Mr. Lucky

by James Swain

  The beer bottle froze an inch from Tex’s lips. “Who’s that?”

  “The hooker you had before I came up. I made her in the lobby.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “She was beautiful. Like a-thousand-dollars-an-hour beautiful. Nobody else in this dumpy hotel can afford her.”

  “You’re grabbing at straws, boy.”

  Gerry took a step back into the room. Tex hadn’t denied it, and Gerry said, “Hookers that work hotels make their johns meet them in the lobby and escort them out. That way, they can’t get arrested for pandering. This hooker didn’t have an escort. You didn’t want to risk being seen with her. Mr. Celebrity.”

  Tex lowered his beer bottle. He shot Gerry a school-yard look, as if sizing him up. He pointed at the chair Gerry’d just vacated. “Sit down,” he said.

  “Why should I?”

  The older man broke into a smile. “Because I think I like you, boy.”

  Tex went into the bedroom and came back with a leather bag that he dropped on Gerry’s lap. It was heavy, and the leather was old and cracked. Gerry peeked inside. Stacks of brand-new hundreds stared back at him.

  “How would you like to make a quick fifty grand?” Tex said, returning to the couch.

  The little voice inside of Gerry’s head told him to get the hell out of there. Only, he could not stop staring at the money. Fifty grand would put him and Yolanda out of debt. He told the little voice to shut up and dropped the bag onto the floor. “Doing what?”

  “You know what a money farm is?”

  Gerry shook his head.

  “It’s a sucker who’s got more cash than common sense. There’s one playing in this cockamamie poker tournament. Guy named Kingman. Made his fortune building trailer parks. I’m playing him this afternoon in a private game. There’s an empty seat.”

  “So?”

  “I want you to be my partner,” Tex said.

  “Is the game rigged?”

  Tex smiled like he’d just said the funniest thing in the world.

  “Now don’t disappoint me by talking stupid,” he said.

  Tex drained his beer and let out a prolonged belch. The gambling world was replete with stories of well-oiled suckers who’d lost millions to world-famous poker players. The suckers were often cheated—usually by simple scams like marked cards, or professional dealers who were in fact mechanics. The suckers were allowed to win a few hands, then led to the slaughter. They were always square when it came to paying up. The money meant nothing, and later they could tell their friends that they’d played head-to-head with one of the greats.

  Gerry stared at the bag lying on the floor. Half of the stacks had tumbled out. The money was singing its siren song, drowning out every single promise he’d made to his wife and to his father and to his priest in the past month.

  Tex went to the minibar and stuck his hand into the bucket. This time, he pulled out two beer bottles. He came over and handed Gerry one. He clinked his bottle against the one he’d given Gerry.

  “Partners?” he asked.

  Gerry stared at his reflection in the bottle. The face he saw was the old him, Gerry the mover. Just one quick score, he thought, that’s all this was. Just one.

  “Okay,” he said.

  16

  As Ricky drove one-handed down the highway while adjusting the volume on the Stevie Ray acoustic set coming out of the radio’s multiple speakers, Valentine stared at the winning racing slip lying on the seat between them. In his hurry to throw Ricky out, the clerk at the OTB parlor had mistakenly given the slip back to Ricky, along with his winnings.

  Valentine picked up the slip and stared at it. The slip was telling him something. Namely that he was beaten. He had no idea how Ricky had picked the winners. And he was sure Ricky hadn’t cheated.

  He knew this because of the amount of money Ricky had won. Eight hundred thirty-six dollars and eighty-seven cents. If Ricky had somehow fixed the race, it would have meant bribing all three jockeys, plus other jockeys, stewards, and handlers. It would have taken a lot of money, and as a result, the payoff would have had to be huge. Eight hundred and change was small potatoes. He glanced across the seat at the younger man.

  “You know, I might be willing to go along with this if you didn’t act like such a world-class jerk,” Valentine said.

  Ricky’s eyes remained glued on the road. “Is that what’s got you ticked off?”

  “Yeah. Those guys in the OTB parlor wanted to kill you. You acted like a real asshole to them.”

  “Everyone around here’s an asshole. Why should I be any different?”

  “Set an example. Show some class.”

  “Whether you know it or not, I did those guys a favor.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Do you know why people gamble? I’m not talking about your weekend schmo who bets in an office pool. I mean your die-hard guy who bets the rent on a roll of the dice, or bets the ponies every day. Know why he does it?”

  Valentine had heard plenty of reasons as to why people gambled. For the entertainment, the thrill, and the adrenaline rush were three at the top of the list. But he sensed Ricky was going down a different path, and shook his head.

  “They do it to punish themselves.”

  That was a new one. Valentine smiled, saying nothing.

  “Think about it. They bet their money, and most of the time, they lose. Everybody loses in the end. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means that they go into it knowing they’re going to lose. They know the house has an edge that they can’t overcome. But they still gamble away their money.”

  “Maybe they think—”

  “That this time will be different?” Ricky said. “Fat chance, brother. Deep down, they know they’re going to get beat.”

  “How can you know that? Everybody has dreams.”

  Ricky snorted derisively. “Did you look at those guys in the OTB parlor? They were wearing the same clothes they had on yesterday. They wear the look of losers because they are losers.”

  “So why are you doing them a favor?”

  Ricky’s face lit up. “So, you’re accepting my argument.”

  “It has its points.”

  “Glad you think so. I’m doing them a favor by reminding them how cruel Lady Luck can be. I drive up in a seventy-thousand-dollar car, make one wager, and walk away a winner. There’s a lesson if I ever heard one.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Life sucks, and then some guy rubs your face in it.”

  Valentine realized Ricky was being serious. It was a sad philosophy, and he shifted his gaze so he was staring at the highway.

  The outskirts of Slippery Rock was like a thousand other small towns, the landscape littered with strip shopping centers and flat-roofed fast-food franchises. Ricky bought two sixteen-ounce coffees from a McDonald’s and drove around the outskirts of town for a while. Several times drivers in other cars waved at him, but he did not wave back.

  “You always so antisocial?” Valentine asked.

  “Didn’t know them before, don’t want to know them now,” Ricky said, blowing the steam off his cup. “I mean, why do people think they want to know you just because you’re rich? Christ, the phone calls alone.”

  “People harassing you?”

  “You could call it that, yeah.”

  Something clicked in Valentine’s head. He’d assumed the four Spanish guys in the forest last night were looking for him. Had they been looking for Ricky and gotten the house wrong? It would have been easy to do in the dark.

  “Any of them Spanish?” he asked.

  Ricky turned his head to stare at his passenger. A long moment passed. Valentine pointed at the highway. “Watch the road, will you?”

  “No,” he said.

  “You don’t want to watch the road?”

  “None of them were Spanish.”

  The highway was entering a curve, and the Lexus drifted into the next lane. Valen
tine reached over and straightened the wheel with one hand. Ricky returned his attention to his driving. After a moment he glanced at his watch and cursed.

  Valentine felt the car accelerate. A sign that said 60 MPH flew by. The Lexus was doing at least eighty. “What’s the hurry?”

  “I promised my buddy Roland Pew I’d meet him at the Republic National Bank at two,” Ricky explained. “We won a lottery ticket together yesterday. The check is in both our names. I have to endorse it with him.”

  “The bank’s open on Saturdays?”

  Ricky nodded. “It’s a Slippery Rock tradition. The manager is coming in to congratulate Roland. His name is Highland Moss.”

  “This must be a big occasion.”

  Ricky nodded. “Roland’s going to open an account with his share of the money. He’s had a hard life. It’s the first time anyone in his family has had a savings account.”

  “So the manager agreed to come in on a Saturday and help him do it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I thought you said everyone around here was an asshole,” Valentine said.

  The Republic National Bank was a one-story concrete bunker with a single drive-in and no ATM. A sign on the lawn gave the daily mortgage rate. Beneath the rate were the words NO POINTS. They got out and Ricky locked the car doors with the key. He headed toward the bank’s entrance with Valentine beside him.

  “There are some decent people around here,” Ricky admitted. “Highland Moss is one. Roland Pew is another. So’s Max Bookbinder.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s the ex-principal over at the high school.” He caught Valentine’s look and said, “Let me guess. My antisocial ways would have precluded me from liking an ex-principal.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “No, but you were thinking it. Max is a great guy. A few weeks after Polly and I busted up, she spent the weekend with Max. Guy’s old enough to be her father. Sure enough, I hear about it, just like everyone hears about everything in this jerkwater town.” They had reached the front door, and Ricky rapped on the glass. “So I run into Max in the produce department at the supermarket. I’ve been working on this line for days, and I ask him, ‘Hey, Max, how do you like secondhand goods?’ I mean, I say it real loud. Without batting an eye, Max tosses a grapefruit into his cart and says, ‘You wouldn’t have known it, Ricky. You wouldn’t have known it.’” Ricky broke into a smile. “I mean, it hurt, but Christ, he’d been working on his lines, too, you know?”

  “You’ve got some warped sense of humor,” Valentine said.

  “Thanks.”

  The bank’s front door was darkened by a curtain. Above the door hung a tasseled banner. These were Golden Savings Days, the banner proclaimed—INVEST NOW IN SIX-MONTH CDS. A white-haired guard pulled the curtain back. He tried to wave them away.

  “That’s Claude,” Ricky said under his breath. “Single-handedly supports every titty bar in the county.” He raised his voice. “Hey, Claude, let us in!”

  “We’re closed,” Claude said through the glass.

  Ricky pointed at a beat-up bicycle parked beside the front door. “I’m here to help Roland Pew open his account. He needs me to cosign the check.”

  Claude turned his head, and Valentine guessed someone inside the bank was talking to him. When he turned back, he was frowning. He reached for the giant key ring hanging from his belt, then hesitated. Ricky banged the glass with his palm.

  “Come on, Claude. Open up.”

  Claude unlocked the door. His movements were stilted. As they went inside, he closed and locked the door behind them. The bank’s interior was as cold as a meat locker. On one wall were three teller stations; on the other, a row of desks where officers conducted business. On each desk was a blotter, a phone with multiple lines, and a computer. The chairs behind the desks were empty.

  Valentine followed Ricky to a desk that had a plaque with Highland Moss’s name on it. The phone on the desk was blinking wildly, all four lines on hold. Valentine heard an alarm go off inside his skull. He turned around, his eyes sweeping the room. The teller stations were also deserted, and he spied the contents of a woman’s pocketbook strewn across the floor. A lipstick, some coins, gum, and a pocket calendar.

  Shit, he thought.

  He heard someone cough and glanced over his shoulder. Behind Highland Moss’s desk was a large curtain. From behind it stepped a tall, gangly man with a black ski mask pulled over his face. He was dressed like a scarecrow, the knees of his jeans gone, his red flannel shirt caked with dirt. From his right hand dangled a .357 Magnum revolver.

  “Arms in the air,” the scarecrow said.

  Valentine and Ricky raised their arms into the air. Swallowing hard, Ricky said, “Where’s Roland?”

  “He a friend of yours?” the scarecrow asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Roland’s right here.”

  The scarecrow snapped his fingers, and Roland Pew emerged from behind the same curtain. A handsome kid, wearing his Sunday clothes. Probably one of the happiest days of his life until he’d stepped through that door, Valentine thought. The scarecrow shoved Roland forward, then pointed at the floor. “Get on your knees. You, too, Claude.”

  For a long moment, no one moved. The scarecrow waved the .357 menacingly in their faces. “Don’t make me shoot you,” he said.

  The four men slowly sunk to the floor.

  Ricky could not stop staring at Roland. It was the first time he’d seen the kid he used to babysit not look cool. Roland had called that morning, said the check had come overnight express for their lottery ticket, and that he’d deposit his half this afternoon and wanted to celebrate tonight over a few beers. He’d never sounded happier.

  “You boys in the wrong place…wrong time,” the scarecrow informed them. “Shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning. Stayed home, watched Oprah.”

  The scarecrow was trying to sound tough. Sweat poured down his face, and he wiped furiously at his brow with his free hand. Ricky’s mother, who’d died at an indecent age of ovarian cancer, had taught him that God sometimes took people to crossroads. The paths were always clearly marked: some good, some bad, the choice always a free one. The scarecrow’s path was obviously not what he’d expected.

  The circular steel door that led to the vault banged open, and a second masked robber entered the room. He was shorter, heavier, his clothes spotted with blood, and he dragged a leather satchel stuffed to overflowing with the bank’s money across the tile floor.

  “Who the fuck are these guys?” the shorter robber screamed. “You weren’t supposed to let anyone in!”

  “They were banging on the door,” the scarecrow said.

  “So?”

  “I was afraid they’d call the cops. You know, on a cell phone.”

  “What a goddamned handicap you are,” the shorter robber swore.

  Ricky heard a funky noise. Roland’s stomach was making barnyard noises. First his stomach sounded like a pig, then a chicken, then a horse. Had Ricky known of this talent, he would have asked his friend to demonstrate years ago.

  Ricky looked up. The bloodied robber had stopped in the middle of the floor and was staring murderously at Roland like he knew him. And Roland was staring back like he knew the robber.

  “Hey, Beasley,” Roland said. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “My name’s not Beasley,” the shorter robber snapped. “Shut up!”

  “How long’s it been? A couple of years?”

  “I said shut the fuck up.”

  Then Roland did the bravest thing Ricky had ever seen. His friend rose from the floor and took a step forward. “Come on…it’s me, your old pal Roland.”

  Beasley pulled a sawed-off shotgun from the leather satchel and waved it in Roland’s face. “Get back on your knees, goddamn it.”

  Roland took another step forward. “Let us walk,” he implored. “You and I been tight a long time.”

  “Shut the fuck up, will you?”

>   “We’ll tell the police you had masks on—”

  “I said shut up, Roland.”

  “Claude will say the same thing,” Roland told him. “So will Ricky. And I’m sure we can get this other guy to go along. Won’t you, mister?”

  “Sure,” Valentine said.

  “You had masks on,” Roland said. “We didn’t recognize you.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Roland,” Beasley shouted at him. “There ain’t no turning back now.”

  Roland shook his head. “You can’t kill us.”

  “I sure can,” Beasley said, somehow able to rationalize his own barbarism. His breath had turned foul and gave the air a pernicious stench. “Things happen because they’re supposed to, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Call it nature, or Fate, or God’s will. So get on your knees. Right fucking now.”

  Roland wouldn’t do it. Instead, he held his palms out, begging for mercy. Ricky could see that Beasley was getting tied up in knots, and wondered what tied him to Roland. Maybe they’d shot hoops in high school, or gone deer hunting in the fall, or just hitched up every once in a while and chugged beer. Friendships in these parts ran as thick as blood, usually lasted a lifetime.

  “My mind’s made up,” Beasley replied. “This is my one chance to climb out of life’s great shit hole. All I want is a little taste of paradise.” He glanced at the scarecrow for reinforcement. “Ain’t that right, Larry?”

  The flame called hope lit up the scarecrow’s eyes, and he nodded enthusiastically. “We’re going to be eating cheeseburgers in paradise.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Come on, Bease,” Roland pleaded with him. “You and I broke the law before. This will be no different. I never ratted you out.”

  “Get on your knees,” Beasley roared at him.

  Ricky realized they were all about to die and fought the overwhelming urge to pee on himself. Roland held his ground, refusing to kneel.

  “You’re a frigging coward,” Roland said, making his last stand. “No more hamburgers for me! No more sunsets, or drive-ins, or one-on-one behind the school. Never going to see my baby born because of you.”