Lucky Flash: A Lucky O'Toole Novella (The Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Series) by Deborah Coonts

building near Atomic Liquors downtown.   In the heyday, this had been a happening place, but the mega-casinos sprouting on the south end of the Strip had sucked almost all the air out of the neighborhood.   The Blue Note, a haven for musicians longing for appreciation and camaraderie after nights spent toiling in a backup band, had kept the club not only afloat but thriving.   It had anchored a strip mall next to a motor lodge when I was young.   The club remained, but now everything else was gone.
    The door lurked under so many layers of bright red paint it felt spongy as I pushed on it.   Stale cigarette smoke, aged whiskey, and the lonesome tones of a sax welcomed me into the dim interior.   A guy stood behind the bar, wiping glasses, his eyes on the stage.   In the beam of one overhead spot, propping himself on a three-legged stool, Dig Me O’Dell caressed the sax, coaxing the pure plaintive notes of Body and Soul.
    He was smaller than I’d thought he’d be, thin, balding, without a hint of badass.   Crossing my arms, I leaned against the wall.   The guy was a master.   Who knew?   Underneath the surface of the gangsta music mogul lurked the soul of a jazzman.   I’d always wondered why he signed Teddie, who preferred old-school crooning to rock.
    His eyes flicked up.   He knew I was there.   We both enjoyed the rest of the song.   When done, he rested the sax across his knee, but he didn’t move.   “What can I do for you?”
    “I want to talk to you about a piece in your memorabilia collection.”
    He looked surprised.   “Sure.   Which piece?   You in the market?”
    “Liberace’s ring.”   I watched him for some sign of nervousness, subterfuge, self-protection, something, but I didn’t see a hint.   “And, no, not in the market.   I already own it.”
    His face closed down.   “Busta’ Blue sell it to you?”
    “Why would you think that?”
    “He loaned me some money to make payroll.   I used the ring as collateral.   I wasn’t ever going to sell it.   He promised not to.”  
    “So you didn’t know the ring was stolen?”
    He jumped off the stool like someone had hit him with a cattle prod.   “Busta’ let someone grab it?   That was my favorite piece.   He said he’d keep it safe, let me buy it back when things turn around.   I’ll have his ass.”
    I held out my hands, palms out.   “Calm down.   No, he didn’t let it get stolen.   Well, he did, but we have it.   It’s safe.”
    His eyes settled on me in a fierce, feral look.   “So if he didn’t sell it, how come you think you own it?”
    “Someone stole it from my father before you bought it.”
    He sank back on his stool as the light dawned.   “That’s a bad piece of business.”
    “You’re telling me.   Want to tell me who you bought it from?”
    He gave me a slanty-eyed look, his lips pressed into a thin line.  
    “That wasn’t a question.   I was just soft-selling my normal pushy self.”
    “You’re Teddie’s gal, aren’t you?”
    “Was.”
    Dig Me shook his head slowly.   “Boy messed it up, man, I know that.   First time on tour, man… all those pretty things throwing themselves at you.   Young and fresh, too.   Only a saint could resist.”
    “Are you pleading his case?   If so, I’d rethink your strategy.   Right now, I’m thinking the electric chair would be too humane.”
    “Ah, it’s an explanation, not an excuse.   Each man’s responsible for keepin’ his zipped, know what I mean?   We all been there.   Sometimes the best learnin’ is by doin’.   Whether you cut him a break, that’s up to you.”   He put his hand over his heart.   “The answer’s in here.”
    He sounded like my father.   I was beginning to resent all this advice.   “I’d really like to know where you got Liberace’s rock.”
    “Busta’ Blue.   I didn’t buy it; he gave it to me.”
    I was ready for many different answers, but not that.   Don’t know why.   So Pismo