Private Vegas (Private 9)

Tommy looked at his cards, folded, said to me, “Let’s take this outside, huh, Jack?”

“Nice to meet you too, Izzy,” I said. “Tommy didn’t mention that he had a twin?”

“Nuh-uh. No. I don’t know if I could tell you apart.”

“Even Mom couldn’t do that. You know, of course, that Tom is married. Has a lovely wife and a wonderful boy. Lives in Hancock Park under a big mortgage. And he’s a degenerate gambler. Maybe you know that.”

Tommy shouted, “Hey.”

Izzy said, “That’s not true. You’re not married. Are you, Tommy?”

“Okay, wise guy. Let’s cut it right here.” Tommy stood up to his full six one, same height as me.

“I wouldn’t get mixed up with him, Izzy,” I said. “He’s a liar and a cheat. And those are his good qualities.”

Tommy had shaken her off, was standing with his fists clenched, and his face was clenched too. He wanted to hit me, and I wanted him to go ahead and try. He telegraphed a roundhouse punch, which I blocked; I teed up one of my own, and as my brother pulled back, I grazed his chin.

We’d been fighting for some thirty-five years and neither of us had any moves the other didn’t know.

Still, Tommy was thrown off balance. He staggered back against the table, and players vacated their chairs. Drinks spilled. A woman screamed, and doormen inserted themselves between me and Tommy.

I said, “This is a warning, Junior. You come into my place and mess with me, I’m going to return the favor.”

Tommy was shouting over the bouncers, “You pea brain. You ass-wipe.”

“There’s no problem, gentlemen,” I said to the two guys with the bulging biceps and the buttons popping off their shirts. I held up the palms of my hands to say, I’m not a problem. I’m not going to get physical.

I backed away, still with my hands showing, then turned and left the club by the fire door, setting off the alarm for a memorable and satisfying exit.

A minute later, I was outside, crossing the street. I got into my loaner and turned on my phone. Yep, there was the GPS signal showing me the precise location of Tommy’s car.

All things considered, it had been a good night’s work. And it wasn’t over yet.

Chapter 41

JUSTINE SAID GOOD night to her date and waved as he drove up Wetherly and then rounded the corner at the end of her block. She stood in her driveway for another moment, watching taillights and fireflies, thinking about the evening, the temptation, and the many reasons why she should stop this while she still could.

Then she walked up the flagstone path to her darling little cottage in the flats, cute and low maintenance, protected by neighbors on all sides, perfect for a single working woman with a dog and a cat.

Her house was simple and uncluttered. She wished she could say the same for her mind.

Justine punched in the alarm code and opened the door, and her dog, Rocky, bolted out, jumping and generally making a fool of himself. She returned the joyous greeting, then led Rocky through to the rear of the house, and let him out into the backyard.

She was in her updated 1930s kitchen preparing dinner for Rocky and a purring, rubbing, lip-smacking Nefertiti when the phone rang.

Justine said to Nefertiti, “This better not be work. I am done for the day.”

It was her mother, Evangeline Pogue, calling from her sailboat somewhere off Tortuga. Justine pictured Vangy in her shorts and halter top, drink in hand, sitting cross-legged on the bowsprit under the night sky, her third husband down in the galley.

Vangy said, “Justine, I’ve called and called.” When it came to her only child, Vangy had high anxiety.

“I was out, Mom. Haven’t even kicked off my shoes.” She did that now, then put Rocky’s and Nefertiti’s food on the floor, went to the sitting room, threw herself into her favorite chair, and put her feet up on the hassock.

“Is everything all right?” Vangy asked.

Justine sighed. “Jack’s car was set on fire.”

“Oh Lord. Is Jack…?”