Vegas Moon

8.

One of the great things about having unlimited financial and government resources is the ability to get what you need in a short period of time. Thirty minutes after telling Lou I need an off-the-books police car and a van with no windows in back, driven by a couple of trustworthy guys, they arrive at the parking area behind Callie’s condo. In the meantime, I drag Shelby out of the front office so no one will look through the glass door and see a dead receptionist. Then I dig the car keys out of her purse, locate her car, and drive it half-way to Callie’s. I jog the rest of the way, shower at Callie’s, and change into the suit I’d brought.

My plan is to drive the cop car to Lucky’s house, park it near the front door, pose as a cop investigating a major breach of national security. I’ll tell Gwen that Phyllis has implicated her in the theft of stolen corporate property, namely the device. With any luck, I’ll scare her into giving it back. If she doesn’t, I’ll have to intensify the questioning. I tell the guys to follow me in the panel van and use it to block Lucky’s driveway after I enter.

So that’s the plan.

Unfortunately, when I get there, Lucky’s house is a fortress.

Worse, it’s crawling with cops.

I drive past his house, suddenly very aware I’m driving an unauthorized police car. I need to ditch it, and quickly. I call the guys in the van and tell them there’s been a change in plans and we’re heading to the airport. I’ll put the cop car in long term parking, and have the guys drive me back to Callie’s.

I end the call and start another one.

“What happened?” Callie says.

I tell her. Then say, “Why would the cops be at Lucky’s house?”

“You think they found Phyllis already?”

“By now? Sure. But why would they race to Lucky’s house? Does everyone in town know about the affair?”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“We’ll figure it out. Can I crash at your condo awhile?”

“I’ll set an extra place at the table for lunch.”

“You’re cooking?”

“Yup.”

“Wow, you are bored.”

When I get there I learn Callie’s idea of cooking means chopping lettuce, hard-boiled eggs and assorted veggies for a salad.

“Can you see if I have what you need to make a salad dressing?” she says.

“Got extra virgin olive oil?”

“Yup.”

“Some sort of vinegar?”

“Balsamic?”

“Then we’re good.”

Turns out her pantry is a treasure trove for a vinaigrette meister like me. I find shallots, garlic, honey, and an orange. Her spice cabinet yields mustard, sugar, salt, ground white pepper, celery seed. I mince a couple of shallots and a bit of garlic, grate a little orange peel, and blend these with the other ingredients, and set the mixture on the counter so the flavors can blend.

“The oil and vinegar will separate before we eat the salad,” she says.

“No they won’t.”

“Ever heard the expression oil and vinegar don’t mix?”

“I think you mean oil and water.”

“That’s the lesser known expression, as any cook will tell you.”

“You’re a cook now?”

“Well, I didn’t run a bed and breakfast in Florida and hunt squirrels in the attic like that guy in the novel.”

“Funny.”

“But it doesn’t change things. The oil and vinegar will separate.”

“I added some honey.”

“So?”

“It sustains the emulsion.”

She cocks her head at me. “Do you ever listen to yourself talk?”

“No. That’s your job.”

She pulls the cover off the blender, pokes her index finger into the vinaigrette, licks it.

“Fuck the salad,” she says.

“Excuse me?”

“I could make a meal out of this. Why’s it so good?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Callie opens her silverware drawer, takes out a spoon, dips it in the mixture, puts the spoon in her mouth, swallows. Then licks the spoon.

Sees me staring at her mouth.

“What?” she says.

“Have you ever heard of a Pocket Rocket?”

She gives me a curious look, then says, “You asshole!”

“Huh?”

“You were fantasizing about me. Again.”

“What makes you think—”

“Sexually.”

“Well…”

“It’s just a mouth, Donovan. Everyone’s got one.”

“Not like yours.”

She shakes her head. “Not gonna happen.”

“Why not?”

She smiles. “What difference does it make?”

I shrug.

She dips her spoon into the dressing again, puts it up to her mouth. But this time, before tasting it, she blocks her mouth from my view with her other hand. Then she winks.

“You know I love you,” I say.

“How could you not?”

My cell phone starts vibrating.

“I’ve made vinaigrette a dozen times,” she says.

“So?”

“It never turns out like this.”

“The ratio of oil to vinegar is everything.”

My phone vibrates again. I look at the caller ID.

“Tell me,” Callie says.

“Three parts oil to one part vinegar.”

I answer the phone.

It’s Carmine “The Chin” Porrello, telling me about a call he got from Lucky Peters, who’d been looking for a hit man. I thank him, ask if Lucky’s banging anyone besides his wife. Carmine doesn’t know her name off hand, but yeah, some plastic surgeon. He’s got photos.

“Sex photos?”

Callie arches an eyebrow at me.

Carmine says, “Nah. Just the two of ’em together. Dinner shit. Nothin’ I can use. Not yet.”

Then I call Lou and tell him to have his geek squad access Lucky’s medical records at the hospital in Kingston.

“You want to hold while I get that for you?” Lou says.

“It’s that easy?”

“I should probably say no, and charge you extra. But yeah, it’s that easy.”

I cover the mouthpiece and say to Callie, “You never answered me about the Pocket Rocket.”

“Nor will I,” she says. “Ever.”

I frown. “Why not?”

“If I tell you about our sex life, you’ll never look at me and Eva the same way again.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Yup.”

“Why?”

She gives me an exasperated look, rolls her eyes. Then says, “You make such a big deal out of sex.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Lou gets back on the phone, tells me about Dr. Gayle and the colonoscopy. Then says, “Lucky’s meeting investors this week. Putting together an offering for a sports betting parlor.”

“Vegas Moon, right?”

“Right. You want what I’ve got?”

“I’ll have to call you back. I’ve got another call coming in.”

I terminate Lou’s call, click the incoming one.

It’s Lucky Peters, offering me a job.