Lucky Flash: A Lucky O'Toole Original Novella, #4

Chapter One

FLASH

PISTOL FIRE popped as the Fremont Street Experience’s final pounding, pulsing crescendo of overhead lights exploded in color. The music reverberated in my chest. Or maybe that was my heartbeat. Who needed paddles to jump-start the old ticker? A .45 unloaded in the general vicinity usually did the same trick.

The Saturday night crowd packed in under the lights tighter than cattle at a feedlot—smelled sorta like them, too. I waited. They shifted. A few oohed and ahhhed. But nobody fell. Nobody screamed. This seemed like a good thing, although the jury was still out.

When Johnny Pismo had bolted off the stage in the middle of the show at the Desert Breeze Casino and I’d followed him, I’d known we were both leaping headlong into trouble. I’d made the leap before.

My name is Frederika Gordon; folks who know me call me Flash. No, I won’t tell you why, but I will say I’m an investigative reporter for the Las Vegas Review-Journal, the local rag that, despite the flight to the Internet and the fact none of the visitors in town read anything longer than the list of porn channels on their in-room feed, was still hanging on

But that’s beside the point, except when my rent is due. Right now, I had agreed to chase Johnny Pismo, a perpetual musical mediocrity. Not my normal prey.

So tonight, like most nights, I was chasing a story. But unlike most nights, this story had just gotten interesting. Gunfire had a habit of piquing my interest.

Between you and me, I hoped whoever was jerking on the trigger had perforated Johnny Pismo’s hide. That’d dispatch one problem. But, in my experience, problems were a lot like Medusa’s heads—hack off one, three more took its place. Besides that, my pal Lucky would be pissed. Apparently she had some business with Johnny Pismo, though I couldn’t fathom what a high-and-mighty corporate exec would want with that lowlife.

Narrowing my eyes, I scanned the crowd again. I was either the only one aware of tiny lethal projectiles hurtling through the air or the only one smart enough to panic. Of course, I had been listening for gunfire. Even then I’d had to strain to hear it.

I swiveled it in a methodical sweep, like radar seeking a ping. On the second pass I caught the faint pops of another round of shots. Turning toward the sound, I began pushing my way through the wall of people all looking skyward. Still, nobody seemed alarmed.

Excuse me. I elbowed aside a tourist couple dressed in the usual cliché—Bermuda shorts, white socks, loud shirts, cameras. They gave me a collective glance that succinctly conveyed their irritation—I was impressed—but they moved so I could pass. At barely five-feet, I usually have to push the issue to get anyone out of my way.

With the show over, all the craned necks resumed a normal posture, and the crowd started oozing along Fremont Street. Still, nobody had raised an alarm so I assumed no blood had been spilt… yet, but the night was young. Johnny Pismo could tap into the milk of human kindness like a wildcatter with a nose for oil, draining it dry.

I increased my pace, feeling like a salmon fighting a strong current. Lowering my head, I moved as fast as I could. I didn’t even bother with eye contact and niceties—I just bulled my way through. Finally, when I glanced up, I saw the man I was looking for: Johnny Pismo.

Okay, I saw the back of him. Johnny, you little creep, stop right there! I shouted at his retreating back.

Much to my amazement he did. Of course, so did everyone else. The crowd was looking for a show, any show, and, if my hunch was right, this one was going to be a doozy. The mass of people moved back until they’d circled around Johnny Pismo, giving him room. If he was smart, which I knew would be a huge stretch, he’d pass a hat—Saturday night had aged sufficiently that most folks were feeling generous.

Instead, Johnny Pismo looked stupid-scared.

All twitchy, he shifted from one foot to the other, managing to look like a rat ready to run. Dressed in a red-and-white-checkered blazer with wide lapels, orange pants and a splash of purple sock where his pants failed to meet the tops of his white bucks that coordinated with his lavender shirt, he looked every inch a throw-back. Or a throw-up, but I tried not to judge. Permed in tight curls, his hair was dyed an unnatural flat black. His eyes, narrow and dark, flicked over the crowd. Finally they landed on me. I thought he looked relieved to see a friend, but that was probably a figment. Last time I’d seen him had been ugly. This time wasn’t shaping up any better.

Bad men. Bad times. And a nose for bad news. My epitaph.

But, the one bright spot was I didn’t see a gun in his hand.

"What are you doing here?" He snarled, trying to mask the tinny high-tones of fear. He’d been a singer; well, that’s what his press release said anyway. He’d fancied himself Frankie Avalon’s successor—a rather grand vision for a guy with a thin voice, an average mug, a less than average bod, and no Annette Funicello. Lucky told me he was mounting a comeback, hoping to struggle out of obscurity to his former position smack in the middle of mediocre. Personally, I thought he was overreaching.

But nobody really cared what I thought. Lucky asked me to find him. What she did with him from here was her business. Trying to keep your ass in one piece. I gave him some attitude—it had always worked before.

He kept his eyes moving. When they passed back over me, they paused. They’re trying to kill me.

Even though I couldn’t imagine anyone taking the trouble to actually kill Johnny Pismo, I could tell he believed it. I thought I could smell his fear from where I stood, but that may just have been a gas leak. Who’s trying to kill you?

He shook his head, taking in the onlookers with a glance. Not here.

I took a deep breath and stepped into the circle. A few in the crowd murmured in surprise as recognition dawned. I sorta had a rep around town—I wasn’t exactly the wallflower type—and this little standoff would make great water-cooler chat tomorrow. They crowded in closer. Fine. But let’s get you out of here.

Johnny looked receptive but rooted to the spot by fear or indecision, so I took a step toward him, intending to prod him along.

His narrow shoulders sagged a bit, allowing his chest to sink into his paunch. In the fight against physical decline, Johnny Pismo didn’t appear to even be mounting a battle.

Shouts arose from somewhere deep in the crowd behind me, to my right. I whirled, but not before I saw Johnny stiffen.

The crowd parted as two huge black men forced their way through.

My heart sank. One of them I recognized, one I didn’t, but I knew bad news when I saw it. Wrong guys, Johnny. So wrong, I whispered.

Pounds of gold hung in ropes around their thick necks. I’m not one to do that whole racial profiling thing, but I felt like shrinking back into the crowd—these guys looked like they meant business, and, if the word on the street could be believed, they could bring it. Broad and bulky where it counted, lean and mean where it didn’t, like ex-NFL types, their gold grills flashed with reflected glow from the lighted canopy high above, giving their smiles a weird rainbow effect. Dressed in tight white tees, black jeans slung low across their hips, unlaced Timberlands that looked fresh out of the box, they postured. Putting the bad in badass.

They lowered their heads to glower at Johnny Pismo, who quaked liked a sapling in a hurricane.

The one bright spot? The guy with the gun tucked it into a holster under his arm.

The downside? He still had a gun, and, from the sound of gunfire I’d heard, he wasn’t afraid to use it.

Busta’ Blue, the biggest of the man-mountains, stepped toward Johnny Pismo, shaking his head like a parent scolding a misbehaving child. Busta’ was a big dog in the local gangsta rap scene. He’d even gotten some national play, but was still working his way up the food chain—I didn’t even want to imagine what that might entail. A bright smile flashed, then faded, leaving his eyes hard. You got something of mine, Pismo. I want it back.

Johnny tilted his chin. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.

What do you know? Johnny Pismo actually had balls.

Busta’ Blue gave him a chilling smile. Fine. Then you won’t mind if I just relieve you of my property. He uncrossed his arms and motioned to his muscle to follow as he stepped toward Johnny Pismo.

Johnny reached around to the small of his back. When he brought his hand back into view, it clutched a gun. At first I thought it might be a toy, but I decided to act like it was real on the off chance I was wrong.

Johnny Pismo pointed at the men, who stopped, frozen. I guessed guns really did have a chilling effect. Don’t come any closer. The gun wiggled despite his two-handed grip. I’ll shoot you, I swear.

Frankly, I’d put the odds of him hitting either of the two men at less than one in ten. But the odds of him hitting a bystander, one of the hordes of gamblers who make it possible for Nevada to resist a state income tax on its residents, were better than even. As a potential taxpayer, I had skin in this game.

As if reading my mind, the crowd scattered.

Johnny Pismo. Don’t be a fool. The minute the words escaped my mouth I cringed—that was like asking a fish to quit pulling oxygen from water.

Johnny Pismo ignored me, which men did only at their peril. He knew that. But his reaction did solidify my disinclination to risk bodily harm to save his tiny, white ass.

Busta’ grinned, his eyes fixated on Johnny Pismo. If that piece is all you got, white boy, you better start running. That little popper won’t do anything other than piss me off.

Johnny nodded toward me. She’s my backup.

All three of the men turned and looked at me. I raised my hands, open palms toward Busta’ and his muscle, and gave them a smile and a shrug. I’m sure we can work something out.

This time Busta’ laughed as he started confidently toward Johnny Pismo. His man followed, licking his chops, a predator hoping for scraps.

I saw the little twerp’s arms tense. Johnny! Are you nuts? I shouted.

He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

Chapter Two

LUCKY

W HERE’S JOHNNY Pismo? I asked my best friend, ace investigative reporter and Vegas know-it-all, Flash Gordon. We huddled in a dark alley, the only illumination a spitting street lamp dying a slow death. I tried not to see it as a metaphor. Even though well past an acceptable hour, I had no trouble finding Flash—apparently she had not only discovered that it was possible to dress head to toe in Day-Glo orange, she owned it.

Before we get too far, I ought to introduce myself. My name is Lucky O’Toole, and I am the Vice President of Customer Relations for the Babylon, Vegas’s primo Strip property. This is a fancy way of saying I’m the chief problem solver, hence my being on the Strip at an ungodly hour, chasing down some has-been at the behest of my father, who is also my boss.

Flash