Five

I pulled onto the Las Vegas Strip shortly after sunset. Every color known to man was glaring in neon or bulb. Made me imagine a Crayola box having an orgasm. The LED thermometer in front of a bank indicated a hundred and six degrees.

I motored north on Las Vegas Boulevard, the legitimate name for The Strip. It took forever for the traffic light by the Excalibur to turn green. The Players Choice waited a short distance ahead.

Rather than using the hotel valet, I pulled into a side parking lot as I wasn’t yet sure if I could get a room. I locked Patsy’s door and headed to the registration desk.

Good news—sorta. I reserved a room for the night, but they couldn’t guarantee me anything after that. They put me on a contact list if anything opened up for the weekend. Three huge conventions were in town for the weekend and every room was booked. The reservation clerk told me that was true for all the major hotels. If someone cancelled, I might get a room—otherwise, I was in deep kimchi after tonight.

Before leaving the desk, I asked the clerk which room Bishop was in. I got the anticipated privacy policy reply. Didn’t hurt to ask. Sometimes smart people make dumb mistakes. I’m all for giving people opportunities.

I handed Patsy off to valet services after pulling out my luggage. “Treat her nice!” I never did trust men sporting red waist-jackets with way too much gold trim and God only knows how much greasy goop glopped in their hair.

My room was on the eleventh floor and featured a great panoramic view of the city. But the only view I wanted was of Andy Bishop—and then the sign that read ‘You Are Now Leaving Las Vegas.’

After a quick shower, I changed into a yellow shell top and a pair of faded jeans. I slipped my feet into a pair of Nike Air Monarch walkers.

I decided on the clutch purse I’d brought rather than lugging around my large handbag. The leather Steve Madden was big enough for my Remington, tube of lipstick, driver’s license, concealed carry license, PI license, some cash and a couple of tampons—always have to be ready for surprises. The monthly monster doesn’t always arrive on schedule.

Men don’t know how good they have it!

I hadn’t eaten since I’d left Bakersfield almost eight hours earlier. I recalled seeing a sign in the main lobby for Tio Pedro’s Cocina on the second level. There’s never a bad time for Mexican food.

Clutch purse in hand, I wasted no time. I ordered two beef and cheese chalupas, a bean burrito with chipotle sauce plus extra jalapenos, and a Coke.

As I swallowed my last bite, I saw him—Andy Bishop. Besides his general appearance, the unusual scar on his cheek was a dead give-a-way. It perfectly matched the one in the picture. What were the chances I would find him this quickly? Maybe I wouldn’t need to worry about a room for the next two nights. Sweet.

I tucked the Steve Madden under my arm and hurried from my table to his. I don’t think he saw me approach from behind.

“Excuse me, but we need to talk, Mr. Bishop.”

He looked over his shoulder, his partially open mouth full of taco meat, shredded cheese, diced onions and tomatoes, and crunched up taco shell. Not a pretty visual. It brought back memories of the garish behavior of the boys in the cafeteria in junior high.

“Really? Who the hell are you?” Some of the Mexican concoction, mixed with spittle, projected from his mouth onto the table as he spoke. Ugh! He dropped the remainder of his taco onto his plate.

“I’m Olivia Grace; I’m a private detective.”

“And that’s supposed to make you special or something?”

I didn’t appreciate his arrogance. I have a short fuse for rudeness and, well, a lot of other things, too. “No, but it does give me a strong incentive to talk to you.”

“Sorry, but I’m eating. Maybe we can talk later.”

“Now works better for me, if you don’t mind.”

“It just so happens that I do mind. Go irritate someone else. And don’t come back.” He reached for the rest of his taco.

If Bishop thought I was a mere pawn, he had another think coming. With my low boiling point, patience challenged, and my anger over Alice’s death percolating, my pissy attitude dissuaded my better senses and good judgment. I grabbed the top of his shoulder and applied pressure.

He winced as he dropped the taco onto his plate.

I pulled my lips tight against my teeth. “Like I said, now suits me better, Mr. Bishop.” I added a dash of sarcasm to his name for effect.

With an unexpected move, he gripped my arm and gave it a hard twist before pushing me away. I lost my footing and stumbled into the diners directly behind me.

Their table crunched to the floor as food torpedoed several feet in all directions. The people at the table, and the surrounding tables, screamed and scattered.

It took a second or two to regain my full balance as Bishop disappeared into the common walkway outside the restaurant, headed toward the gaming tables.

I followed in the same direction, wiping splatters of somebody’s dinner from my clothes. He’d already vanished into the throng of misguided dreamers. I plowed my way through the crowd but it was hopeless. My arm hurt like hell and the pushing and shoving only added to the discomfort. And yeah, I needed to work on that impatience thing, and maybe the pissy attitude. Maybe later; this wasn’t a particularly good time for self-improvement.

I anticipated he might have gone into one of the game rooms. Likewise, it’s possible he turned a totally different direction when he reached the second floor lobby, which was more like a large rotunda.

Each of five arched openings led to either a game room or a hallway. There was also a window overlooking the front parking lot and topiary gardens. The slots were the closest of the game rooms. I reasoned he would take the first opportunity to divert to his get-a-way path. I dropped my eyelids and said a silent prayer.

Ringing, chiming, and whirring saturated the air thicker than LA smog. I felt how a recovering alcoholic might feel when walking into a bar at happy hour. The lure of the one-armed bandits challenged my will power. Or was it my won’t power?

The pervasive cacophony rattled my brain. Temptation dangled the proverbial carrot in front of me. I reminded myself why I never liked carrots—they’re orange, crooked and have green hair. I took a deep breath and pressed on.

That little shit is gonna suffer for the misery he’s putting me through.

Six aisles navigated with no success. I’d read in the main lobby the Players Choice had over twelve hundred slots. I was a believer.

Two more rows and still no Andy Bishop. The lecherous call of the money-sucking demons was winning the battle. I found myself digging in my pocket for quarters, before sanity kicked my addiction’s ass. I jerked my hand free and heaved a deep sigh. I’d covered more than ninety percent of the room—I was confident he wasn’t there.

I exited the room and pressed my back against the garishly-painted wall of the rotunda. Sweat beads assaulted my forehead as I labored through irregular and deep breaths. I rescheduled the remainder of my Andy Bishop search for a later time—not sure exactly when, but later.

Regaining my composure to some extent, I headed back to my room. The shortest route was through the table games. Craps tables were on the right, blackjack and poker tables to the left. An unidentified hand found my ass as I shoved through the crowd. I tried to pick up my pace but it was hopeless.

Holy crap, there he is! This lucky twice in one night? Who woulda thunk?

I marched up behind him at the very last craps table. Icy adrenalin chilled, yet stimulated, every one of the goose-bumps covering my entire body as I tapped his shoulder. When he swiveled his head, I fed his chin an old-fashioned knuckle sandwich. “That’s for twisting my arm, asshole.”

Chalk one up for my pissy attitude.

He fell against the woman standing beside him and sent her tumbling to the floor. She grabbed the knee of the guy on her other side in an attempt to break her fall, but he belly-flopped on top of her.

Bishop stumbled backwards but hooked his arm over the side of the craps table, averting a total fall to the floor. He shook his head and rubbed his jaw as the other players gathered their chips and scattered like politicians faced with the truth. Bishop pulled himself to a full standing position as his eyes zeroed in on mine.

He was a pretty tough hombre. I had to give him that. Those brown eyes under his bushy blond brows shouted trouble in several languages.

“I don’t know what you want, lady; but leave me the hell alone!”

“Just come with me, Mr. Bishop. Let’s have a civil conversation and settle some business. I’ve been trying to tell you what I want, but …”

“I ain’t going nowhere with you. You wouldn’t know civil if it French-kissed you. You’re one crazy-ass bitch. If you come anywhere near me again, I’ll call security.”

Hmmm, that was twice I’d been called a crazy-ass bitch in the past few days. I guess I was getting a reputation.

The pit boss made a quickl head gesture as he looked over my shoulder. “That won’t be necessary, sir.”

I swiveled my head.

Shit! I’ve always hated rent-a-cops.

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A Good Chance For Bad Luck  - Main Character List

I will add to the list as the story progresses. Don’t want to

give away too much too early!

Olivia Michelle Grace ------- Rookie PI and millionaire

Alice Milner: -------------- Olivia’s best friend and murder victim

Patsy -------------------- Olivia's fire engine red 1959 Cadillac convertible

Robert Milner: ------------ Alice’s ex and primary suspect in her death

Andy Bishop: -------------- Sabotage suspect at Butler Farms

Ron Matthews: ------------ Olivia’s friend and possible love interest

Linda Sears: -------------- Olivia’s friend and housekeeper

Max Grace: --------------- Olivia’s brother and Kern County Deputy Sheriff

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