Goddess of Vengeance - Jackie Collins [105]
Luscious and Randy. A true Vegas couple, always trying to wriggle out of debt and better themselves, only getting nowhere in a hurry.
Recently things were looking up. Randy had gone into business with his ex-con older brother, Mikey, and started dealing drugs. Mikey procured the product, and Randy was the deliveryman, which suited him fine. Deliver the order, collect the cash, split it with Mikey and voilà – money in his pocket.
But all was not so fine as far as Luscious was concerned. She suspected that Randy had a hard-on for Mikey’s wife – a fellow dancer who went by the name of Seducta Sinn (formerly Norma Wilkas from Chicago). Luscious considered Seducta major white trash with her enormous fake tits and out-of-control big ass. They performed alongside each other at Dirty Den’s, and often vied to see who would score the biggest tips. Even though they were banging brothers, in Luscious’s eyes that did not make them friends. However, when Dirty Den himself offered her five-hundred bucks to service a john at The Cavendish hotel, and another five-hundred to take along a ‘friend’, Luscious immediately thought of Seducta. Why not? Fantastic money and a chance to see what tricks Seducta possessed that she didn’t.
Naturally Seducta was up for the gig; she was always complaining that she and Mikey were one step away from the poor house.
Lying douche, Luscious thought. She was sure that Mikey was cheating Randy out of his fair share of the drug money. Mikey was a slippery character and Luscious didn’t trust him at all. Nor did she trust Seducta, but Randy insisted that Mikey was family and would never cheat him.
Luscious knew a thing or two about family. A mother strung out on crack, a stepfather who was always trying to slip her his limp cock, and an uncle who’d raped her repeatedly when she was twelve.
Family indeed. They’d stab you in the back and bury the corpse if they thought they could get away with it.
* * *
Armand placed a ten-thousand-dollar bet on number 11. The roulette wheel spun around and 11 came up. He let his original bet ride, and 11 came up for a second time.
He’d won three-hundred-and-forty-thousand dollars in less than ten minutes. Time to walk away.
Or stay.
It didn’t matter. His winnings meant nothing to him. His mind was racing on overtime. How could he go about hiring a hit man? Was it like in the movies?
No. Of course it wasn’t. He had to be careful and think this through.
He was in Vegas. Anything could be arranged in Vegas.
How much for a hit?
The money was of no consequence. Finding the right person to take care of it was all that mattered.
Where was Fouad? Not that Fouad would approve, he was no longer the loyal lackey Armand depended on. Fouad was a weakling who couldn’t arrange anything.
Armand needed another hit of coke. His mouth was dry, his mind was spinning. After taking a gulp of Scotch from the glass a scantily clad cocktail waitress handed him, he threw a large tip at the croupier and got up. Just as he was about to leave, a girl approached him, a pretty girl in an all-American way. She had long golden-red hair and exceptionally high cheekbones, and acted extremely confident as she slid onto the seat next to him. ‘Armand,’ she said, greeting him as if they were old friends. ‘Long time no see. Are you here for the fights?’
‘What fights?’ he mumbled.
‘Oh please!’ The girl gave a tinkly laugh. ‘I’m sure you have the best seats in the house.’
He had no idea who she was, but she obviously knew him.
‘Not here for the fights,’ he said, getting up from the roulette table.
‘You know,’ the girl said, lowering her voice and leaning toward him, ‘I thought we had a good time together, and yet you never called.’
‘Ah . . .’ he said, trying to recall through a haze of too much coke where it was he’d had her