time,” Romeo added, a red flush coloring his cheeks.
“Well.” Mona pouted. “You don’t have to get so huffy.”
Romeo started to comfort her, but I waved him off. Playing into her little games only made things worse.
“Which lady popped our banker with the penis?” Briefly, I wondered if my counterpart at a Four Seasons property in some wildly exotic location, like Cairo or something, had my particular set of problems. How many times in the average day did they have the opportunity to say penis in public? Not many, if I ventured to guess. It would almost be worth putting myself in the crossfire of political strife to avoid ever having to trot out that word.
A door crashed open behind us. “I hit the lout.”
At the sound of the high-pitched voice, our heads swiveled as if pulled by the same string.
Buffy Bingle. I’d read in her profile that she liked to watch cartoons. Today, in a skimpy little red dress with her assets on display, and carrying a purse shaped like a little white dog, which could double as a stuffed animal in times of crisis, she was reading from the Betty Boop book of fashion. Her blonde hair had been gathered in two knots, one protruding from each side of her head. I think Mona had done my hair like that... once... when I was six.
“Why the penis?” I don’t know why I asked that. I guess I needed a moment of self-flagellation.
“Because it was the only thing within reach.” Ms. Bingle looked at me like I was severely iq -challenged. She wasn’t far from the truth.
When I glanced at Romeo, he looked at me with wide eyes and a blank expression, clearly trying not to laugh.
“Why did you hit him with it?”
“Because he already had a stick up his butt.”
Romeo snorted, and she whirled on him. “You think this is funny?”
“No, no. Of course not.” He straightened and tried to wipe the grin off his face, with little success.
“All of you think this is funny.” Buffy/Betty wilted. “Men. Why’re they always doing their thinking with the wrong head?”
“Mother?” I turned to Mona. “I believe it’s your turn.”
As I knew she would, Mother stepped up and put an arm around Buffy, leading her to the side. This was in her wheelhouse—I’d lost count of all the young women my mother, the Madam, had saved from a life in the sex trade. I know, she’s a walking contradiction. It’s one of her charms.
“Okay, let’s go tackle the others.” I stepped aside for the young detective to move by me. “Lead on, McDuff.”
Smokin’ Joe himself stood guard in front of Booth Three. A tall, thin Native American man, with dark hair, sad, soulful brown eyes, and tats covering every square inch of skin visible below his rolled-up sleeves—he even had m-o-m tattooed on the three middle fingers of his left hand, one letter on each finger—Smokin’ Joe reminded me of an addict either just out or on his way back in. He had trust issues and didn’t play well with others, but he’d taken a shine to me, which worried me a little. “Man, Lucky, what’re you bringing your low-rent clients here for?” He grinned a half-toothless grin, which shocked me. Normally a dour personality, he’d never smiled in my presence before.
“Thought I’d give them a taste of hangin’ with the highbrows.”
“They could do worse.” He stepped aside and opened the booth door for me.
Walker sat in a low, cushioned chair with Vera on his lap, holding an ice pack to his right eye. A movie played on the screen, but I made a point of not looking at it, although the two of them seemed engrossed.
“Well, you two are certainly taking this whole ‘what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’ thing to heart, aren’t you?”
At the sound of my voice, Vera pushed herself off of Walker’s lap, then reached a hand to help him out of the deep chair. Neither looked embarrassed, nor did they offer any explanation. Walker kept the ice pressed to his face. Blood, dried to a brownish hue, crusted the left
“Well.” Mona pouted. “You don’t have to get so huffy.”
Romeo started to comfort her, but I waved him off. Playing into her little games only made things worse.
“Which lady popped our banker with the penis?” Briefly, I wondered if my counterpart at a Four Seasons property in some wildly exotic location, like Cairo or something, had my particular set of problems. How many times in the average day did they have the opportunity to say penis in public? Not many, if I ventured to guess. It would almost be worth putting myself in the crossfire of political strife to avoid ever having to trot out that word.
A door crashed open behind us. “I hit the lout.”
At the sound of the high-pitched voice, our heads swiveled as if pulled by the same string.
Buffy Bingle. I’d read in her profile that she liked to watch cartoons. Today, in a skimpy little red dress with her assets on display, and carrying a purse shaped like a little white dog, which could double as a stuffed animal in times of crisis, she was reading from the Betty Boop book of fashion. Her blonde hair had been gathered in two knots, one protruding from each side of her head. I think Mona had done my hair like that... once... when I was six.
“Why the penis?” I don’t know why I asked that. I guess I needed a moment of self-flagellation.
“Because it was the only thing within reach.” Ms. Bingle looked at me like I was severely iq -challenged. She wasn’t far from the truth.
When I glanced at Romeo, he looked at me with wide eyes and a blank expression, clearly trying not to laugh.
“Why did you hit him with it?”
“Because he already had a stick up his butt.”
Romeo snorted, and she whirled on him. “You think this is funny?”
“No, no. Of course not.” He straightened and tried to wipe the grin off his face, with little success.
“All of you think this is funny.” Buffy/Betty wilted. “Men. Why’re they always doing their thinking with the wrong head?”
“Mother?” I turned to Mona. “I believe it’s your turn.”
As I knew she would, Mother stepped up and put an arm around Buffy, leading her to the side. This was in her wheelhouse—I’d lost count of all the young women my mother, the Madam, had saved from a life in the sex trade. I know, she’s a walking contradiction. It’s one of her charms.
“Okay, let’s go tackle the others.” I stepped aside for the young detective to move by me. “Lead on, McDuff.”
Smokin’ Joe himself stood guard in front of Booth Three. A tall, thin Native American man, with dark hair, sad, soulful brown eyes, and tats covering every square inch of skin visible below his rolled-up sleeves—he even had m-o-m tattooed on the three middle fingers of his left hand, one letter on each finger—Smokin’ Joe reminded me of an addict either just out or on his way back in. He had trust issues and didn’t play well with others, but he’d taken a shine to me, which worried me a little. “Man, Lucky, what’re you bringing your low-rent clients here for?” He grinned a half-toothless grin, which shocked me. Normally a dour personality, he’d never smiled in my presence before.
“Thought I’d give them a taste of hangin’ with the highbrows.”
“They could do worse.” He stepped aside and opened the booth door for me.
Walker sat in a low, cushioned chair with Vera on his lap, holding an ice pack to his right eye. A movie played on the screen, but I made a point of not looking at it, although the two of them seemed engrossed.
“Well, you two are certainly taking this whole ‘what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’ thing to heart, aren’t you?”
At the sound of my voice, Vera pushed herself off of Walker’s lap, then reached a hand to help him out of the deep chair. Neither looked embarrassed, nor did they offer any explanation. Walker kept the ice pressed to his face. Blood, dried to a brownish hue, crusted the left
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