my father standing at the window, silhouetted by the lights of the Strip streaming through the wall of glass. "And why the hell are you standing here in the dark?" I stopped a few feet from him.
He didn't turn. Instead, he stood there as still as a statue. He didn't respond. Unsure what to do, I considered checking his pulse—after all he wasn't exactly a spring chicken.
Finally he rescued me from my quandary. "Will you get me a drink?" he asked. His voice, low and emotionless, had a hard edge to it. "Then join me."
"With your recent health scare, do you think drinking is a good idea?" He didn't answer, not that I expected him to. I didn't know what to think as I walked to the far wall and pressed a panel. The wall slid back exposing a fully stocked bar. I decided on a fifteen-year-old single malt for him and club soda with lime for me—I'd exceeded my legal limit already. Besides, keeping my wits about me would probably work in my favor. While I didn't know what he had to tell me, I knew it couldn't be good. Pouring the drinks into Steuben double old-fashion tumblers, I added a couple of cubes of ice, then returned to his side with drinks in hand.
He took his glass without question or acknowledgement, then took a long sip. "The Glenmorangie?"
"Hmm." I took a tentative sip of my soda, then wrinkled my nose at the tickle of the bubbles. Although I'd tried, I never had developed a taste for tasteless beverages. Was that even possible, I wondered? The lime helped, as did the bubbles. But still, they just effervesced the boring.
The ice tinkled in my father's glass as he lifted it to his lips. "The eighteen?"
"No, the fifteen. A bit more fire-in-the-belly action. I like that from a Highland dram."
That got a snort out of him. "Lucky, I swear, you're the best son a man could have."
"As a card-carrying member of the boy's club, I'll take that as a compliment."
"As well you should." He cleared his throat after another sip. "You may be tough and know your way around, but there's folks tougher than you."
"No doubt." The lights of the Strip flashed below us, an ever-changing neon display that could be seen from the International Space Station, or so I'd been told. To me, they were magic, a tangible reminder of all that is Vegas—the fun, the food, the shows…the money. And where there was money, like bloodhounds on a scent, the bad guys lurked in the shadows. But I didn't linger on that—they weren't part of my Vegas. At least not until they started detonating bombs around town. "You gonna tell me about that note you got?"
Startled, he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "It's nothing. I can handle it."
"But it's upset you. I can help."
"Not this time." His tone held a subtle warning. I didn't care.
"When the shit really hits the fan, you can count on family. Isn't that what you tell me?" The stern set of his jaw told me I was being stonewalled, big time. I didn't like it. All it did was ramp up my worry-meter. "Mother—"
"Your mother and her hormones." My father bit off each word like a rabid dog tearing into a carcass. "She's seeing boogiemen in every corner."
"Boogiemen…an interesting word choice. And do I need to remind you that you wanted to talk to me ?" I analyzed his profile as he turned to stare out the window again. Tension hunched his shoulders slightly, bunching the muscles underneath his jacket. The skin stretched tautly over his cheekbones, his mouth drawn into a thin line. His chin set at a defiant tilt, inviting someone to take a swing. Mona was right; something was going on. And being a man who solved his own problems, the Big Boss wasn't going to give it up. So like him. I'd have to outflank him somehow. "So, you think I should be scared of Boogie Fleischman?" I wiggled my glass, trying to work up an enthusiasm for a non-alcoholic beverage. It wasn't working. "Boogie's gotta be like, what…seventy?"
"Careful."
"Hey, he may be tougher than me, but I'm sure I can outrun him."
Out of
He didn't turn. Instead, he stood there as still as a statue. He didn't respond. Unsure what to do, I considered checking his pulse—after all he wasn't exactly a spring chicken.
Finally he rescued me from my quandary. "Will you get me a drink?" he asked. His voice, low and emotionless, had a hard edge to it. "Then join me."
"With your recent health scare, do you think drinking is a good idea?" He didn't answer, not that I expected him to. I didn't know what to think as I walked to the far wall and pressed a panel. The wall slid back exposing a fully stocked bar. I decided on a fifteen-year-old single malt for him and club soda with lime for me—I'd exceeded my legal limit already. Besides, keeping my wits about me would probably work in my favor. While I didn't know what he had to tell me, I knew it couldn't be good. Pouring the drinks into Steuben double old-fashion tumblers, I added a couple of cubes of ice, then returned to his side with drinks in hand.
He took his glass without question or acknowledgement, then took a long sip. "The Glenmorangie?"
"Hmm." I took a tentative sip of my soda, then wrinkled my nose at the tickle of the bubbles. Although I'd tried, I never had developed a taste for tasteless beverages. Was that even possible, I wondered? The lime helped, as did the bubbles. But still, they just effervesced the boring.
The ice tinkled in my father's glass as he lifted it to his lips. "The eighteen?"
"No, the fifteen. A bit more fire-in-the-belly action. I like that from a Highland dram."
That got a snort out of him. "Lucky, I swear, you're the best son a man could have."
"As a card-carrying member of the boy's club, I'll take that as a compliment."
"As well you should." He cleared his throat after another sip. "You may be tough and know your way around, but there's folks tougher than you."
"No doubt." The lights of the Strip flashed below us, an ever-changing neon display that could be seen from the International Space Station, or so I'd been told. To me, they were magic, a tangible reminder of all that is Vegas—the fun, the food, the shows…the money. And where there was money, like bloodhounds on a scent, the bad guys lurked in the shadows. But I didn't linger on that—they weren't part of my Vegas. At least not until they started detonating bombs around town. "You gonna tell me about that note you got?"
Startled, he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "It's nothing. I can handle it."
"But it's upset you. I can help."
"Not this time." His tone held a subtle warning. I didn't care.
"When the shit really hits the fan, you can count on family. Isn't that what you tell me?" The stern set of his jaw told me I was being stonewalled, big time. I didn't like it. All it did was ramp up my worry-meter. "Mother—"
"Your mother and her hormones." My father bit off each word like a rabid dog tearing into a carcass. "She's seeing boogiemen in every corner."
"Boogiemen…an interesting word choice. And do I need to remind you that you wanted to talk to me ?" I analyzed his profile as he turned to stare out the window again. Tension hunched his shoulders slightly, bunching the muscles underneath his jacket. The skin stretched tautly over his cheekbones, his mouth drawn into a thin line. His chin set at a defiant tilt, inviting someone to take a swing. Mona was right; something was going on. And being a man who solved his own problems, the Big Boss wasn't going to give it up. So like him. I'd have to outflank him somehow. "So, you think I should be scared of Boogie Fleischman?" I wiggled my glass, trying to work up an enthusiasm for a non-alcoholic beverage. It wasn't working. "Boogie's gotta be like, what…seventy?"
"Careful."
"Hey, he may be tougher than me, but I'm sure I can outrun him."
Out of
Similar Books
