Tara Quinn - Street Smart

Word on the street said the scam was an inside job. That meant Arnold was going to find out about it. In a business where employer trust was paramount, he protected his integrity above all else. She recognized that because she’d always been just like him.

And like him, she was determined to find out what was going on. Pronto.

But unlike him, it wasn’t to protect her integrity. Not this time. She valued honesty above all else—except her freedom. She could go to jail for misrepresentation because she’d put her condo up for collateral twice. The only chance she had was to get in on the Strip scam before it was over. As soon as the perpetrators got wind that the other side was close, they’d shut down. They always did.

Her biggest fear was that the scam would be history before she could cash in. She had absolutely no idea what she’d do then.

By the time Carl took his break shortly after ten on Saturday night, Francesca had already reached her margarita limit.

A third night without sleeping pills. She had to get to bed before the buzz wore off.

“You aren’t leaving, are you?” he asked Francesca. She stood just after Rebecca, the young woman who’d been waiting tables all evening, had gone behind the bar to relieve him.

As had happened the night before, and the night before that, the place had been filled with young people earlier, mostly young women calling greetings to others who came in the door. But slowly the crowd had thinned to some guys shooting pool and throwing darts at one end of the room, with people at a few scattered tables here and there. For the past half hour, the door had only opened as someone left.

Autumn wasn’t coming.

“Yeah, I should get back.” It was light before six in the morning these days. She had an appointment with a phone booth.

Hands in the pockets of his jeans, Carl nodded. “You can’t spare another fifteen minutes to sit with me?” His dark eyes were warm, welcoming.

She’d refused the night before. But three shots of tequila weren’t going to wear off in fifteen minutes. And her room at the Lucky Seven was so…empty. “I guess I can.”

What am I doing? There was no place in her schedule for friends. And no life in her heart.

Still, when he asked if she’d like to share his tomato-and-basil pizza, she didn’t say no.

She shouldn’t have stayed. Sitting alone with Carl at a table in the comfortable back corner of his bar was very different from sharing casual hit-and-miss conversation as he worked. More intimate.

He wanted to know too much.

She’d almost prefer talking to her mother.

The information she offered him—that she was from Sacramento, that she was a photojournalist taking some time off, even that she was half Italian—wasn’t enough to satisfy him. He wanted to know why she wasn’t married, but that wasn’t up for discussion.

“Who’s your artist?” she asked, pointing to the wall across from them instead of answering his question. She’d noticed the watercolors the night before—various depictions of wine bottles with muted purple flower backgrounds. She’d described them to her mother when she’d called to tell Kay about the fairly positive identification of Autumn at Guido’s. She’d had a hard time convincing her to stay in Sacramento and let Francesca find out what they needed to know. Only the threat that Autumn was more likely to run again if she found out Kay was in town had ultimately worked. Francesca had hated using it.

“I don’t know the artist. Are you currently involved with anyone?”

He’d pushed the last piece of uneaten pizza aside, his forearms resting on the table as he peered at her.

“You don’t give up, do you?”

He grinned, spread his hands. “You’re a woman. I’m Italian.”

“Yeah, right.” Head bent, Francesca half smiled. “I’ve been watching you for two days, buster. And a womanizer you’re not.”

Sitting back, he narrowed his eyes. She hadn’t seen him look so serious before. “That’s true,” he told her quietly. “But you intrigue me, Francesca. You hide so much more than you show.”

Longing for her sunken mattress at the Lucky Seven, Francesca moved around some crumbs on the dark wooden table. “You’ve got an impressive imagination.”

“No, I’ve got an uncanny ability to read people.” If the words had carried even a hint of bravado, a hint of anything other than sincerity, she’d have had no problem getting up and walking out.

Instead, she sat there, unfocused and quietly panicking. She couldn’t like him. Didn’t want to feel anything.

She only wanted to find Autumn.

And her sister had been at Guido’s.

“I’m a little disappointed my friend didn’t show this weekend,” she said, working hard to concentrate through the fog of exhaustion she’d brought upon herself. “I was really looking forward to seeing her.”

“Did you call her?”

She shook her head. And then wished she hadn’t as the thickness inside her skull didn’t keep up with the movement. “I tried. There was no answer.”

“You think something happened to her?”

Holding her head perfectly still, Francesca shrugged. “She moves a lot. Not being able to reach her for weeks on end isn’t all that unusual.” An understatement if ever she’d heard one.

“Still,” he said, leaning on the table again, bringing his face with its kind brown eyes closer to hers. “She must be pretty special if you came all the way from Sacramento just to see her.”

“Like I said, I’m taking some time off, anyway, and hadn’t seen Vegas in more than twenty years. It sounded like fun.”

Or might have if fun wasn’t so far removed from what her life had become.

And then, because she couldn’t wait any longer, Francesca pulled out Autumn’s picture. “But you’re right, she is special,” she said. “See?” Instead of the photo with the pink hair and the lip ring, this was an age progression of Francesca’s favorite portrait of her sister. Autumn was one of those girls whose guileless beauty, even as a child, caused people to take a second look.

The lighting in the bar was more atmospheric than illuminating and Carl sat back, holding up the photo as he studied it.

“I’ve seen her.” His words made her heart pound—and brought an unexpected and instant rush of tears. Francesca camouflaged them by bending down to her bag on the floor, rustling for her car keys. She clutched them as she slowly sat back up.

“In here?” she asked when she could trust herself.

He nodded. “I’m pretty sure.”

“Recently?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so, or I’d remember better. But I know she’s been in. Seems to me she was here all the time a while back. Hanging out with a bunch of girls. And then she quit coming in.”

Damn. It was the first in a string of words that Francesca screamed silently. And, had she been in her room, would’ve said out loud.

“That’s the way it is with them,” Carl continued, his gaze on a couple who’d just approached the bar. “One by one they seem to drop out of sight.”

“What’s that about?” she asked, with no possible solutions of her own to offer. She frowned, wishing her head was clearer. That was it for margaritas. Period.

“I’m not sure.” He handed the picture back to her as they stood. His break was over, which no doubt explained his preoccupation. “They’re young and they’re female,” he said. “I figure it’s either the result of hurt feelings or finding a boyfriend. Girls that age seem to forget they ever had girlfriends when they find a steady guy. My job is just to provide a relatively safe place for them if they choose to come here.”

Didn’t paint a pretty picture of her sex, but remembering back to her own teen years, Francesca had to admit Carl was at least partially right.