Read Online Lucky Bastard by Deborah Coonts - Free Book Online Page B

Jerry sounded tired, not that I was surprised—we both were rowing the same boat.
    “You think he’s still around?”
    “Poker dudes are nocturnal creatures. Besides, as one of the last nine players in this weekend’s shindig—he’s basking in the attention.”
    “With everything else, I’d forgotten about that.”
    Jerry whistled under his breath as I waited. I could picture him scrolling through the feeds. “Yup, there he is. Garden Bar, top tier. From the looks of him, he’s been there a while.”
    “Thanks.” I reholstered my phone and ran.
    At this time of morning, the crowd in the casino consisted of either those too drunk to find their rooms, or those winning or losing big. Music thumped in the background. Glasses clinked in the bar, not from frivolity but from the bartender washing, drying, and putting away. Vegas might be the city that never sleeps, but the energy level did have its own circadian rhythm. Right now it faded to a low ebb allowing for regenerating, recharging, and for me to actually make it across the hotel and out the back in near record time.
    The Garden Bar hung in the branches of a huge tree overlooking the pool area. Reminiscent of the Swiss Family Robinson tree house but on steroids, the bar consisted of several levels, each with a counter in the middle surrounded by barstools. A rope and mesh fence that was stronger than it looked ringed the perimeter and protected patrons from a plunge to sure disability. At appropriate intervals, two-tops cozied up to the rope enclosure.
    The real trick here was not finding the place, but getting to it. A wobbly plank and rope footbridge connected the structure to the mezzanine level of the hotel. Late at night when I was feeling particularly sadistic, I loved to park myself next to the bridge and watch the patrons who had sampled too much of the local firewater negotiate a bridge that moved. Tonight my mood ran more to homicidal, so I didn’t stop.
    DeLuca hadn’t moved. Slumped down in his chair, he reminded me of a ragdoll, slack and forlorn. One hand fisted around a glass firmly anchored him to a two-top next to the railing. By all accounts he was a handsome man, thick and broad, oozing virility and a hint of impishness when he smiled. Women flocked to him, eager to run their fingers through his thick, black hair or to discover the joke that lit his eyes. And, through some divine lack of spine, he’d never been able to resist a pretty face, tight body, large rack, curvaceous booty, or any combination thereof—at least, not that I’d ever been able to tell. Married several times, Frank was an eternal optimist and self-delusional to the end. He seemed genuinely surprised each time a wife would take umbrage with his dalliances.
    Guileless, a child in a man’s body, Frank was the kind of guy a woman hated to love…but one they couldn’t resist. Thankfully, since I’d called him Uncle Frank for as long as I could remember, I’d been inoculated. Besides, he was my father’s age, but, as I recall, Wife Number Four had been two years behind me in school. She’d worked flat on her back under Frank for a few years, until she was certain the courts would give her a solid stake. I’d heard she’d bought a high-end jewelry store at one of our competitors, but I wasn’t sure. As far as I knew, Frank hadn’t married again.
    Frank looked up when I eased into the chair across from him. He flashed me a pale imitation of his famous smile.
    “You okay?” I asked, reaching across the table and squeezing his arm.
    “Sorta shook, you know?” Red-rimmed, his eyes were wet. His hand shook as he wiped away any trace of a tear. “I didn’t have anything to do with that girl.” His expression reminded me of a kid trying to convince the authorities he hadn’t blown up the chemistry lab despite the M-80 in his back pocket.
    “My father tells me you left his party early. That’s not the last-to-leave-Frank I know and love.”
    “I gotta call from