The Lucky Dey Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (The Lucky Dey Series Boxset)

by Doug Richardson

  “How ’bout you put the forties down for a minute?” From Lucky it sounded less like a request and more like a polite command. “You can get back to ’em after we talk about your whistle.”

  “Not my whistle,” said Flattop. “But I sure as shit blow it real good, knowwhatI’msayin’?”

  “Nigga we got it from said if we needed us the po-po, all we gotta do is make a noise,” added Raiders Cap.

  “Forties down!” reminded Shia.

  “Ain’t no weapon,” said Raiders Cap.

  “Like he said,” replied Shia. “After we talk, you can go back to your drinking.”

  “You need the police?” asked Lucky, easing two steps closer to the pair.

  “Who don’ need the five-oh,” laughed Flattop. He bit down again on the plastic whistle and pushed out a sharpened tweet.

  “Put the bottles down!” barked Shia.

  The teen in the Raiders’ cap mock saluted the lady deputy and gently placed his malt liquor bottle against the graffiti’d wall. He nudged Flattop to do the same.

  “Person you got the whistle from,” continued Lucky. “They have something to tell me?”

  “Tell a cop?” asked Flattop. “Or tell you?”

  “I’m lookin’ for certain information,” said Lucky.

  “’Bout a dead nigga in a big hole?” grinned Flattop.

  “Like that,” affirmed Lucky. “Got something to tell me?”

  “Whaddayou pay?” asked Raiders Cap.

  “If you got what I need,” said Lucky. “Then you already know.”

  “Whaddayou care about that broke-assed little nigga?” asked Flattop.

  “One with the dogs, right?” clarified Raiders Cap. “Woof woof woof.”

  “Why I care is for me to know,” said Lucky. “You either got information or you don’t.”

  “We’re talking a Benjamin, right?” asked Raiders Cap.

  “Hundred? Shit,” said Flattop. “That don’ even buy me new kicks.”

  “Who you?” noticed Raiders Cap, catching his first real glimpse of Atom Blum behind and to the left of Shia. “Some kinda backseat cop?”

  “I’m just observing,” defended Atom, his words a reminder that he was keeping his distance.

  “Eyes on me,” focused Lucky. “Now you fellas either got something for me or you’re wasting my time.”

  “Wastin’ your time?” said Flattop. “You work for us, don’ ya? Who wastin’ who’s time, nigga?”

  “You blew the whistle,” said Lucky, patience still in check.

  “Maybe I likes me the fuckin’ noise,” defied Flattop, giving the whistle three quick chirps.

  “One last time,” said Lucky. “What do you know about the dead guy in the hole?”

  “Think he said, ‘Dead little nigga,’” corrected Raiders Cap. “Motherfucker wasn’t worth the bottom of my sneaker, man. Why you wanna give up a Benjamin for some midget homeless toe jam motherfucker?”

  Checking his watch, Lucky asked himself how much of the shift he was willing to waste on the two teens and their malt liquor mouths. They either knew something about Mush Man or they didn’t. And it wasn’t as if they were negotiating for more money. Their agenda seemed first and foremost to power up on the police. Make some noise at the authority figures and brag about it later.

  “You don’t know shit,” surmised Lucky. He was a half-pivot back toward the black-and-white when the teen with the flattop fade barked at him.

  “Yo, Mister Money! Where you goin’? I got what you need. Pink whistle and all!”

  “Last chance,” said Lucky.

  “You gonna pay?” pressed Flattop.

  Hands resting just above his duty belt, Lucky gave away nothing more than a willingness to give the teen one more bite at the apple. Flattop’s eyes flitted, briefly landing on Shia’s and Atom’s faces before returning to Lucky’s give-nothing stare.

  “’Kay. We know somethin’ about your dead nigga,” said Flattop.

  “He the little nigga in a hole,” revised Raiders Cap.

  “And...,” said Flattop, before releasing a grin to cue his compadre. In bad harmony, both teens delivered their punch line… “And he dead.”

  “Fuck you both,” relented Lucky. “Turn around, grab some wall.”

  “What we do?” complained Flattop. “Now you all gonna up and harass us?”

  “Now,” said Lucky, one hand resting on the butt of his pistol, the other guiding both smart-assed teens to face the wall. As the pair assumed the position, each placing his hands high on the wall, it was clear they knew the turn and frisk drill all too well.

  Shia moved in for the assist. Atom was in follow mode, leaning in at her ear.

  “Can he even do that?” Atom asked.

  “Underage,” she said. “Liquor and dope? Mouthing off? Oh yeah. We’re on the page.”

  Neither Lucky nor Atom, let alone the two flap-jaw teens, noticed that tucked between Shia’s duty belt and her body armor was her mobile phone, camera lens peeking out between her pepper spray holster and extra magazines. While Lucky frisked, the trainee applied both her primary and secondary sets of handcuffs. Every second of spare air was taken up by the two teens running their mouths at the unfairness of their sudden detention.

  Shia spun both teens forward just as Lucky spilled both bottles of malt liquor, dumping the remaining booze onto the pavement.

  “Listen up,” said Lucky. “Life gives you choices. So far you are making lousy ones. How about I give you another chance?”

  Neither teen stepped up. They stood in complete indifference. Silent. Doing their level best to keep their posture unimpressed, despite their obvious predicament.

  “New choice,” explained Lucky. “Already got the bracelets on. So here’s what it is. Los Padrinos? Or the dumpster?”

  The dumpster? Both young faces screwed into question marks. They clearly understood the part of the equation that involved Los Padrinos, the nearest juvenile lock-up. It was ten miles due east and, considering the holiday, it would mean a minimum forty-eight hours’ detention. But what was the other option Lucky was giving them?

  “Coupla nights in Los Padrinos,” Lucky repeated. “Or you both take a short hop in the dumpster.”

  “That dumpster right there?” asked Flattop.

  “Wasted enough of my time,” said Lucky. “You have five seconds to decide. One. Two. Three—”

  “Dumpster!” jumped Raiders Cap.

  “Yeah, yeah,” agreed Flattop. “Why not? Dumpster.”

  “Unhook ’em,” said Lucky.

  Shia, who was as confused as the teens, didn’t hesitate at the order. While she moved in behind the teens to key and re-holster her handcuffs, Lucky swerved to the dumpster and pushed up the lid until it clanked against the cinder-block alcove.

  The teens might have wondered about their choice, as one looked at the other. Then again, the handcuffs were off and the night was still ripe. They both grinned with a unified what the hell? Flattop climbed first with Raiders Cap close behind. They pulled themselves up and dropped into the angled mouth of the dumpster.

  “Heads down,” Lucky reminded.

  He lowered the heavy lid, the teens dropping into a crouch before it clanged shut.

  “Now what happens?” Atom found himself asking.

  Lucky answered by climbing on top of the dumpster and making himself comfortable, his legs dangling over the edge thus sealing the mouthy teens inside. Lucky didn’t need to look. He knew his trainee and the ride-along would be staring back at him slack-jawed with did-he-really-just-do-that? stares.

  “Hey, rook,” Lucky nodded at Shia. “Radio dispatch we’re ten-seven. Oh yeah. In the trunk there’s a plastic bag with waters and power bars. Snack time?”

  Lucky swiveled his gaze over to Atom.

  “Can you like do that?” questioned the director, who then chose to double-down with Shia. “Seriously. Can you guys do shit like that?”

  Shia was stuck. She remained with her boots squared on th
e pavement, body armor flush to Lucky on top of that dumpster.

  “Rook?” cued Lucky.

  “Right,” Shia answered, rotating to the black-and-white’s trunk where she retrieved the bag and walked it over to Atom.

  “Seriously,” whispered the Atom with more than a hint of excitement. “Is he allowed to detain juveniles like that?”

  “He’s doing it, ain’t he?” was all Shia could muster before slipping back into the vehicle to attend to her business on The Box.

  The teens, who’d been shouting inside the big tin can, began pounding on the walls of the dumpster in vain. The muffled complaints were mostly unintelligible. But the single syllables were most likely curses. Lucky checked his watch. The duo had been interned for barely a minute.

  “I’m guessing that this, you know, right here, is outside Sheriff’s, you know, regular procedures?” braved Atom, handing Lucky a water and a protein bar.

  “Guess that depends what side of the dumpster you’re on.” Lucky twisted the cap of the water bottle, sucked back a gulp before starting in on the protein bar.

  The banging inside the dumpster grew louder and the boy wonder involuntarily took three steps back.

  “My brother and me,” said Lucky between chewy mouthfuls, “Think I was fifteen, sixteen. Tony was like twelve. We used to get into some stupid shit—correction—I used to get into shit and Tony was along for whatever ride I was on. I’d started smoking and got it in my head that I could steal a carton of Camels from this neighborhood stop ’n’ shop. Tony made like he accidentally knocked over a magazine rack. I snatched the carton of smokes and headed out the back. By the time my brother met me at the other end of the alley, the store security guard had collared me. Now, me ’n’ Tony were given a choice that day. Wait for the cops to come take us to juvie…or do some attitude adjustment time in the dumpster behind the stop ’n’ shop.”

  Lucky punctuated the short tale with a wide, made-up grin.

  “And that was the day you turned your life around,” finished the director.

  “Why not? Hollywood ending, right?” munched Lucky. “You gonna put that in your movie?”

  As if the thought just came to him, Atom whipped out his phone, turning it horizontally to cinematically best capture the dumpster moment.

  “Nuh uh,” said Lucky, index finger waving like a metronome.

  Inside the black-and-white, Shia keyed in the ten-seven code, indicating to the Compton dispatcher that Lucky and his trainee were temporarily out of service. Next she retrieved her smartphone from inside her duty belt. She checked the video to see if she’d captured both picture and sound of their encounter with the two alley teens. She sped forward to where Lucky had given the boys a choice between Los Padrinos and the dumpster. She made certain the recording concluded with Lucky climbing atop the dumpster, sealing the teens inside.

  Her thumbs worked fast and without error, uploading the file to a pair of email accounts. After hearing the trademark whooooooosh of sent correspondence, she deleted the incriminating file from her device.

  Covert task complete, Shia involuntarily glanced up through the black-and-white’s windshield to discover Lucky’s eyes were fixed in her direction. From that thirty-two-foot stretch, she couldn’t imagine Lucky catching her betrayal. Yet still, from his perch atop the dumpster, his gaze was penetrating.

  Was it accusing?

  The Box pinged with a message. Shia lowered her eyes, read the missive, then pushed back out of the car.

  “Message from another unit,” relayed Shia. “Woman with a pink whistle over at…” Shia stuck her head back in the black-and-white and reread the message to make certain she didn’t err. “New Wilmington Gardens.”

  “SCHOOL’S OUT!” Lucky rapped twice on the dumpster lid, slid off, and landed boots first on the pavement. He was halfway to the black-and-white before the boy wonder gathered there was a change in the wind.

  “I’m back in the car?” asked Atom.

  “Up to you,” said Shia. “You can come or stick around and buy those knot-heads their next round of malt liquor.”

  Part IV

  Thursday

  32

  Hancock Park. 12:31 A.M.

  The mobile phone’s buzzing radiated. The vibration amplified so loudly through the nightstand that it sounded as if it was being played through a subwoofer.

  So much for silent mode.

  Steve Wimminger stirred, rolled to the edge of his king mattress, snatching up his phone before it sounded again. He cleared his throat and was preparing to answer with “Wimmer here,” when he realized that it wasn’t a call that had woken him. It was an email from a sender he’d flagged as critical. The attorney groaned, turned on his back and closed his eyes in hopes of summoning the remnants of his dream. He recalled a sky filled with fireworks, and a massive expanse of grassy parkland dotted with picnicking families on blankets, enjoying the climax of a day full of Fourth of July festivities.

  In the dream, Wimmer was walking hand-in-hand with a busy-footed five-year-old boy. He could still see the child’s face turned upward in wonder at the sky. The boy had curly black hair and a face the color of a mocha latte. Though Wimmer didn’t recognize the beaming kid, he knew the boy was of his making. To his giddy surprise, the child’s mother grasped hold of Wimmer’s other hand. Fingers laced. He felt Shia’s returning smile like a spreading warmth that reached all the way to his loins.

  Yes, yes. I remember the dream now. And I’m back there again.

  Only Wimmer wasn’t. He was awake. And the just-received email wouldn’t stop tickling his semi-alert psyche. He pried his eyes open, unlocked his phone and fumbled for his reading glasses. The sender’s address would inform if it was urgent enough to interrupt his holiday slumber or if he could roll his face back into the cool pillow and will himself back into the dream.

  shiasaintgeorge@lldei.com

  Upon recognizing the address, Wimmer’s body repeated that surge of warmth he’d felt in the dream. What were the odds he’d dreamt of her only moments before she’d emailed him? Perhaps there was a psychic connection, with the dream spurred on by some telepathic receptor hidden in his cerebral cortex.

  The U.S. Attorney’s thumb clicked on the email which came with nothing written on the subject line. There was only an attachment, which he immediately clicked on. His phone screen came alive with video. With a tweak to the volume, Wimmer was just able to hear the voices of the two teens in their hapless argument with Lucky Dey. He paused the image, rummaged in a nightstand drawer for a pair of earbuds, eventually plugging them into the phone and pumping the volume until he could match the voices to whomever was speaking.

  The video unfolded with the recorder starting moments before Shia slipped it into her duty belt. In doing so, the aspect frame was reduced some thirty percent by her pepper spray and ammo holsters. The audio quality was fair enough though, and the gist of what transpired was unmistakable, from the initial encounter to the—by Wimmer’s measure—seven minutes the two teenagers were detained in the dumpster.

  “Gold,” he said aloud.

  “Whaaaa you say?” asked Wimmer’s wife of eleven years. She slid into him but kept her eyes little more than sleepy slits.

  “Nothing,” said Wimmer. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Are you sneaking porn again?” she half-sparked.

  “Someone sent me an email. Really. You should go back to sleep.”

  Wimmer felt a hand slide from his thigh to his crotch.

  “You liar,” she said. “You’re hard.”

  “Look. See?” showed Wimmer, aiming the phone screen at her.

  “Too bright!” she complained. Her words came out slurred and boozy. “Anyway, I don’t give a shit what you watch if it gets you hard like this.”

  Wimmer let her push down his boxers until he could kick them away. Then, as if to conceal any reminder of his wife’s Nordic sheath, he buried his phone under a pillow, plunging the bedroom back into darkness. The trick provided ins
tant gratification. In the opaqueness of their bungalow, Wimmer was able to imagine another wife beneath him. One from a dream, complete with skin like ebony, an unkempt spray of kinky black hair, and intoxicating breath that smelled of warm pears and saliva.

  Oh, Shia…

  33

  Over his young, blockbuster career, Atom Blum had experienced plenty of head rushes. There were the red-carpet premieres and the impossible-for-the-average-male-to-date actresses willing to afford every inch of themselves for a chance to be photographed with the hit movie director. Topping the list might be his adventures with the stunt crews who performed most of the miraculous action that populated the Roadkill franchise. On each picture, he’d taken advantage of his position in exchange for the occasional stimulus. He’d talked himself into stunt cars and trucks and helicopters and begged the expert operators to get his heart racing. Each professional driver and pilot had wisely obliged, strapping the director in and, for insurance purposes, observing every safety concern.

  Yet none of Atom’s movie thrills measured up to the three-minute ride when Lucky navigated the black-and-white across the southwest corner of Compton. The Ford’s eight cylinders, out of tune and knocking, strained under the deputy’s heavy foot. Outside the vehicle, the city flew past. The road underneath the squeaking chassis delivered none of the smoothness Atom had experienced while driven by stunt drivers on carefully chosen roadways.

  Lucky buckled his seatbelt as he sped, then returned his free hand to operate the siren tones—intermittently switching between auto-wails and pulses for the desired affect. All steering was performed by his left hand, low on the wheel, relaxed as a barfly piano player’s.

  The black-and-white’s speedometer topped out at ninety miles per hour—barely half the speed Atom had clocked with NASCAR drivers around the ovals at Ontario and Las Vegas. But the push and pull of hard braking and re-acceleration, the stomach-flipping road dips, the potholes undefeated by shock absorbers, and the unbanked, ninety-degree turns on city boulevards made for an unparalleled mash-up of excitement and concern. The boy wonder worried if he might soil his designer denims.