The real Blue Diamond Saloon is getting some press from “Gaming Today.” I used to drive past the Blue Diamond Saloon often and the name caught my attention for my psychological suspense novel, DĂ©jĂ Vu at the Blue Diamond Saloon.
I purposely didn’t go inside, because I didn’t want reality to affect my fictional world. So check it out and then read my version and see which one you like best.
Déjà vu at the Blue Diamond Saloon

Nikki Durrance escaped the worst nightmare of her life when she fled Las Vegas for San Francisco, leaving her husband behind at the Blue Diamond Saloon. So when the perfect Dr. Mike Fischer proposes, she accepts. But when her new Mr. Right begins to transform into a guy just like her ex-husband, she begins to question everything, including her sanity.
Nikki longs to trust Mike, but with an overwhelming feeling of dĂ©jĂ vu, Nikkiâs fear propels her into discoveries of betrayals and underworld connections that will send her running for her life again.
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EXCERPT
âEverything in Las Vegas looks better at night,” I thought as I peeked out the window of my upstairs office.
The dusty, thirsty, lifeless terrain transforms into an Alice in Twinkle land and the neon electrifies the Las Vegas strip. The barren stretches of nothingness surrounding the valley of so-called normal life vanishes from view. But nothing is normal in a place where gambling is invasiveâitâs in the grocery stores, itâs in McDonaldâs, and itâs in every neighborhood corner where a neon sign flashes âgambling and cocktails.â
Leo the grocer startled me when he appeared at the front door of our Las Vegas houseâthe one weâd dreamed of when we were squished into a tiny one-bedroom apartment in San Francisco. But that house felt like a prison with its tomb-like shades covering the windows to prevent the harsh, desert sun from scorching the inside of the house.
When I ran downstairs to open the front door, he handed me a package of ice. Because this is how Vegas worksâwhen you check out at the grocery store, the clerk asks if you need ice, and if youâre lucky, theyâll deliver it to you on short notice. It would be such a shame if you had the sudden urge to make a martini and be out of ice. Especially if you had a surprise guest like I did that hot August night.
I felt Jeffâs breath on my neck, the belt buckle he wore when he played Texas Hold âEm pushing against me, and so I pulled away and asked, âWhatâs the ice for?â
âDrinks with Gabrielle,â he said.
âGabrielle?â
âYes, sheâs over there.â I looked in the direction he was pointing, as Leo drove off and a woman wearing a black leather mini-skirt and tank-top stepped out of a taxi. Wearing stilettos, she posed in such a way that time stood still, portraying an air of confidence. Stunned that he knew the half-sister I had never met, I drank in the details of her appearance. She looked nothing like she did in the picture sheâd sent meâbrunette with medium-length hair. Now she had pure white spiked hair, the exact color Jeff described when he insisted I bleach my almost black hair.
She approached our front door and said, âYouâve lost weight.â Iâve lost weight? What did she know about me? Iâd planned on sending her my photo, but hadnât gotten around to it yet.
Jeff stepped forward, âPlease, come in, make yourself at home.â
I fingered my wind-blown hair and glanced at my unkempt clothes. This was not how Iâd imagined Iâd be dressed when I met Gabrielle for the first time. My enormous closet in the master bathroom, part of an even larger master suite, full of clothes for every occasionâfor golf, tennis, or evening wear at some elegant function on the Strip. Because if there was one thing true about my husband was that he loved to impress others with a well-dressed wife.
Jeff led us into the living room, moved the cat off the couch and said, âPlease, sit hereâ to Gabrielle but then turned to me, âShouldnât you be getting dressed?â
I didnât wait around long enough to see if Gabrielle sat down or not, but I heard soft laughter and ice tinkling from the kitchen. Jeff must be making his special cocktailâwhat he called a French Martini joking that he named it after me. Pineapple juice, vodka, Chambord, and VermouthââWhatâs so French about that?â I had asked. âWell, you are French, right?â he said, and then he threw his head back and laughed in a maniacal way, as if he knew a secret I did not know.
Uneasiness swept over me leaving Jeff and Gabrielle alone downstairs in my kitchenâthe kitchen I took pride in. It was a luxury to finally own such a beautiful, brand-new home and I considered that room to be my private haven. It was where I stood each morning when I gazed at the backyard, lit with the morning desert sun, recalling a similar backyard in my California childhood.
I hurriedly dressed in a pair of black slacks and my favorite black pumps Iâd found on sale at the Outlet Mall on Las Vegas Boulevard. I rummaged through the dresser drawers searching for a particular red shirtâbecause from the way my husband was leering at Gabrielle, I knew it was important I dress my best.
Unable to find it, I put on a black one instead, and grabbed a matching black purse. On my way downstairs I passed my upstairs office where I indulged myself in working on my latest manuscript. The words often failed me then, but when I awoke in the middle of the night to an empty bedroom, I could sit in my office and the lights of South Point Casino calmed me, reassured me. I then wrote until the sun began to peek over the mountains of Henderson in the east in that special hour where the daylight meets the neon. I jumped into bed before Jeff returned from an all-night poker game.
When Iâd made my way to the living room, Jeff handed me a drink and the three of us sat downâJeff in his leather recliner and Gabrielle in the chair next to himâthe one I considered my own. I moved our cat, Sam, the name Jeff had insisted on even though he was not a cat lover. I sat down on the couch closest to Jeff as if I was competing with Gabrielle for his attention.
After a quick drink and a brief chat, Jeff suggested we all go to the Blue Diamond Saloon. âThey have the best buffet,â Jeff said.
No, it wasnât the fanciest place, like those casinos on the Strip, but it was a local hangout like so many in Vegas that served food, drinks, and of course, the ubiquitous gambling. The saloon was within walking distance from our home, and Jeff particularly enjoyed the poker games there. Jeff said, âYou two go onâIâll catch upâ so Gabrielle and I started walking toward The Blue Diamond Saloon.
Jeff caught up with us, and once we arrived, he sauntered inside as if he owned the place. When I tried to follow him, Gabrielleâs demeanor changed and she gave me a look that said, âYouâre so gaucheâ (after all, according to the emails weâd exchanged, she’d lived in Paris) and sheâd indicated sheâd expected me to have done the sameâwith a French name like Nicole and all. But ever since she discovered I hadnât lived in Paris, she seemed to be slightly disappointed in me. Iâd hoped, perhaps, that living in Las Vegas, the âentertainment capital of the world,â would give me some cachĂ©, but this was something she dismissedâas if I hadnât quite mastered being here.
The doorman must have felt the same way, because he refused me admission. This was too weird to even be polite, so I left, and headed for home, stopping by the shop around the front of the club. But all the red shirts cost more than I had on me, and I had left my credit cards in my other purseâthe red purse.
When I arrived back home, I noticed the laptop sitting on the white wicker table next to a matching rocking chair in the front entry. When I took a closer look, I saw that the browser was open at Jeffâs poker blogâsomething he rarely updated. After all, I was the online multi-media professional: writer, blogger, and graphic artist. I read the entry there, with a link to a video heâd posted.
The text said, âDonât watch unless you have the stomach for it.â So, of course, I clicked on the link. And what I saw filled me with fury, disgust, and hate. It was a video of my husband dressed in my missing red blouse and matching red shorts, with my red purse on his arm, prancing around to some seductive music. And in the background, a neon sign flashed, âThe Blue Diamond Saloon.â
Early in our relationship he had revealed how he struggled with his weight when he was younger, and so he took pride in being able to wear my size twelve clothes. In spite of what the fashion industry wanted to believe, I was still below the average size fourteen that most U.S. women wore. I worked hard at keeping my weight down.
But Gabrielle mustnât be any larger than a size eight, my best guess after viewing Gabrielle wearing nothing but a satin black thong, matching low cut silk black bra, and Jeffâs tie. I recognized it from one of our cruises. She maneuvered a sexy move behind him, danced around him, and smiled into the camera taunting me. A swift kick to my gut told me that today was not the first time they had met.
Then he peered directly into the camera, and snarled, âThis is for Sam.â And then right in front of me, in front of the camera, he started making rude fondling movements on Gabrielleâs body while she fondled him in return. Iâm a voyeur as much as the next person, but I couldnât watch anymore. And when I closed the browser window, a message written like a handwritten note said, âRIP, darling,â and then a mock newspaper headline flashed. It said, âJealous Wife Found Dead at The Blue Diamond Saloon wearing nothing but black pumps.â
Feeling a second swift kick to my gut, I peeked in the closets, the pantry, the cabinets and the rooms upstairs to make sure nobody was in there, waiting for me. Because I was afraid that this time he would make good his idle threats and Iâd be dead. Maybe not by his own hands, but I suspected he knew people in low places and somebody someday would murder me. Iâd had enough and I knew that it was up to me to remain alive, to get away before tomorrow arrived.
I may appear stupid for hanging around this long, but I wasnât about to stay any longer, in case my luck had run out. I was afraid the next death threat, the next slap on the face, the next infidelity would mean the end of me.
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