Mr. Lucky tv-5

by James Swain

  With the Doberman nipping at their heels, they ran down a well-worn path. Valentine stopped after a few hundred yards to see if anyone was following them. The only sounds he heard were animals chattering nervously in the forest. With his hand he found Ricky’s arm.

  “You okay?”

  Ricky swallowed hard. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

  “Who lives nearby?”

  “Hank Ridley.”

  “Think he’ll let us use his car?”

  “If I ask him, sure. Where are we going?”

  “To the police.”

  Valentine dropped his hand, expecting Ricky to lead the way. But the big lug just stood there and wrestled with something he wanted to say. The words refused to come out, and finally he spun around and took off through the woods.

  A minute later they emerged onto a large backyard with a bamboo tiki hut sitting in its center. Hank Ridley’s house sat on the other end of the property, a shingle farmhouse with a brick chimney and large weather vane. An American flag with the stars replaced by a peace symbol hung across the front porch. They crossed the lawn, and a motion-sensitive floodlight momentarily blinded them. Ricky started to climb the steps to the porch, then stopped.

  “Hank’s pretty heavy into the reefer, okay?”

  Valentine said okay. Potheads didn’t bother him the way drunks did. He guessed it was because he’d had little interaction with them as a cop. Potheads didn’t batter their spouses or fight in bars; they just hung out at home, ate sweets, and melted into the furniture.

  Ricky rapped loudly on the front door. From within came the strains of rock ’n’ roll music. Ricky put his ear to the door. “Dick’s Picks. Grateful Dead, Tampa, Florida, December 1973. The ‘Here Comes Sunshine’ track on this set was really awesome.”

  “What’s Dick’s Picks?”

  Ricky’s foot was tapping the beat on the porch as if he’d forgotten what had brought them here. “A guy named Dick Latvala collected bootleg Grateful Dead recordings and released the good ones with the band’s permission. There were thirty-one CDs in all.”

  “Does Hank have every one?”

  “You bet.”

  The front door opened, and a marijuana fog enveloped the front porch. A heavyset, bearded man in his late fifties emerged. He was dressed like the last of the Beat Generation and wore ratty shorts and a tie-dyed T-shirt. He seemed oblivious to the chilly weather, and offered the burning joint in his hand to Ricky. Ricky shook his head, and Hank offered Valentine the joint like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “He’s an ex-cop,” Ricky said.

  Hank’s bloodshot eyes went wide, and he tossed the joint into his mouth and snapped his lips shut. Then he started to gag like the joint was burning his head off.

  “I said ex!” Ricky exclaimed.

  Hank swallowed the joint anyway. He smiled loosely at his visitors.

  “You into poetry?”

  Valentine realized the question was directed at him. “I just started reading Billy Collins.”

  “Man after my own heart. I’d invite you in and show you my collection, but there are illegal pharmaceuticals lying around. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course.”

  “We need to borrow your car,” Ricky said.

  Hank dug the keys out of his shorts and tossed them in the air. Valentine grabbed them before Ricky could. He watched Hank spin around and walk straight into the doorjamb with his face. He bounced like he was made of rubber and went inside.

  “He always so messed up?” Valentine asked as they walked around back.

  “That’s pretty straight for Hank,” Ricky replied.

  Hank’s car reeked of reefer. It was an ancient Checker Cab that Hank had bought from a dealer in Chicago over the Internet. The seats reminded Valentine of an old school bus, and he got behind the wheel and fired up the engine. Taking the Glock from his pocket, he laid it on his lap. Ricky made the dog sit on the floor in back, then strapped himself in.

  “Tell me how to get out of here.”

  Ricky pointed at the gravel driveway. “Go out that way. At the top of the hill, hang a left. We’re going to have to pass my place to go to town.”

  “Is that the only way out?”

  “In a car, yeah.”

  Valentine didn’t like it. If the Cubans were waiting, they might follow them and start shooting. He said, “How far is your place?”

  “About half a mile.”

  Valentine killed the cab’s headlights and rumbled down the road. The engine sounded like it was about to hit the ground, and he had a feeling that the Cubans would hear them even if they didn’t see them. The road was on a steep incline, and he killed the engine and left it in neutral. The cab rolled silently down the hill.

  They passed Valentine’s rental house, then came upon Ricky’s place. The black SUV sat in the driveway, its front end pointing toward the street. Beneath the moonlight Valentine could see exhaust coming out of the muffler.

  “That’s them,” Ricky whispered fearfully. “Gun it.”

  Valentine considered it. They’d get a jump on the Cubans, but that was all they’d get. Even an SUV weighted down by four men could catch this clunker. He brought the cab to a stop in the middle of the road. Taking the Glock off his lap, he lowered his window and took aim. He thought about putting a bullet through the SUV’s engine, then realized the Glock wasn’t powerful enough to do that.

  “Oh, Jesus, can’t we just get out of here?” Ricky said.

  Valentine shook his head. He had to assume that the Cubans had scoped out the neighborhood and knew that this was the only escape route. He had to stop them right now or risk never talking to Mabel or chewing out Gerry or changing his granddaughter’s diaper again.

  “No,” he added for emphasis.

  “You going to shoot them?”

  Valentine nodded. “Does that bother you?”

  “Yeah. I never bargained for this.”

  “You know these guys?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do as I say,” Valentine said.

  Ricky brought his hands up to his eyes. It was something a little kid might do. Valentine turned and stared at the SUV idling in the driveway. He rested his left forearm on the windowsill and balanced the Glock on it. The SUV’s windshield was dark, and he had to imagine where the driver was sitting.

  An ember of light appeared. The driver was smoking a cigarette. It made a nice target, and he put it into the Glock’s sight and squeezed the trigger.

  The gun barked. Then the SUV’s windshield imploded. As the glass fell inward, the Cubans screamed and dived to the floor. Except for the driver. It was Juan, and he remained strapped in his seat, the burning cigarette glued to his lower lip. The bullet had whacked him in the forehead. Like the boys in the bank, he’d never seen it coming.

  Valentine started the cab’s engine and floored the accelerator.

  “You can open your eyes now,” he said.

  35

  For a guy who’d just gotten shot in the arm, Lamar was all smiles at the Gulfport hospital. He joked with the nurses and doctors in the emergency room and with Gerry, who’d ridden in the ambulance with him.

  “Know why the police can’t solve redneck murders?”

  Gerry shook his head.

  “The DNA’s all the same, and there are no dental records.”

  His demeanor was no different when Isabelle showed up. With a smile he pointed at Gerry and said, “Huck was shooting at him and winged me and Boomer and Kent instead. Take this boy to the casino and put some dice into his hands!”

  Isabelle somehow found it in her to smile. “The police think Huck’s hiding with relatives. They’re going to search every trailer park until they find him.” She glanced at Gerry. “You need to lay low.”

  “I thought that was what I was doing,” Gerry said.

  “Out of sight. We’ll keep you at the house with a police guard.
”

  Gerry nodded. The doctor was stitching up Lamar’s arm. The bullet from Huck’s rifle had torn out a slice of flesh that would probably never grow back. Gerry felt his stomach turn over and saw Lamar wink at him.

  “You bring the trash can from the casino?” Lamar asked.

  Isabelle reached into the floppy bag slung over her shoulder and produced a small metal trash can filled with used tissues. She handed it to Gerry. “This came from table seventeen. The casino has been losing a lot of money there.”

  Gerry took the trash can and pushed aside the top tissues with his fingers. The dealer obviously had a real bad cold. On the bottom of the can were fifteen playing cards, just like his father had said. He stuck the can under his arm and thanked her for bringing it.

  “I need to go back to the casino,” she said. “A detective named Clarkson will come by later and take you back to the house. He also wants to ask you some questions about Huck Dubb.”

  “I don’t know anything about the guy,” Gerry said.

  “Maybe not. But Huck knew where to find you. Clarkson is trying to figure out how. He’ll try to jog your memory, if that’s okay.”

  Gerry had been wondering about that himself. The parking lot had been empty when he and Lamar had gone into the trailer, yet Huck had somehow tracked him down.

  “Sure.”

  “Good. I’ll see you back at the house.”

  She gave her husband a smooch on the lips and left. Lamar stared at the spot where she’d been standing and smiled. Gerry didn’t think he’d ever seen a greater love in a man’s eyes than was in Lamar’s. After the nurses and doctor were gone, Lamar said, “First time I met Isabelle, she was wearing a red blouse in the casino. I explained to her that the surveillance cameras see right through red fabric, and the boys upstairs were admiring her. Know what she did?”

  Gerry shook his head.

  “She found out how long I’d been on the job. It was my first day. So she knew I hadn’t been watching her. I asked her out the next week.” He pointed at the trash can. “You still think you’re going to win that bet?”

  “Sure do,” Gerry said.

  Lamar yelled through the curtains separating them from Kent and Boomer.

  “Hey, boys, get your wallets and get in here. It’s show-time.”

  It was a miracle that all three men’s wounds were superficial. They knew it, and exchanged plenty of good-natured ribbing and high-fiving. Then Gerry made them take their money out, and the laughter subsided.

  Gerry got a second trash can and carefully removed the tissues from the can Isabelle had brought from the casino. When he was done, he pointed at the handful of playing cards lying in the bottom of the casino trash can. He said, “See these cards? They’re from the blackjack game at table seventeen. They’re all babies.”

  Babies were low-valued cards, the twos through sixes, and favored the house.

  “How do you know that without looking at them?” Lamar asked.

  “It’s how the scam works,” Gerry said. He shook the can, and the cards flipped faceup. As he’d predicted, they were all babies. “Here’s the deal. The dealer is required to spread all the cards faceup on the table before he starts. That way, the players—and the cameras—can see that all the cards are there. If any high cards were missing, the house’s edge would be unbeatable. If babies were missing, the players would have the edge.

  “So the dealer starts with all the cards. But he has a cold. So he puts a box of tissues on his table. That’s his shade.”

  “His what?” Boomer asked.

  “Shade. It’s a hustler’s term for misdirection. The dealer is palming babies out and dropping them in the wastebasket. He palms them when he’s putting cards into the discard tray. Then he grabs a tissue to blow his nose. The tissue hides the palmed cards. He drops the tissue and the cards into the wastebasket.”

  “So he’s shorting the shoe so it favors the players,” Kent said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Looks like we win forty big ones,” Boomer said.

  Lamar was examining the can and didn’t appear ready to give in. “Just hold on a second. Every night, the blackjack dealers are required to count their cards. I’ve personally supervised them. Table seventeen has never come up short. If the dealer is palming babies out, why didn’t it show up in the count?”

  There was real skepticism in his voice. Gerry smiled. “The dealer adds them back.”

  “How?”

  “As he counts, he drops some on the floor. At the same time, he kicks the can over. He picks up the cards he dropped and adds the babies.”

  “What if they’ve got snot on them?”

  Gerry’s smile grew. “I guess he blames it on his cold.”

  Lamar rolled his eyes. Kent and Boomer started braying like mules, and Lamar reluctantly handed them his money.

  “Isabelle tells me you’re an authority on casino cheating,” Clarkson said.

  They were standing outside the hospital, Clarkson a smoker and needing a fix, Gerry joining him because he suddenly needed one as well, the events of the day having caught up to him like a tidal wave that he could no longer outswim. Clarkson was in his thirties, tall and broad-shouldered, and looked every inch a cop.

  “My father’s the authority. I’m just learning the ropes.”

  Clarkson exhaled two purple plumes through his nostrils. Gerry liked the way his answer had come out. And it wasn’t a lie.

  “Any idea how Huck Dubb found you so easily?” the detective asked.

  There was an accusing tone in his voice. He thinks I called him, Gerry thought. It was perfect cop logic. The trailer was a hideout; no one outside of the police and the Mississippi Gaming Commission agents knew about it. No one, except Gerry.

  “I didn’t call him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Clarkson smiled; only, it wasn’t a smile. More a widening of his mouth as he sucked in a monster cloud of smoke. “Did you call anyone else?”

  “My father. I was stuck on a scam that Lamar had showed me, so I called him, and he doped it out for me.”

  There it was again: the truth. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as he thought it would.

  “Nobody local?” Clarkson asked. “Like the hotel or something?”

  “Nope.”

  “Your father nearby?”

  “Slippery Rock, North Carolina.”

  Clarkson used the dying cigarette to light another. “Might your father have called someone?”

  “We have our disagreements, but nothing like that.”

  Clarkson grimaced at the stupidity of what he’d just said. The cell phone in Clarkson’s pocket rang. He pulled it out and flipped the phone open. “Detective Clarkson, at your service.” He listened for a moment, then cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Isabelle. She’s getting takeout from Best Steaks in the South and wants to know what you’d like.”

  Gerry found himself grinning. He had eaten there last night and assumed that Best Steaks in the South was their slogan. He thought back to the menu and tried to pick the least expensive thing. For all he knew, Isabelle was paying for it.

  “Hamburger, medium rare, onions,” he said.

  Clarkson relayed his order, then asked for the same, well done. Gerry watched him say good-bye and put the cell phone away. Then he stared out at the hospital parking lot. It was a crystal-clear afternoon, the sun mirrored in each of the cars’ rooftops. His father had told him he sometimes had epiphanies and was able to make sense out of situations that seemingly had none. Gerry realized he was having one now and that his fingers and toes were tingling.

  He looked at Clarkson. “I just figured it out,” he said.

  “What’s that?” the detective asked, grinding out his butt.

  “How Huck Dubb knew where to find me.”

  Clarkson got in his face. “How?”

  “I had dinner at Best Steaks in the South last night. After I left, the Dubb brothers tried to kill me. Someone in the restaurant cal
led them. That same person saw me go into the trailer today and called Huck.”

  “But you said the parking lot was empty when you entered the trailer.”

  “It was.”

  “Then how did this person see you? I’ve been in that restaurant plenty of times. There aren’t any windows.”

  “There’s a surveillance camera on the corner of the building,” Gerry said. “I saw it last night. The rat in the restaurant is pointing the camera across the street at the casino. He saw me go into the trailer and called Huck.”

  Clarkson gave him his best aw-shucks smile. “Damn! You sure you weren’t once a cop?”

  Gerry shook his head. He watched Clarkson whip out his cell phone and call his superiors. Within a minute, he’d arranged to have the steakhouse raided. The tingling sensation in his fingers had not gone away, and Gerry stared at his hands. Then he realized what it was. No one had ever mistaken him for a cop before. He imagined his mother up in heaven, looking down and smiling at him.

  36

  Huck Dubb was sitting in the study of his grandma’s house, staring at her computer. He’d bought it for her last Christmas and used it to send and receive e-mail. Most of the men he ran with had similar setups. They had computers at relatives’ houses, and nothing was in their own names. His grandma entered the study. She’d been wearing a bathrobe and slippers for the past ten years of her life. She was holding a fried steak sandwich on a paper plate.

  “Eat this,” she insisted. “You’re looking puny.”

  “Don’t want it,” he said.

  “Don’t talk back to me, boy. I said, eat it.”

  His grandma had practically raised him and his retarded brother; disobeying her was an insult to all the sacrifices she’d made. He took the sandwich and bit into it. The effort made his wounded ear hurt. He’d rubbed cocaine on it, and the pain had gone away. But that was the little pain. The big pain was still raging out of control inside of him.

  “You want some iced tea?” she asked. “I made it extra sweet.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Huck.”

  “Love some,” he said.

  She shuffled out, and he resumed staring at the computer. On the screen was a live feed from the surveillance camera outside Best Steaks in the South. The camera had pan/tilt/zoom lenses and was focused on the parking lot across the street. His cousin Buford, who owned the restaurant, had been sending him the feed for weeks. What Huck was hoping for was a repeat—Gerry Valentine coming back to the trailer, and Huck jumping into his car and going and shooting the son of a bitch.