose focus for longer periods. By the time he was on his third drink he’d forgotten I was supposed to be his niece and was recounting his life story. He told me about being widowed and his life back home as the postmaster of his Valentine, Nebraska town, population 2800. I was starting to like old Felix. I hoped I wouldn’t kill him with alcohol poisoning.

Finally, he began snoring in the middle of one of the longer pauses in the conversation. I’d been there twenty minutes and hoped that was long enough for Electric Blue Rambo to have given up and gone on to give a hard time to the poor snoop who’d gotten caught eavesdropping on the mystery man. I tried to shake off the bad feeling about that. Rambo seemed pretty ruthless, but maybe he’d let the guy off with a small choke and a warning like he did with Pete.

Oh well, I didn’t know any of them. I’d get to write this whole adventure off as the total of my excitement in Vegas, since the rest of the time I’d be chasing down Ben to keep his nose clean.

Speaking of which, I’d better get to the floor and find him. I glanced back at Felix and made for the door. I had my hand on the doorknob when I thought of something. I went back to the desk, found the stationery and wrote a note.

 
I opened the door soundlessly and surveyed the hall in both directions. The coast was clear.

Since it seemed my luck had turned, and since there was no way in hell I was ever going in the stairwell again, I hustled to the elevator and pressed the down button. Thirty seconds later, the arrow dinged. I jumped in with a nod to the solitary woman inside, who pulled a wad of cash out of her bra and began counting. She ignored me as I surveyed her from out of the corner of my eye. She had on some calf-high knock-off boots and an outfit that was a kaleidoscope of colors and textures. We’d almost reached the casino when I looked up and saw the two of us reflected in the mirrored doors. We looked like we’d been dressed by the same clothier.

Swell. A couple hours in Vegas and not only was I acting like a working girl but I looked like one too.

After an hour of scouring the hotel casino with no
luck and not a little anxiety that I would bump into Electric Blue Rambo at every turn, I still hadn’t found Ben. I had found people who remembered seeing him, not coincidentally, in the vicinity of the famed Steely Stan. I had a couple of players ask me if I was one of Steely’s Squeezes (as I found out they were called). Woo-hoo. Great compliment. So now, not only was I looking like a whore, but I was looking like one of a jerk’s whores.

Nice.

I decided not to ask around about Stan Trident anymore, although I had made some progress getting a location on my brother. While women see a resemblance to Colin Farrell, men for the most part either a) don’t know who he is (as opposed to women of all ages who know every sexy bad boy star) or b) think Ben reminds them of their best friend or their favorite cousin. Must be a pheromone thing.

The last Ben sighting had been at a poker table that he’d gotten up from abruptly—never returning to finish his play. I thought maybe he’d been losing, but the woman he’d been playing next to assured me he’d had plenty of chips in front of him. He’d never returned to claim them or her (she’d made an interesting offer of entertainment after the game was over).

That concerned me. The money more than the woman. Ben found women without any trouble. In fact, that might be it after all—he might have gone for a pit stop and run into the coeds from earlier and gone up to our room for a quickie. Sex with a pair might be worth a couple hundred lost dollars. He was stupid that way. I went to the house phone and dialed our room. It rang three times without being answered before going to voice mail. I left a message that I would be up to the room in ten minutes and everybody better be dressed when I got there.

It took me nearly that long to hula my way through the roulette tables and surf my way past the slots. I didn’t think that my amazement in the amount of money spent to make these casinos seem like the real paradise would ever wear off—in fact it grew each time I walked through a new room in a casino. I would notice something new, like the giant-sized blown glass surfer riding a blue glass wave decorated with lifelike bubbles and foam. Upon closer inspection, I decided it might not be glass at all but crystal. Sheesh.

I shook my head. It seemed horribly wasteful and irresistibly fascinating at the same time.

I was solo in my trip up in the elevator, proof, I suppose, that activity does slow down in Vegas somewhat in the wee hours before dawn. Considering the night I’d already had, I wasn’t in the mood for a kama sutra experience, I paused with my room key poised above the slot and decided to knock. No squeals, calls or other noise. Goody, maybe Ben was tucked away safely in bed alone.

I slid the key in and pushed the door open to disaster.

“Benjamin Cooley,” I shouted, letting the door ease closed behind me. “I cannot believe that you trashed our room for a couple minutes of wild sex. Do you know what this is going to
cost
?”

It’s incredible what expectation does to a mind. I just knew that the lamp knocked to the floor and the coffee table swept clear of its water glass, magazine and remote had the look of a pair looking for a place to couple.

Then I saw the blood smeared on the wall and noticed the cracked glass of the coffee table and knew reality had taken a wide detour from my expectations.

Swallowing a scream, I tried to get a handle on the thoughts that were careening around in my head. “Hello?” I called loudly. “Ben?”

I ran to Ben’s bedroom; the door I’d left closed was now open. The comforter on his bed was wadded up in the corner, his clothes were strewn on the floor, the poker strategy books by his bedside riffled through and upside down on the pillows. I peeked in the bathroom. His shave kit was overturned in the sink.

I sucked in a deep breath as I spun around. An alarm went off in the back of my mind, but I ignored it. I rushed to my bedroom to see the suitcase overturned on the bed. Every zipper was open, every pouch pulled loose. My makeup was scattered on the bathroom floor. My shoes and clothes were jumbled on the bedroom floor, save for my Victoria’s Secret bras and panties that were on a separate pile on the dresser, obviously having been pawed. Grr. So a man had robbed our room. Still steaming, I stomped back to the living area and saw the blood again. Had the freak robber not found any valuables, gotten mad, hit the table and hurt himself? I hoped so. But then a darker possibility crossed my mind. What if Ben were here when the robber broke into the room and Ben tried to stop him?