Free Lucky Catch by Deborah Coonts Page A

little while ago, that pig was ensconced in Bungalow 7.”
    When he laughed his belly shook, reminding me of Santa Claus, well, without the beard—he did have a stomach like a bowlful of jelly . . . and a round, warm face and infectious laugh.
    “You’d better not let your father know this,” he warned, unnecessarily.
    Personally, I didn’t care what my father knew or didn’t know—he was close to the top of my shit list. But I didn’t need to air the family dirty laundry, so I shifted gears . . . again. I’d done more of that today than a NASCAR driver. “You are sure this is not the original truffle?”
    “Lucky, girl, don’t be insulting.” Chef Omer softened the words with a smile. “Somebody substituted this one for the real thing.” Using the knife, he began slicing the truffle.
    Numbed by the day, I didn’t even cringe.
    “Why?”
    With the point of the blade, Chef Omer popped out tiny beads of iron, which bounced, then rolled across the table.
    I watched them for a moment, then looked up, locking the chef’s eyes with mine. “And where is the real truffle?”
     
    * * *
     
    Hunger gnawed at my stomach—churning acid that I was certain would one day eat a hole in the lining, if it hadn’t already. The pain propelled me to Nebuchadnezzar’s, our award-winning, twenty-four-hour buffet-style feast. I’d told the Big Boss the name was too long, but he’d insisted on accuracy. Now, everyone called it simply Neb’s. When I ate there with my father, I rubbed it in at every opportunity. I’m shallow like that.
    For a regular glutton like me, the choices were immobilizing . . . almost. Today, I chose sushi and fruit. “I’m working on making better choices,” I told the sushi guy behind the counter. He nodded and smiled, but gave me that glazed look as if he hadn’t understood a word I’d said.
    Grinning and nodding back, I reached for a plate with a little line of raw red meat curved over wads of rice. Unappealing and unappetizing, the identity of the fish remained a mystery. But, committed as I was to a moment of self-betterment, that didn’t matter. I grabbed a few more things that looked like they would swim away if I tossed them in a bucket of water. Nothing like grazing from the tidal pool.
    Waltzing by the fresh section, I grabbed some cantaloupe and honeydew melon, then a swing through the sugar section yielded a piece of chocolate layer cake. Everybody knew that some days, one required chocolate to keep the homicidal tendencies in check. Chocolate, the new health food—if not your own, then somebody else’s.
    A table by the window directly in the stream of sunlight called to me. Casino workers were like cave dwellers—no windows, no natural light, our vitamin D levels were probably nonexistent, so sunlight held the addictive allure of a psychotropic drug, and rounded out my health-laden meal.
    One of the staff brought wine, half of which I downed in one pull. Then I settled in to tame the beast inside. I powered through some sushi and most of the fruit. A sense of peace and calm settled over me, and I let myself relax and unwind just a bit. Of course, the glass of wine—a nice Viognier they kept just for me—helped as well. The panic subsided. Life came into focus.
    Stupid me. I knew better. Like a red cloth waving in front of a bull, letting my guard down tempted the Fates, goading them to take action.
    Teddie caught me mired in indecision as I eyed the remainder of my sushi and the radiant delectableness of the cake. “Saint or sinner? Hard to choose, isn’t it?” He leaned in, as if he needed to get my attention.
    He didn’t. My heart had felt a subtle change in the universe the minute he’d walked in. Feigning indifference to him took everything I had. Saint or sinner? Friend or foe? Good questions.
    “A little of both, I should say. I’m trying to eliminate toxins.”
    He shot me a lopsided grin—the same one that used to make my insides go all gooey. It still did.