“Anything else leap out at you?”
The kid chewed on his lip, then shook his head slowly.
“So you didn’t happen to notice she was cheating?”
Chapter Three
“Cheating?” The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he paled. “How?”
“What color were her eyes?”
Now, in addition to looking half sick, the steward looked confused…and a bit dreamy. “Blue. She wore sunglasses, but I’m sure they were blue,” he announced like a lovesick schoolboy.
God, responsibility was so wasted on the young.
“Yes,” I said, feeling ancient. “But not the same color of blue. One was light blue, the other a muddier blue.”
Still the light didn’t dawn.
“A red contact lens,” I said, dispensing with the clues.
“But that’s illegal in Nevada,” the young man said, a bit louder than I’d have liked. Heads turned in our direction. With a finger to my lips, I shushed him as I pulled him farther from the action.
“Cheating is certainly illegal. While fitting anyone with a red contact lens isn’t technically against the law, it’s certainly strongly frowned upon.” The thought made my blood simmer. A magical place, Vegas painted a pretty picture when folks colored between the lines. “She was marking cards. The red contact lens allowed her to see the mark. I know it may come as a shock, but people do nefarious things all the time here.”
He looked at me as if he didn’t know what nefarious meant. “But, if she was cheating, why did she lose?”
Before I could wrap my brain around that, my father’s voice sounded at my elbow and the young steward eased back toward his table. “Isn’t it a bit early for you to be causing your usual ruckus?”
A Las Vegas legend, Albert Rothstein, otherwise known as the Big Boss, had been in the casino business so long he could wax poetic about the days when the Strip was a two-lane road, the Rat Pack was the hottest ticket in town, and Sinatra used to hang out at the Garden Room at the Sands, chowing down on the ninety-nine cent special and abusing the staff. My father’s start in the business was a bit murky, adding to his mystique. But with a nose for money, an uncanny knack for managing his balance sheet, and an unerring ability to avoid even the hint of impropriety, he had risen to the top of the heap in a dog-eat-dog world. A glamorous position…if you didn’t mind mongrels nipping at your heels.
Of course, when he’d hired me as a cabana girl when I was fifteen and had lied about my age, I didn’t know he was my father. A little secret he and my mother had only recently let me in on. They’d had their reasons for keeping it to themselves and, while I sort of understood, I still hadn’t quite forgiven either one of them. But no one is guaranteed a perfect life and, all things considered, mine was darn close. Well, if you ignore my unerring penchant for picking the wrong guy. However I couldn’t blame anyone else for that—although I’d really like to.
A short man, as fit as a boxer in his prime, with a head of salt-and-pepper hair, my father exuded a quiet confidence and a steely resolve that endeared him to his employees and struck fear in the hearts of his competitors. Tonight he wore creased black slacks, Italian loafers, no socks, a starched white shirt, and a smile for me. How anyone could be uncrumpled at this ungodly hour was an enduring mystery. It wasn’t hereditary, that was for sure.
“If you’ve come down here about the girl in the Ferrari showroom…” I glanced around making sure no one was paying particular interest in our conversation, but everyone seemed to be focused on his or her own tasks.
He pursed his lips, then shook his head. “I figure you’ve got it under control. Turn it over to the police and then manage their interference. You’ve done it a thousand times.”
Well, not quite that many, thankfully, but I wasn’t going to argue. Through the years the Big Boss had seen stuff I didn’t even
The kid chewed on his lip, then shook his head slowly.
“So you didn’t happen to notice she was cheating?”
Chapter Three
“Cheating?” The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he paled. “How?”
“What color were her eyes?”
Now, in addition to looking half sick, the steward looked confused…and a bit dreamy. “Blue. She wore sunglasses, but I’m sure they were blue,” he announced like a lovesick schoolboy.
God, responsibility was so wasted on the young.
“Yes,” I said, feeling ancient. “But not the same color of blue. One was light blue, the other a muddier blue.”
Still the light didn’t dawn.
“A red contact lens,” I said, dispensing with the clues.
“But that’s illegal in Nevada,” the young man said, a bit louder than I’d have liked. Heads turned in our direction. With a finger to my lips, I shushed him as I pulled him farther from the action.
“Cheating is certainly illegal. While fitting anyone with a red contact lens isn’t technically against the law, it’s certainly strongly frowned upon.” The thought made my blood simmer. A magical place, Vegas painted a pretty picture when folks colored between the lines. “She was marking cards. The red contact lens allowed her to see the mark. I know it may come as a shock, but people do nefarious things all the time here.”
He looked at me as if he didn’t know what nefarious meant. “But, if she was cheating, why did she lose?”
Before I could wrap my brain around that, my father’s voice sounded at my elbow and the young steward eased back toward his table. “Isn’t it a bit early for you to be causing your usual ruckus?”
A Las Vegas legend, Albert Rothstein, otherwise known as the Big Boss, had been in the casino business so long he could wax poetic about the days when the Strip was a two-lane road, the Rat Pack was the hottest ticket in town, and Sinatra used to hang out at the Garden Room at the Sands, chowing down on the ninety-nine cent special and abusing the staff. My father’s start in the business was a bit murky, adding to his mystique. But with a nose for money, an uncanny knack for managing his balance sheet, and an unerring ability to avoid even the hint of impropriety, he had risen to the top of the heap in a dog-eat-dog world. A glamorous position…if you didn’t mind mongrels nipping at your heels.
Of course, when he’d hired me as a cabana girl when I was fifteen and had lied about my age, I didn’t know he was my father. A little secret he and my mother had only recently let me in on. They’d had their reasons for keeping it to themselves and, while I sort of understood, I still hadn’t quite forgiven either one of them. But no one is guaranteed a perfect life and, all things considered, mine was darn close. Well, if you ignore my unerring penchant for picking the wrong guy. However I couldn’t blame anyone else for that—although I’d really like to.
A short man, as fit as a boxer in his prime, with a head of salt-and-pepper hair, my father exuded a quiet confidence and a steely resolve that endeared him to his employees and struck fear in the hearts of his competitors. Tonight he wore creased black slacks, Italian loafers, no socks, a starched white shirt, and a smile for me. How anyone could be uncrumpled at this ungodly hour was an enduring mystery. It wasn’t hereditary, that was for sure.
“If you’ve come down here about the girl in the Ferrari showroom…” I glanced around making sure no one was paying particular interest in our conversation, but everyone seemed to be focused on his or her own tasks.
He pursed his lips, then shook his head. “I figure you’ve got it under control. Turn it over to the police and then manage their interference. You’ve done it a thousand times.”
Well, not quite that many, thankfully, but I wasn’t going to argue. Through the years the Big Boss had seen stuff I didn’t even
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