Mr. Lucky tv-5

by James Swain

  “Me?” his partner squeaked.

  “Yeah, you. You let them in.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Just do it.”

  Clutching the .357 with both hands, the scarecrow shut his eyes tightly and tried to blow a hole in the side of Roland’s head.

  “I…can’t…do…it.”

  “I said shoot the stupid son of a bitch.”

  “I can’t…”

  “Do it!”

  The scarecrow opened his eyes. “I’ve never shot nobody,” he whimpered.

  “Don’t you want a new life?” Beasley screamed at him. “Cheeseburgers in paradise, remember?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Then for Christ’s sake, blow the motherfucker away!”

  The scarecrow steadied his aim, the muzzle of the .357 a foot from Roland’s head. “Sorry, buddy,” he whispered.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Ricky thought. Everyone was supposed to end up happy and rich. That was the plan. But Beasley and the scarecrow were past reasoning with, their murderous minds made up. Ricky wanted to tell them that he had the cash and he’d be happy to share it with them, just leave his poor buddy alone; only, the sound of the bullet leaving the chamber stopped him cold.

  Roland’s head snapped back. Ricky waited, expecting him to crumble. Only, Roland didn’t crumble. Instead it was the scarecrow who went down. A dime-size hole had appeared at the spot in his mask where his eyebrows met, and put everything behind it in a scramble. Framed by the black ski mask, his eyes registered great surprise.

  The second gunshot was equally loud. It tore a hole in Beasley’s jaw and lifted him clean off the tiled floor. He stayed that way for an instant, legs splayed spastically in the air, his shotgun discharging and blowing out the fluorescent lights. When he landed, he bounced as if made of rubber. Then the toes of his work boots began to rattle, and the spirit left his body. The ceiling fire sprinkler let out a shrill whistle. Within moments the bank’s interior was drenched by a dull, steady rain.

  17

  Claude the guard struggled to rise on the slippery bank floor, his arthritis making his hips sing. He’d been watching his life flash by like an old silent movie when the first shot had snapped him awake. He knew the sound of a .357, and that wasn’t it.

  He went to where Beasley and the scarecrow lay on the floor and checked each man for a pulse. Both were dead as doornails. Just to be safe, he pried the guns from their fingers and deposited them on Highland Moss’s desk. He’d once caught a baby shark on a fishing trip. It was dead when he went to take the hook out, yet still managed to bite his hand. Evil, he’d learned, was capable of some mighty strange things.

  He glanced at Ricky Smith and the older guy holding the gun. For the life of him, Claude could not figure out where the gun had come from. One moment the older guy’s hands were behind his head; the next, he’s holding a piece. Claude had guessed the robbers were wearing Kevlar vests beneath their shirts, which anybody could buy these days. The older guy had figured this out, too, and drilled them both in the face.

  And the way he’d popped them. Lightning fast, without flinching. That was something that did not come naturally. It was practiced, and usually for good reason. Claude felt a hand on his shoulder, and glanced at Ricky Smith.

  “Where’s Hi Moss?” Ricky asked.

  Claude pointed at the door that led to the vault. Beasley had dragged Hi Moss and two bank employees back there five minutes ago. Then, they’d heard a muffled gunshot.

  “They’re all in there,” the guard said.

  Highland Moss was fading fast when Valentine and Ricky Smith reached him, the floor of the bank’s vault pooled with his dark blood. His two employees were crying their eyes out, and Valentine led them out of the vault, then returned to find Ricky kneeling next to Moss.

  “Hey, Ricky,” the bank manager said weakly. “Long time no see.”

  Ricky said something in reply that sounded like a squeak. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and his face was ashen.

  “You run across Beasley?” the bank manager whispered.

  Ricky found the strength to answer him. “He’s dead. Mr. Valentine shot him.”

  “What about his partner?”

  “Mr. Valentine got him, too.”

  Moss gave Valentine an approving look. Then said, “Before he shot me, Beasley said something about being voted off the island. Made it sound like it was the reason he was robbing the bank. Any idea what he meant?”

  Ricky swallowed hard and shook his head.

  “Me neither.” Moss blinked, then blinked again, and a layer of his self seemed to float away. His breathing grew shallow and his chest caved in slightly, and Valentine braced himself for what was about to follow. Ricky knelt down beside him.

  “Anything I can do,” Ricky whispered. “Anyone you’d like me to call?”

  The bank manager thought about it, then shook his head.

  “Not enough time,” he whispered.

  By the time the EMS crew arrived, Moss’s tenure on Earth was over. As the medics swarmed into the vault, Valentine and Ricky went back into the bank with the employees. The overhead sprinklers had shut off, and they found two dry seats to sit on.

  Ten Slippery Rock police officers arrived a few minutes later. Both genders of officers were built like gladiators, with pumped-up bodies and the bad attitudes that seemed to accompany people who spent too much time in the gym.

  The musclehead in charge was a sergeant named Rod Gaylord. He was in his mid-forties, had an abundance of freckles, and acted like he’d never been around a homicide scene before. Valentine watched him and his team pick up the weapons on Highland Moss’s desk, then touch the victims’ bodies. They were destroying the crime scene, not that he thought any of them knew what that meant. Gaylord grabbed the bank guard and started to pull him outside. Valentine got up and walked toward the two men.

  “Get back in that chair, mister,” Gaylord said, pointing a finger at him.

  “But—”

  “No buts. I’ll question you when I’m good and ready.”

  “I need to talk to you,” Valentine insisted.

  “I said sit down,” the sergeant snapped.

  Gaylord looked nervous as hell. Like he knew this was the defining moment of his career and he was about to blow it. From his pocket Valentine removed the Glock he’d used to shoot the robbers and handed it to the sergeant.

  “I shot them,” he said.

  Gaylord stared at the gun like it was an alien baby. His heavily freckled face turned bright red. Looking at the guard, he said, “I thought you shot them.”

  “No, sir,” Claude said. “It was Mr. Valentine here.”

  Gaylord turned the gun over in his palm. To Valentine he said, “You got a license for this, mister?”

  Valentine got the license from his wallet and handed it to him. He went to the firing range twice a week and practiced fast-drawing from his ankle holster, always hoping he’d never have to put the skill to use.

  “That was some fine shooting,” Gaylord said.

  “I got a little lucky.”

  “Two bullets, two dead men. I wouldn’t call that luck. What brings you to Slippery Rock?”

  A television news team was at the front door banging on the glass. Valentine watched the sergeant wave them away. Telling Gaylord he was here on a job would not add anything to the sergeant’s day. This was his town, and he’d be offended that Valentine hadn’t checked in with him. So he used the same lie he’d told Polly. “I’m a retired cop. I’m writing my memoirs.”

  “You don’t say. Got a publisher?”

  That was fast. “Not yet,” Valentine said.

  “I need to question Claude here, then ask you some questions. Don’t go running away, you hear?”

  The sergeant said it with a slight smile on his face, but there was no smile in his voice. He pointed at a chair, and Valentine dutifully crossed the room and sat in it.

  Praying there were no troopers
on the highway, Polly floored the accelerator of her Acura Integra. That morning, her life had seemed to be getting back on track. She had a new boyfriend, and her career selling real estate for Century 21 was finally taking off. It had taken her a long time to feel really independent, not just financially but also in her head, and with a single phone call she’d seen it all fall apart.

  She’d been in a closing when her mother had called. Retired with nothing to do, her mother called when she was bored, creating emergencies to get her daughter on the line. Polly had grown tired of it, and she’d snatched the phone out of her assistant’s hand. “What’s up?”

  “Did you hear the news?” her mother asked.

  With which Polly had gotten royally pissed. She wasn’t going to make it in real estate by being Momma’s little girl. In a cold voice she’d said, “Look, Mother, can’t this wait until later? I’m in a closing and they’re ready to sign—”

  “Your ex-husband walked into a bank robbery this afternoon. There were a pair of robbers. Somehow they got shot to death. I just thought you’d want to know.”

  “Ricky? In a bank robbery? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, honey. It’s all over the radio and the TV. One of the robbers killed Hi Moss. I’ll let you go.”

  “Is Ricky okay?”

  “Yes, dear. Ricky’s fine.”

  Polly had hung up the phone and put her hand over her mouth. It was like she’d been told one of her brothers had nearly died. Only, it wasn’t one of her brothers, it was her lousy prick of an ex-husband. Yet it did not stop her from bursting into tears.

  The highway’s narrow two-lane blacktop had turned blurry, and Polly swiped at her eyes and punched the gas. Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me. That was the name of a funny book she’d given Ricky for his birthday once, and he’d laughed when she’d threatened to have it framed and hung over the mantel. They’d had their share of good times; they’d just been overshadowed by the bad.

  She drove around Slippery Rock High School and spotted Max Bookbinder shooting hoops with a gang of men twenty years his junior. Max dribbled with mercurial ease, the ball flying from hand to hand, through his feet and behind his back, feats she didn’t know he was capable of. He feinted his way to an easy two points, then dropped a line on his younger teammates. A howl of laughter ensued.

  She parked in the lot, found an opening in the fence, and walked toward the courts. Her right heel sunk in the mushy field, her ankle twisting painfully. The native ground had the consistency of quicksand, and she slipped off her pumps, shoved them into her purse, and finished the walk in her stockings.

  Max Bookbinder, Slippery Rock High’s ex-principal reincarnated as a gym teacher, shuffled over. Polly had enjoyed her fling with him, enjoyed their friendship even more. At his retirement party he’d told everyone that he was looking forward to teaching gym, for now when he told the kids what to do, they’d listen to him. Out of politeness he tugged off his Red Sox cap. A few wispy strands of hair stuck straight up. Kissing her on the cheek, he said, “How’s life treating you?”

  “I’ve been better. Yourself?”

  “Terrific. Started hitting the pavement again. Two miles every morning.” He pounded his chest, apelike. “Feel like a kid.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Sure. What’s wrong?”

  Polly sensed he hadn’t heard the news. In a soft voice she said, “There was a robbery at Republic National Bank this afternoon. My ex was there. The robbers shot Hi Moss, then someone shot them.”

  Bookbinder looked at her incredulously.

  “Hi was killed,” Polly said.

  Bookbinder hid his face in his baseball cap. He had put in thirty years as a teacher and administrator and had seen half the town pass through his school. Putting his cap back on, he turned to the gang shooting hoops and let out a primal yell.

  “Hey, guys, I’m outta here.”

  Bookbinder walked Polly to her car. At the fence he offered his hand as Polly wiped her feet and slipped her pumps on.

  “When I heard the news, I cried,” she said.

  “For Hi?”

  “No. I mean, yes, I cried for Hi. But I also cried for Ricky. I imagined him being shot and it broke my heart. I can’t explain it.”

  “Can’t explain what?”

  “I hate him.”

  “You were married and you loved him once,” he said. “You shared things; you had a history and your own language. All married couples do. You missed those things.”

  “How did you know that? I never told you—”

  “You didn’t have to. I was married once myself.”

  “Does this mean I still love him?”

  “You make it sound like a curse.”

  “Oh my God, you have no idea what it was like.”

  A Mustang convertible filled with teenagers sped by. Bookbinder stuck his face against the fence and barked out one of the boys’ names. Instantly the car slowed to a snail’s pace. At his retirement party he had given a speech and summed it up pretty well. Kids were the affirmation of life; being around them, he found that hope was not easily extinguished and dreams impossible to dismiss. Turning to her, he said, “What are you going to do?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “That’s not like you, Polly.”

  “I don’t,” she insisted.

  Bookbinder stuck his hands in the pockets of his sweats and looked at the ground. “You know, Polly, I’ve known Ricky a long time, and he isn’t as bad as you make him out to be.”

  “Ricky isn’t bad?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh, Max,” she shrieked. “Come on!”

  18

  Gerry Valentine returned to Tex Snyder’s suite at the Holiday Inn at four o’clock that afternoon. He’d showered and shaved, and in the pocket of his sports jacket was the money Tex had staked him to play in his friendly little game.

  Tex had the whole thing worked out. He’d bribed the hotel into bringing an authentic felt card table to his room, then stocked the place with top-shelf liquor and bowls of nuts and chips and a humidor filled with Cuban cigars. He’d turned it into a guy’s hangout, and all for the purpose of fleecing Kingman, the trailer park magnate.

  Kingman was already into the Scotch when Gerry arrived. A native of Chicago, Kingman was a short, thick, disagreeable guy worth a cool hundred million bucks. He lay on the couch in such a way that no one could share it with him. He grunted when Gerry introduced himself.

  Three other players drifted into the suite and introduced themselves. Bill, Bob, and Phil. No last names. Gerry guessed they were also “friends” of Tex.

  They sat down at the card table, and Tex suggested they play Texas Hold ’Em. It was the most popular poker game in the world. It was also played on television in tournaments where players “exposed” their cards to the camera. As a result of these shows, millions of people thought they knew how to play. Professionals had a name for these new players. They called them suckers.

  Kingman was definitely a sucker. He quoted the odds after each hand was played, and told other players when he thought they were bluffing. Bill, Bob, and Phil told him he was right every time, further convincing Gerry they were stooges. Kingman also continued to drink as he played. He was as raw as they came.

  Gerry played conservatively for the first hour. Tex had told him to fold most of his hands and had explained that he wanted Gerry “in the game” later on, when Kingman was led to the slaughter and the two men scammed him.

  Tex’s scam was as easy as they came. During a hand, he would give Gerry a prearranged signal. He would take a cigar out of the humidor, but he wouldn’t light it up. He’d just chew on it for a while.

  That was the cue for Gerry to start raising the bet. It meant that Tex had a cinch hand and was convinced he was going to beat Kingman. But Tex didn’t want to scare Kingman away, so it was Gerry’s job to lure him in. After a few rounds of betting, Gerry would drop out of the hand and let Tex take over
.

  Card hustlers called this playing top hand. His father had told him that it was used by many of the world’s top players to fleece suckers. What made it so deceiving was that the person doing the raising never knew what his partner was holding. He simply did as told.

  But Gerry also knew something else. Playing top hand wasn’t infallible. Texas Hold ’Em had three rounds—the flop, the turn, and the river. The sucker might draw a miracle card on the river and win all the money. It happened all the time.

  Somehow, Gerry didn’t think Tex was going to let this happen.

  An hour later, room service brought hamburgers and milk shakes to the suite. It wasn’t the kind of grub that Gerry would have used to feed a millionaire, but Kingman dived into the food like it was his last meal. Tex had obviously done his homework.

  The suite had two bathrooms. While Bill, Bob, and Phil took turns using one, Gerry went into Tex’s bedroom to use the other. Only, the bathroom door was shut. From behind it, he could hear a low beeping sound. Gerry put his ear to the door. The sound was familiar. A hearing aid. Plenty of folks in his neighborhood in Florida wore them. When the batteries went low, they emitted a low, shrill noise.

  Smiling, Gerry pulled his head away from the door. Tex was wearing a hearing aid. That explained how he could be so confident that he’d beat Kingman. Tex wasn’t just playing top hand. He was also playing the peek.

  The peek was the oldest con known to card cheaters. A hidden accomplice would peek at a player’s cards and secretly communicate them to the table. Sometimes the peek was a hole drilled into the wall, or someone staring through a window with a pair of binoculars. Before the mob had been run out of Las Vegas, it had taken place at every card room at one time or another. And it was still a favorite among people who ran private games.

  Tex came out of the bathroom tucking in his shirt.

  “Got your battery fixed?” Gerry asked.

  “Not so loud. How much you got left?”

  “Twenty-five grand.”

  “Good. Keep it up.”

  Gerry glanced at the doorway leading into the room where they were playing. Kingman was on the other side, talking with Phil. He was slurring his words and had spilled ketchup on his pants. All the money in the world couldn’t stop him from making a jackass of himself.