Lucky
Page 21
“You found me,” he whispered. “Oh my God, Lucky, how did you do it?”
“When your mother told me you might be dead, I started to think, what if you weren’t? I called hospitals in Nevada, and I didn’t give up until I found you.”
“Typical Lucky. Relentless, a survivor. I’ve been so scared. I’m so sorry.”
“What happened?” Lucky said, reading her lines. “I thought you took off on me, but when I went to your mom’s place, she let some stuff slip. She said she had done this to you—”
“That bitch—”
“That you had been working for her, and that you were trying to take off with some money, a lot of it. Is it true?”
“I don’t think we should talk about this on the phone. Where did you say you were?”
“I’m in New York. I’m at a pay phone.” One of the officers hit a button on a computer, and the sound of a bus rolling past rose in the room, then other traffic sounds, which rose and faded.
“Can you come here?” he asked. “Get a bus? Meet me here. We’ll run, together. I love you so much. I’ve been lost without you; it’s been hell. But I need you to know I would never leave you.”
The lines on the page in front of Lucky blurred. Her mouth had gone dry again and she reached for her water. “I’ve been so worried about you. But—you lied to me. You pretended you were running the restaurant—but you were laundering money for Priscilla, weren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry. I could never get away from her. I tried, but I couldn’t. She had me in too deep. When she gave me the house for us in Boise, I thought maybe we could work for a while, then get away from her somehow. It didn’t work out that way, though.”
“No. It didn’t.”
“Will you come?”
“Yes. I’ll be there. It’ll take me a few days, but I’ll get there.”
“I’m so glad you found me. Okay. I’ll be waiting. I love you.”
“I love you too, Cary.” It caught in her throat. She had loved him once, so it wasn’t a lie. It was possible she still did, possible she always would, no matter what her head tried to tell her heart. She didn’t know yet. All she knew was that she had to keep moving, keep telling herself he was finally going to get what he deserved. That she was no longer his victim. That she never again had to be who she had been before.
Lucky hung up and sat still, composing herself. Valerie stepped forward and sat down at the table with her.
“You did great. Okay. Next step. We have a phone number,” Valerie said to her. “You’re clear on what you need to say to Priscilla?”
“I think so.” Every time Lucky looked into her mother’s eyes, she felt a jolt. It was like looking in a mirror.
“You did a good job there with Cary. What’s important is clarity. Nothing can be ambiguous. With Priscilla, you need to get her to admit that she hired a hit man to beat up, or possibly kill, her son. That he was working for her, laundering money, for years. When you were in San Francisco, and then again in Boise. Okay?”
“I can do that,” Lucky said. “Bluffing is a skill I have.” For once, there was no shame in admitting this. She was good at this, and it turned out it was a skill that didn’t always have to be used for cheating.
“Tell her to meet you at this restaurant,” Valerie said, sliding a name and address across the table. “Tell her that you know where Cary is, that you went to Vegas to find him after what she told you, that he’s hiding in an apartment and you’ll only tell her where if she gives you what you want. Tell her that Cary has agreed to meet up with her and let her know where the money is, but say you want to negotiate. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“If what we suspect is true, she’ll meet you. Her life is on the line. She owes that money. The proceeds from the lottery ticket are enough to cover it—but she has to come forward to redeem the ticket, and that means coming out of hiding.”
Valerie crossed the room to speak to a collection of officers overseeing the setup of the recording devices. “Okay. We’re with you.”
Lucky sat silent, alone now with her thoughts—and her fears.
“Ready, Lucky? Time to move forward.”
* * *
Lucky set up the meeting with Priscilla for five o’clock. I know where Cary is I know where the money is, too. And I’ll tell you where, but we need to talk in person. Priscilla went for it.
Now, exactly on time, Lucky walked into the restaurant and sat alone. Priscilla was late, by ten minutes, then twenty. Lucky became sure she wasn’t going to show up.
But finally, Priscilla walked in. She wasn’t alone. Nico, the guard from Priscilla’s Place, was with her.
“Hello,” Lucky said. “Thank you for coming.”
“Fuck the pleasantries, Lucky. Tell me what I want to know.”
“Give me back my lottery ticket.”
“Tell me everything or I’ll have Nico here shoot you in the head.”
“We’re in public. I don’t think Nico is going to shoot me in the middle of a restaurant. Give me back the lottery ticket you stole from me.”
“I didn’t steal it from you, I stole it from that idiot Gloria.”
“Who got it from me. And I want it back. If I give you the information about the money, I’m going to need that ticket. I know where it is, the money Cary owes you. And I know where he is, too. He’s not dead.”
“Where is the money?”
“That’s what you care about? No ‘Oh, my son is alive, thank God!’ Where did you even get all that money? Why did Cary have it?”
“Are you stupid? He was cleaning it for me. Until he betrayed me. Now, I don’t really care what happens to him, but I need that money. Or you’re dead, I’m dead, we’re all dead.”
“Give me my ticket. I won’t tell you where he is if you don’t. I’ll walk out of here.”
“And I’ll have you killed.”
“You would do that? While I’m carrying your grandchild? Would you really do that, for money?”
“It’s a lot of money, Lucky. I told you back in Fresno, I care about the child—but my own survival is what matters most to me.”
“How much money is it?”
“Tens of millions. It wasn’t just the restaurant. Cary was laundering some of it through your business, you just didn’t know it.”
“Who was it being laundered for?”
“I’m not going to tell you that.”
Lucky wished she had a piece of paper in front of her this time, like she’d had on the phone with Cary. She was struggling to remember exactly what she was supposed to say, worrying she wasn’t getting it right. “The thing is, Cary lost some of the money.”
“What do you mean, lost some of it?”
“The money he was laundering for you,” Lucky said, heart pounding. This was what they had practiced at the police station. “He had developed a betting habit. He gambled some of it away. Online. He started to get scared. He admitted that to me when I found him. He’s in a rehab facility in Vegas. He was badly beaten, but he survived.”
“This is bullshit! You’re making this up!”
“Priscilla, I think we need to start working together. I need to build a life for myself and my child. Your son is a cheat, and a liar. Cary betrayed me, he betrayed you, he betrayed both of us. Give me the lottery ticket, and I’ll give you the banking information you need to get the money back, plus I’ll wire you the money Cary lost from my funds. And I’ll tell you where he is. We need to start trusting each other. You can’t possibly know how much I hate Cary. How badly I want him to pay for putting me in this position.”
“Oh, I do,” Priscilla said. “I understand completely.”
“Just give me the ticket you stole.”
Priscilla sat still, thinking. And Lucky knew exactly what she was thinking as she reached for the large handbag beside her on the padded bench: Priscilla was thinking she would give Lucky the ticket, yes. And then Lucky would tell her everything she wanted to know. And then Priscilla a
nd Nico would follow her, and shoot her in some alley somewhere, and take the ticket back again.
“Here you go,” Priscilla said, removing a mini-safe from her bag, typing in a combination, then taking the lottery ticket out and handing it across the table to Lucky. “Now tell me where the money is. And exactly where Cary is.” She slid her phone over. “You can call him from this phone. It’s a blocked number. Put him on speaker. I want confirmation that he is indeed alive before you walk out of here.”
Lucky looked down at the ticket. It was hers. She recognized it immediately: the numbers, and every little mark, every little rip, all the evidence of the journey she had taken with it. That journey was not over. She slipped the ticket into her pocket.
“So? Where’s the money?” Priscilla demanded.
“I have no idea,” Lucky said. “Turns out we’re exactly alike. Both stone-cold liars who will do anything to get what they want.” She stood. “Also, I’m not pregnant. I lost the baby, before we left Boise. And I’m sad about it, of course.” This next part was hard, because it wasn’t true; she had wanted her baby, and missed it still: the idea, the dream. Like a golden ticket. “But frankly, I’m also relieved I don’t have to carry your son’s child. Be the mother of the grandchild of a woman like you. You are not the kind of woman who should have progeny.”
“You little bitch. You think we’re going to let you go? You’re dead. No matter where you go, we’ll follow you; no matter what you do, we will know what it is. You’ll be dead by the end of today.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“You bet I am.”
It happened quickly: the sudden movements, the loud noises, police rushing through the doors, the shouting, the guns.
Nico had pulled a gun and jumped up, but he didn’t get the chance to use it; he was shot by a SWAT officer. He fell to the side and Lucky felt the weight of him, slumped against her. She collapsed to the floor with Nico on top of her, and for a moment she thought she might suffocate. Someone pulled him off her; she could smell the strong metallic tang of blood, reminding her of some of her worst moments. She could hear Priscilla screaming, swearing to God that she would kill Lucky someday, that it was a promise she would die to keep. Someone led her into the parking lot and she didn’t have to hear the shouting anymore, the ugliness of Priscilla’s words—but she knew she would never forget the things she had said.
Nico’s blood was on her shirt. She was shaking.
“Is he dead?” Lucky asked. But no one answered her. She felt so alone.
But not for long. Her mother appeared in front of her. “You did such a good job, you were perfect. I’m so proud of you,” Valerie said. She opened her arms, and for the first time, they held each other. Lucky’s shoulders shook with the silent weight of her tears. But they were tears of joy; they were together at last.
Valerie drew back and looked into Lucky’s eyes. “To answer your question, no, Nico is not dead. They’re taking him to the hospital. My team is very grateful to you. Many people are. You brought Priscilla Lachaise down today. You did it. You’ve made a difference in the world.”
* * *
Later, when Lucky was sitting in the back of a police van with a blanket around her shoulders and a warm cup of coffee in her hands, Valerie explained the process that was about to begin. Lucky was going to be placed in police custody for the time being. The lottery ticket would be kept safe. Valerie’s staff had already contacted the lottery and gaming commission. Once the ticket was verified, the winnings would be held in trust while Lucky testified against Priscilla and Cary in court. Reyes and John would also testify. Valerie assured her Reyes and John would both be protected, that they wouldn’t be charged with violating parole.
“Where are they?” Lucky asked as she held the warm coffee in both hands.
“On their way back to the city, under police escort. They’re safe, and they have your dog with them. She’s beautiful, by the way,” Valerie said.
“Thank you. She’s family.”
“I understand that. But I want to be your family, too. I know you’ll have some forgiving to do, and I’ll be patient. I won’t abandon you, ever. Not again. Okay? Everything is going to be fine. Trust me. I will make it all better for you. I can do that. I promise.”
Second chances, third, fourth. If we never forgave, we’d all be alone, Reyes had said. She was right. “What about Gloria?” Lucky asked.
“That all depends on you. Do you want to press charges against her for stealing the ticket?”
Lucky shook her head. “I don’t,” she said. “Just let her be.”
“All right, whatever you want.”
What Lucky wanted was to tell Valerie she was going to change—that she was going to become a daughter Valerie could be proud of. There would be time for that, though. Time to prove who she was with actions rather than words in this brand-new life she was standing at the precipice of.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you,” Valerie said. “About back then.” Her green eyes shone with emotion. “I gave you a name after I gave birth to you. I called you Julia—it was my grandmother’s name. She was my pole star. To me, it’s your real name. But I can’t deny it: you are Lucky. So you should call yourself whatever you want.”
From the van’s windows, the city, with its bright lights and dark shadows, loomed in the distance. Her true history was there, too, woven through those streets. And the story belonged to her now. She couldn’t decide yet if she felt like a Lucky or a Julia. But for the first time in her life she was sure of two things: she knew who she was, and she knew she was safe.
Acknowledgments
My gratitude begins with my mother, Valerie Clubine. This book would not exist without her, and neither would I. She encouraged me to write even on the hardest days and promised there would be no regrets. She was right. Mom, I believe in myself because you believed in me. I miss you—and I feel lucky that you were ever mine.
I’m also grateful to my steadfast agent and friend Samantha Haywood, who is simply the best; her team at Transatlantic Agency; and my film/TV agent Dana Spector at CAA, who is an absolute hustler.
Thank you to everyone at Simon & Schuster Canada, especially my excellent editor, Nita Pronovost; my delightful publicist, Jillian Levick (puffed sleeves forever!); Karen Silva, Rebecca Snoddon, Adria Iwasutiak, Felicia Quon, David Millar, and Kevin Hanson.
Lucky Armstrong stands alone, but I do not. I’m deeply grateful to my coven of writer friends—Karma Brown, Kerry Clare, Chantel Guertin, Kate Hilton, Jennifer Robson, and Elizabeth Renzetti—for always being there, even if it had to be in witchy spirit for most of this year.
Special thanks to Laurie Petrou for helping me find a patronus in Miss Piggy.
I’m also grateful to Taylor Jenkins-Reid, Colleen Oakley, Samantha Bailey, Lisa Gabriele, Hannah Mary McKinnon, and Catherine Mackenzie for early reads and generous endorsements of a character so dear to my heart.
And to Sophie Chouinard, Sherri Vanderveen, Alison Gadsby, Kate Henderson, Nance Williams, and my many other dear friends (lucky me) who have offered support and love this year, and beyond.
Without Rich Caplan’s help, I would never have been able to write a convincing poker scene. (Without Ruth Marshall, I would likely not smile as often as I do.)
Without my readers, I would have very little reason to do what I do. Thank you also to the bookstagrammers and book bloggers who help get the word out and warm my heart with their bookish enthusiasm. And to booksellers far and wide: you are the very best kind of people.
Without my family, I would be lost. Thanks to my dear old dad, Bruce Stapley, for really loving Lucky (but refusing to choose a favorite book); my stepdad, Jim Clubine, for believing in me just as much as my mom did; the Ponikowski family; and my brothers (in order of favourites; just kidding, it’s age), Shane, Drew, and Griffin Stapley.
Finally, thank you to my beautiful children, Joseph and Maia, the best characters in my life, the luckiest stars in m
y sky. And to Joe, for being the cheese-stuffed meatball in the spaghetti of my life. I write for many reasons—but one of them is because you make it possible with your love, support, faith, and willingness to dream with me.
More from the Author
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About the Author
Photo by Eugene Choi
Marissa Stapley is the bestselling author of Mating for Life, Things to Do When It’s Raining, and The Last Resort, which was shortlisted for an Arthur Ellis Award. Her journalism has appeared in newspapers and magazines across North America. She lives in Toronto with her family. Visit her at MarissaStapley.com or follow her on Twitter and Instagram @MarissaStapley.
SimonandSchuster.ca
www.SimonandSchuster.ca/Authors/Marissa-Stapley
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.