Reunion: Diversion Six

by Eden Winters

  As soon as Lucky figured out how.

  Walter spied the rather conspicuous flower arrangement worth more than Lucky’s first car. “Did you get your answer?”

  “Yup. Nestor Sauceda came sneaking in here, said I should know better than to have to ask.” Though the details seemed a bit fuzzy. “I mean, if I didn’t hallucinate the whole damned conversation.” But hallucinations didn’t bring very real flowers.

  Walter nodded. “What else did he say?”

  “He’d try to find out who did.”

  Again Walter nodded. “Who would do such a thing besides Victor?”

  Lucky shrugged all his painful body allowed. “At the time I hadn’t turned anyone in, so hadn’t made the enemies I have today. I’d say Stephan Mangiardi, but the little asshole wouldn’t spend his money on someone else.” Or more accurately, he wouldn’t have spent Victor’s money on anyone else.

  “How much does your family know about your… current arrangements?”

  “My mother and sister know I’m still around, but they said they’d keep quiet until Dad’s recovered. He doesn’t need the shock right now, and my brothers can’t keep secrets for shit.”

  Walter rose and rearranged the flowers on the table, placing his in front of Nestor’s. Nothing happened by accident with Walter. “All the same, I’d like to interview your family members, with your permission. Maybe they’ll recall something helpful. We won’t reveal anything you object to.”

  “I appreciate it, but won’t the powers that be have something to say about you nosing about for me?” While Lucky needed answers, the bureau didn’t have a dog in this fight.

  “The delivery of a large amount of heroin to a college campus is a legitimate case, worth investigating, no matter how long ago the crime took place.” Walter removed his bifocals, rubbed the lenses on his shirt, held them up to the light, and plopped them back on his nose. “There. That’s better.”

  “But statute of limitations and all.” No one understood statutes like someone bound and determined to put time and distance between themselves and their past misdeeds.

  “Someone dealing in heroin of those quantities wouldn’t give up easy money. Perhaps they’re still around and active.”

  The boss had spoken. Pity anyone who argued. If a way existed to make Daytona’s supplier pay, they’d better watch out. Even the most powerful drug lords feared Walter Smith. “Can you check out the nurse for me? Something about him sets my alarms off. Andy something-or-other.” Why couldn’t Lucky remember the name?

  “Lucky, I trust your instincts. If you have doubts about him, I’ll have Loretta perform a background check.”

  “You could’ve brought my laptop or my work phone, and I’d be able to do the checking myself.” Lucky’s cheap personal phone couldn’t surf the internet. But if he couldn’t do the check himself, Loretta Johnson would be his next choice, after Bo.

  Walter sighed. “How much rest would you get if you spent your days researching the entire hospital staff and looking up every prescription for possible counterfeits?”

  Good point. “Okay, but I need you to get right on this. This nurse keeps slinking around. Last night I woke up and caught him standing over the bed watching me sleep.”

  “Are you sure it’s not your medication talking?” But Walter’s suddenly stiff backbone meant he’d gone into alert mode.

  “I’m sure. He’s passed by this room several times since you got here.”

  Right on cue, Nurse Andy paused outside the door, peered in, and took off when Lucky glared.

  “See what I mean?”

  Walter parked a hand on Lucky’s shoulder. “I’ll have him checked out. You have my word.”

  ***

  Walter reappeared later in the day. “I’m afraid your family didn’t offer any additional information.” He slurped from a coffee cup while handing Lucky another. “The oldest of your younger brothers…”

  “Bristol.”

  “Ah, yes. Bristol. Excuse my saying so, but he’s a bit—”

  “Of an asshole,” Lucky finished for his boss.

  Walter smiled. “I might have used other words, but sometimes the simple terms are the best. Yes, I’m afraid your brother is an asshole.” Asshole? The word sounded so strange coming from Walter’s mouth. Of course, his vocabulary tended to head south around Lucky.

  “The family used to say he got switched at birth. Ever since I remember, he’s been acting like he’s better than the rest of us, ashamed of being a tobacco farmer’s son.” Being a dumb redneck saved Lucky’s life on occasion. And being underestimated gave him a big advantage over folks who imagined him too dumb to be a threat.

  Serving twenty years in federal prison gave the ones who’d underestimated him plenty of time to see the error of their ways.

  “Chances are, whoever it turns out to be is long dead or serving time.” Lucky could hope.

  “At any rate, it’s still a crime to be solved.” When Walter got an idea in his head, Hell and half of Georgia couldn’t change the man’s mind.

  “But it’s not a pharmaceutical crime.” While the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau’s Department of Diversion Prevention and Control investigated out of their area when necessary, they normally didn’t handle street drugs—the DEA got those cases. Lucky them.

  “No, it’s not. But it is a crime.” Walter might appear to be casually interested, but he took care of his own. And if he considered Lucky a son, Daytona came with the package.

  May God have mercy on anyone who messed with Walter’s family, for Walter wouldn’t. Because Lucky had never heard of his boss killing someone and disposing of the body didn’t mean he hadn’t. Just that Walter hadn’t gotten caught. Wouldn’t get caught.

  Lucky peered around his boss toward the open door. No Nurse Andy. Yet. “What did you find out about the nurse?”

  “He’s a relatively new addition to the staff, but has high credentials and not so much as a traffic ticket.” Again with Walter’s stiff pose.

  Lucky scrutinized his boss. It wasn’t like Walter not to snap to Lucky’s attention, but he’d never endanger a part of his team. Something about his clenching and unclenching fists said the matter wasn’t over, and Nurse Andy pinged Walter’s felon instincts. No telling what Lucky’d find if he crawled inside the man’s mind. No thanks. He’d enough demons living in his own head.

  And an unnerving nurse to keep an eye on.

  ***

  Damn, damn, ouch, ouch, oh holy fuck! Lucky doubled over, breathing through the worst of the pain. Thank God they’d unhooked his IV, or else he’d have to haul the damned apparatus down the hall.

  Walter might be doing background work, but nothing beat good old-fashioned surveillance.

  He peeked around the corner. There. Nurse Andy, speaking on a cellphone. His voice changed, reminding Lucky of O’Donoghue, who’d pick up and lose an accent at will.

  Andy hissed into the phone, “How much longer? And what happens then? The hospital has already kept him longer than usual. Sooner or later, someone’s bound to get suspicious.”

  Oh, really? I’m already suspicious, motherfucker. Lucky flattened against the wall and slunk back down the hall. Well, he’d learned two things: he’d been here too long, and Andy really was out to get him.

  A Starbucks cup sat on the side table. With any luck, Walter assumed Lucky sat downstairs having some test or other run. He’d better come back soon and hear all about what Lucky heard.

  Ahhh… Coffee. Dark and sweet. Perfect. Thanks, boss!

  ***

  Lucky swam to the surface of murky dreams and managed to open his blurry eyes. The chair beside the bed squeaked. Ah, a visitor. He lacked to energy to see who. What happened? Coffee and a bitter taste coated his tongue. “Wha…?”

  “You should have stayed dead, asshole.”

  Okay, someone who wanted him dead narrowed down the possibilities to about two thousand. The Southern drawl reduced the number to a few hundred. The words chilled Lucky’s blood.<
br />
  “I hate you, you know that, right?”

  Which upped the number into the thousands again.

  “Why?” Lucky managed to ask. “Why in particular?” took too much energy. Why wouldn’t his eyes stay open?

  “You’re an asshole.” The chair squeaked and footsteps tapped away from the bed, only to return, along with the scent of overly-sweet cologne.

  Common knowledge. Most people hated him for being a smartass or shoving their sorry drug-dealing asses into jail.

  The voice and cologne weren’t Nurse Andy’s. Bed, pillow, lovely, lovely sleep called. The nurse might make his skin crawl, but right now he couldn’t care. He’d gladly kiss the man for showing up. Why the hell hadn’t he demanded his gun from Walter?

  Okay. The dipstick visitor said his piece. Now get out and let a man rest.

  The pacing stopped. A sharp bite in his hand forced Lucky’s eyes open. Ow! He grabbed his offended hand and came away with damp fingers. Blood. “What are you doing?”

  A man-shape shoved something into his pocket. “You’re no good alive, but you had some use to me dead. Only… you being alive again might cause a few complications. You should’ve drank the whole cup of coffee and saved me the effort.”

  “What are you rambling on about?” Even with Lucky sedated, a can of whoop-ass began to open. He struggled to sit up. Stars danced before his eyes. What heavy weight pressed down on his chest?

  The blur held up an empty syringe and grinned, face eerie in the room’s greenish night light. “So long, motherfucker.”

  Shit! Air! Need air!

  Black filled Lucky’s vision.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Oh! Coffee. Worth waking up for. Ouch! Bright lights! Lucky slitted his eyelids and tried again. Huh. Light blue walls, not white. And way too much fucking sunlight streaming in through a big-assed window. No humming machines. Out of his room now. But… This sure as hell wasn’t a normal hospital room. A couple dozen or so hospitals, visited for various reasons, tended to turn a man into somewhat of an expert.

  Walter sat in a chair beside the bed, holding a Starbucks cup. Would killing someone for the contents of one of those cups count as justifiable homicide?

  But trusting coffee after his last cup being drugged might be a bit of a stretch.

  “Where am I?” Good, enough brain cells survived their pharmaceutically-induced vacation to form words. Holy hell! Grabbing his head didn’t squeeze out the pain. His temples pounded, and the ripped open parts of him now remembered they’d been cut open.

  “Safe.” Walter extended the cup toward Lucky. “And no longer in the hospital. It’s not safe for you there.”

  More wince-inspiring words never existed.

  Walter scowled. “Oh. Need something for pain? I’m afraid we’re limited in our options at the moment. No opioids, but you can have ketorolac.”Ketorolac. What they gave folks when opioids became a no-no. Lucky shifty-eyed the room. “Where’s Bo? Where am I? And what the fuck ran me over?”

  A woman Lucky didn’t recognize hurried into the room and fumbled with his IV tubing. Sweet relief followed. But… an IV again?

  “He’s currently busy with a new case. Attempted murder.”

  “Say what?” Staring holes through the boss happening in five, four, three… His headache fought a battle with really good drugs and started winning.

  “In hospital terms, you coded. Heart attack. I’m afraid you died. Again.” Walter tutted. “You seem to be making a habit of this.”

  Lucky settled his head back on the pillow. Dead. Yeah. He’d been there. He’d lie here until he woke up, the world started making sense again, or someone tossed him into the ground and piled on dirt. “Okay. Dead. Got it. Who am I waking up as?”

  “I believe it’s your decision.” Walter placed the cup on a bedside table. Lucky’s arms were too heavy to move.

  “Gonna stop stalling and tell me what’s going on? If I’m dead, what got me this time? I’m told I’m hard to kill so must be something good.” Had to be creepy-assed Nurse Andy. But…

  There’d been someone else too, right?

  “The official story is a heart attack, brought on by the stress of your organ donation. It seems the doctors missed a heart defect in your pre-surgical screening.” Walter met Lucky’s bleary gaze head on. “In reality, you suffered a near-fatal overdose. Some form of narcotic, but the lab results so far have been inconclusive.” He leaned against the railing on Lucky’s bed. “How much do you remember?”

  “Remember? You’re shitting me, right? I’m so high I can’t keep my eyes open. How am I supposed to remember anything?” Shit! Yelling hurt!

  “Try.”

  “Some really awful water someone dragged a piece of chicken through for about five seconds and called it soup, orange Jello. Pills in a cup. Walking down the hall…” Nurse Andy, on a cell phone. “I overheard Stalker Nurse talking about me, about me getting suspicious.” Pain or no pain, Lucky struggled to sit. “There was a Starbucks cup in my room when I came back. I figured you’d brought me coffee, and I slurped it down.”

  A surprisingly strong hand held him in place. Walter’s bushy eyebrows tried to meet over his nose. “Shhh… I can assure you, if I visited your room and you weren’t there, I’d find out why. And no cup was found in your room. Do you remember anything else?”

  Fear. Hate. Someone wanting him dead. Someone in his room, maybe? Being helpless sucked big time. “No.”

  “You don’t remember a man coming into your room and putting a syringe in your hand?”

  “No? Should I?” Someone came into his room and tried to kill him? Who? Why? Most of the folks who’d go through that trouble were all dead themselves. Still, vague notions of someone stabbing his hand lingered around the edges of his mind.

  The spot beneath a circular bandage on his hand prickled.

  And unless they were playing with Lucky, the two most dangerous men he’d ever met now considered themselves his guardian—somethings. Not angels.

  “Did you ever find out anything more on Nurse Andy?” The sneaky-assed nurse needed interrogating.

  “No. However, in light of the recent attempt on your life, we’re not ruling out anyone with access to your room. All visitors for the last twenty-four hours will be questioned. And I brought you a present.” Walter picked up Lucky’s computer bag from the floor. “I’d brought it up with me, and merely waited for the right moment to allow you access. I believe the time has come.”

  Yay! “What did you tell my mother? My sister?” They didn’t deserve to go through hell again on his account. “Were they told I’m dead? Again.” Mama and Charlotte both might kick his ass this time, for lying.

  “I’m not sure they believe me. Your sister said something about you having nine lives. Oh, by the way.” Furrows formed between Walter’s brows. “What is a pine knot, and how tough is it, exactly?”

  ***

  His laptop! Finally! But no gun stuck in the side pocket. Damn it! He’d rather be home than in wherever Walter stuck him.

  Lucky typed in his password and began searching out every scrap of information available on James Andrew “Andy” Polatty.

  Nothing. Squeaky clean. Too clean. Like Simon Harrison’s records. Lucky might be out of the hospital now and in protective custody, but the asswipe with the silly grin still roamed the halls near Lucky’s nearest and dearest.

  Nothing. Not even a speeding ticket.

  And Magnolia Manor Long-Term Care turned out to be a legitimate entity, though they might want to rethink their uncomfortable beds. Why did so many Southern care facilities insist on calling themselves “Magnolia” something or other?

  Nothing but four walls to stare at and plenty of time. And no TV. Maybe Lucky could find South Bend Springs online.

  But wait. In all the time he’d been outcast, and as many people as he’d dug up dirt on, he’d never checked on family. They didn’t want him around? He’d give them their freedom.

  But now?

&nb
sp; Now he stood a chance of one day clearing his name and possibly being invited back into the fold.

  Embarrassing Lucklighter histories? Come to Papa.

  Damn. Things had really gone downhill for Daytona. Twelve stints in rehab, four arrests. Bad credit. The family farm listed for his last known address. Even though Victor paid for his college, he still hadn’t finished.

  Dallas hadn’t wasted his education. Ran his own building contracting company. Modest house. Still married to his childhood sweetheart. Still had only the one daughter. Decent credit. Member of First Baptist Church of Greensboro.

  Charlotte made the newspapers a few times for being a Boy Scout den mother and doing charity work. Hmmm… She’d started taking some online courses. Maybe she hadn’t lost her dream of becoming a nurse after all.

  Her boys seemed to be doing well in school. Ty played high school soccer and Todd ranked second on the tennis team. They’d both been in band.

  Next, he searched for his Uncle Ned’s obituary. He’d died of natural causes about midway between Lucky’s arrest and conviction.

  Natural causes, huh? Twelve or thirteen different substances could make a death appear natural, and be hard to find unless suspected. No wife. No kids. No telling who the old man left his measly belongings to, though five minutes plus his computer equaled answers.

  Did Lucky really want to know about Bristol? The strangest Lucklighter had always been ashamed of the name, never brought friends to the farm.

  Wow! Huge house. Decent job at a bank. Decent, but not enough to afford a house four times the size of Lucky and Bo’s. And why such a pretentious place with only him living there?

  Country club. Damn, what a car. And get a look at the beauty queens in pictures with him. Bristol always had been the one in the family out to prove himself. Seemed he’d overcome his redneck past after all.

  And grew into a no-account asshole who wouldn’t help his own father.

  Nice article on him speaking to the Chamber of Commerce. Nothing but time on Lucky’s hands. Why not click the video link?

  “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” Some man in a suit droned on and on, singing someone’s praises. Couldn’t be Bristol’s.