Mr. Lucky

by James Swain

  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.

  Two sedans pulled up to the restaurant. Four cops jumped out of each. They drew their sidearms and entered the restaurant in single file. Huck’s cell phone rang. He stared at the caller ID. It was Buford.

  “You watchin’ this?” his cousin asked.

  “Yeah,” Huck said. “Where you?”

  “In my office at the restaurant, staring at my computer. What am I gonna do?”

  “Get a lawyer.”

  “They’re gonna call me an accomplice. They’re gonna kick my balls in. You shouldn’t have sprayed that trailer, you stupid son of a bitch.”

  “He killed my boys,” Huck said.

  Buford slammed down the phone so hard that Huck jerked it away from his head. On the computer, he saw a cop break off from the group. Climbing onto the fender of a car, the cop started to dismantle the camera. Huck rose from his chair and snapped the suspenders keeping his overalls up. “Shit,” he said.

  “Huck!” his grandma bellowed from the kitchen. She was deaf in one ear and couldn’t hear out of the other, yet somehow heard through walls when Huck swore.

  “Sorry, Grandma.”

  “No swearing in this house. Not while I’m alive.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come in here quick. I’ve got something for you.”

  He crossed the small house in a funk. If they were sending eight cops to close down Buford, they probably had a small army guarding Gerry Valentine. He’d blown his chance to kill the man who’d killed his boys. His ear was hurting from where he’d been shot, but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as his heart.

  He found Grandma in the kitchen holding a tall glass of iced tea. Having something from her kitchen was her cure for whatever ailed you, and he took a big swallow. The drink was so cold it made his fillings hurt.

  His retarded brother, Arlen, sat at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of frosted corn flakes. Their mother had done drugs, and Arlen had paid the price. Arlen lived in an alternative universe. When everyone was sleeping, Arlen was awake; when everyone ate dinner, Arlen ate breakfast. Physically, the brothers were about the same and had worn each other’s clothes all their lives. It had been easy, being they were rarely awake at the same time. He petted Arlen on the shoulder and saw him lift his bovine eyes.

  “What you want?” Arlen asked suspiciously.

  Huck had once stolen dessert from Arlen and had never been forgiven.

  “Just checking up. How you doing?”

  “Breathing,” Arlen said, clutching his spoon.

  “How’d you like to go on a trip? Leave Gulfport for a few days.”

  “Dunno.”

  Huck knelt down beside him. He glanced at Grandma stirring a pot on the stove. In a low voice, he said, “I need you to help me. I need to pay a man back. I’m gonna kill his family. I think they live someplace down in Florida. I need you to help me kill them.”

  “Kill ’um how?”

  “Guns and knives,” Huck said.

  “Can I watch?”

  “Yup.”

  A spark of life flickered behind Arlen’s eyes. Huck had taken Arlen to jobs before. The prospect of seeing someone shot or sliced open always brought his brother up from his stupor. His spoon hit the bowl of cereal with a loud plunk!

  “When?” he said.

  Huck had always known that the life he’d led and the things he’d done would one day catch up with him. It was the reality that all criminals lived with, the hot wire that ignited their blood. So he’d prepared, and buried jars of money in different places around town, each stuffed with thousands of dollars in crumpled hundred-dollar bills. He’d buried two jars in the backyard of Grandma’s house, and he dug them up with a garden hoe, then unsealed them while Arlen stood beside him, holding a flashlight.

  “We’re rich,” Arlen said.

  Huck shoved a hundred dollars into his brother’s hand and saw his face light up. Then Huck went inside the house and dumped the jar onto the kitchen table. Grandma was standing at the counter peeling potatoes and stared at the money.

  “It’s yours,” Huck said.

  “What for?”

  “I’m buying your car.”

  “Car ain’t worth that much,” she said, throwing a handful of peeled spuds into the vat of boiling water sitting on the stove. “Go ahead and take the car. I don’t use it none. You can give it back to me when you get back.”

  “I may not be getting back,” he said.

  She took a handful of potatoes out of a paper bag and started the process over. “You fixin’ to stay in Florida for a spell?”

  “Don’t have much choice. Police looking for me.”

  “Summers down there are mighty long. You gonna send Arlen back?”

  “Yeah. He never liked the heat.”

  “Well, okay,” she said.

  He went outside and backed her ancient Ford Fairlane out of the garage. Popping the trunk, he got a pair of illegal short-barreled shotguns from her toolshed, along with a metal strongbox filled with ammunition. Arlen had gone into the house and emerged wearing his camouflage hunting vest with his collection of rubber knives and plastic toy guns. He jumped into the passenger seat and slapped his hands on his knees. Huck stared at him.

  “You say good-bye to Grandma?”

  Arlen frowned the way he did when he was reminded of his own stupidity. It was a sad face, almost a pout. “No,” he sputtered.

  “Think we should?”

  “Guess so.”

  Huck got out of the car and led his brother back into the house. Grandma was at the counter fixing peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches. They were Arlen’s favorite thing in the whole world. She put four into a bag along with a thermos of iced tea. Then she handed the whole thing to Arlen, took her grandson’s head into her hands, and kissed him good-bye.

  37

  The visitor parking lot of the Slippery Rock police station was empty, and Valentine parked beside the front door of the darkened station house, then jumped out, went to the door, and loudly knocked. It was a single-story concrete building with as much personality as a sewage treatment plant. When no one answered, he went back to the car.

  “Stay here,” he told Ricky.

  Ricky lowered the wad of Kleenex pressed to his nostril. It had started bleeding right after they’d driven away from his house. “Where the hell am I going to go?”

  Valentine leaned on his opened door. During the drive over,
Ricky had refused to say why the Cubans were at his house, beating the daylights out of him. Valentine had saved Ricky’s life twice in the past two days, yet they were no closer than the moment they’d first met.

  “Just stay put, okay?”

  “Sure thing, Sarge.”

  Valentine went around the back of the station house and saw a clunker parked in the employee lot. He banged on the back door, and a Hispanic woman appeared behind the steel-meshed glass, looking shaken up. She shook her head to indicate that she wasn’t opening the door come hell or high water. He went back around the building and got into the car.

  “No one’s here,” he said.

  “It’s Sunday night,” Ricky said. “Whoever’s on duty is probably on a call or getting something to eat at McDonald’s.”

  “Who’s going to answer if I call 911?”

  “An operator over in the other county. She’ll call whoever’s on duty and give him the message.”

  Valentine turned the key in the ignition and fired up the engine. He’d wanted to get Ricky someplace safe, and the police station had seemed the best choice. He backed out of the lot and pulled onto the street, but not before first looking in both directions. The road was quiet. He wondered if the Cubans had been smart enough to bring a backup car with them. Most professional crews usually had one.

  “I need to put you someplace safe,” he said.

  “You got me,” Ricky said.

  “I was thinking about dropping you at your ex-wife’s.”

  Ricky jerked his head so hard that the dog sleeping in back lifted its head. “Are you nuts? Polly and I can’t be in the same room together.”

  “She still cares for you. She showed me my house and couldn’t stop talking about you.” He glanced at his passenger. “Not all of it was pleasant, but there’s something still there.”

  “Wow, this is great. First you save my ass, now you’re trying to save my failed marriage. Is there anything you can’t do?”

  If Ricky hadn’t been bleeding, Valentine would have backhanded him in the face.

  “Where does she live?”

  “I’m not telling you,” Ricky said.

  “You want me to call information, and call her and make you look like a fool?”

  Ricky threw the bloodied Kleenex to the floor and buried his head in his hands.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” he said.

  Dressed in a bathrobe, Polly Parker stood on her wraparound front porch when Valentine pulled down her gravel driveway a few minutes later. He’d gotten her number from Ricky and called her, and she’d offered her house as a safe haven without a moment’s hesitation. He had been right. The thread of love was still there.

  Polly’s house was small and quaint, with enough Southern charm to grace the pages of a magazine. Before getting out of the car, Ricky scrubbed his face with his shirtsleeve. It was like watching a kid going on his first date. As he climbed out, the dog bounded out of the backseat and moments later was in Polly’s arms, getting hugs and kisses.

  “Oh, my God,” Polly said as Ricky climbed onto the porch. “What happened to your face?” She glared at Valentine coming up from behind. “Did you do that to him? Did you?”

  “Some hoods came to the house and beat me up,” Ricky said. He jerked his thumb in Valentine’s direction. “Mr. Wonderful saved me.”

  Polly gently pushed the dog away. She was wearing Garfield slippers and was a foot shorter than her ex. Reaching up, she touched his damaged face.

  “You just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”

  Ricky pulled his head away like he’d been slapped. “Don’t start in, okay? He’s bad enough. I don’t need any more.”

  “Oh, Ricky, come on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean grow up and put it behind you. I have.”

  He looked down at his feet. “I’m…sorry.”

  She slid her arms around his waist and held him. “Why don’t you come inside, and I’ll clean you up and make you a sloe gin fizz, and you can sit in front of the TV and not worry about anything. What do you say?”

  A long silence followed as Ricky seemed to wrestle with her offer, his eyes still staring downward. And then it hit Valentine what was going on. Ricky had kept Polly in the dark. She wasn’t one of the gang of people in Slippery Rock involved in whatever crazy scheme he had going on. He’d protected her by not telling her. It said a lot of things about him as a man, but most importantly, it told Valentine that Ricky knew what he’d done was wrong. Otherwise, he would have had no reason to hide it from her.

  “I’d like that,” he said.

  Polly started to lead him into the house. She turned when they were both in the foyer and looked at Valentine. “You’re welcome to join us. I’m sorry I was so short with you.”

  “Thanks, but I need to run,” Valentine said.

  Ricky turned to stare at him. Panic had returned to his eyes.

  “You going to the police?”

  “I sure am,” Valentine said.

  Not knowing his way around Slippery Rock, Valentine retraced his steps back to the police station and, finding the parking lot empty, drove back to his house. On the way, he started to punch in 911 on his cell phone, only to stop when he realized that he would have no way of knowing if the cop who replied to his call was also involved in Ricky’s scheme. So he called information instead and asked for Rodney Gaylord’s number. As he suspected, it was unlisted.

  “I need you to do me a favor,” he told the operator. “Please call Sergeant Gaylord and tell him Tony Valentine needs to speak with him. Tell him I’m at my house, and he should drive there right away. Okay?”

  The operator was young and didn’t like being told what to do. “I’m not supposed to do that. It’s against the rules.”

  “Tell him I just shot someone, and I figured he’d want to know,” Valentine said.

  “You serious, mister?”

  “Dead serious.”

  He drove back to Ricky’s house. As he expected, the black SUV was gone. He pulled into Hank Ridley’s driveway a few minutes later. Hank had looked pretty stoned a half hour ago, and Valentine guessed Hank was spinning in the ozone by now. Leaving the keys on the front doormat, he put his ear to the door and heard blaring rock ’n’ roll bleeding through the grain. It was another bootleg of the Grateful Dead. The band sounded horribly out of tune. Maybe it sounded good to Hank.

  Valentine traipsed through the woods back to his house, stopping every fifty feet to listen to the sounds of the forest. In his eardrums he heard a steady beating sound, then realized it was his heart. He came to a stump and sat down on it.

  His thoughts drifted to Juan. He’d hated shooting him, but he hadn’t seen any other choice. Back when he was patrolling Atlantic City’s casinos, he’d rarely drawn his firearm, much less used it. Guns were dangerous in crowded places. But having been a street cop, he also knew that guns never settled problems. They simply ended things.

  For the hell of it, he took his pulse. Eighty-eight beats a minute. Normally it was seventy. He stood up and walked down the path toward his house.

  Sergeant Gaylord was waiting for Valentine in the driveway of his rental house. He was dressed in blue jeans, a threadbare sweater, and sneakers. His eyes were puffy, and his hair looked like he’d stuck it in a blender.

  “Give me your gun,” he said.

  Valentine removed the Glock from his ankle holster. Gaylord examined the gun and shook his head. “One bullet?”

  Valentine didn’t understand what he meant.

  “You shot him with one bullet in the head.”

  Valentine felt the air escape his lungs. “That’s right.”

  “You’re pretty damn good at that.” Gaylord locked the Glock in the trunk of his vehicle. Then he said, “Show me where.”

  Valentine walked him down the road to Ricky’s house while explaining what had happened and why he’d chosen to shoot Juan in Ricky’s driveway. Gaylord stared at him intently in
the dark. More than once the sergeant stumbled on the uneven road.

  “Ricky tell you why they were beating him up?” Gaylord asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “And Mary Alice Stoker stonewalled you as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think this has something to do with the scam at the Mint?”

  Valentine met his gaze. It was the first time he’d heard Gaylord imply that he thought Ricky was a cheater. “I sure as hell do,” he said.

  They halted at Ricky’s driveway. Gaylord said, “Stay behind me,” and walked a few yards ahead of him while asking Valentine to point out where the vehicle had been parked. They came to the spot, which was directly in front of the garage. Gaylord pointed at a spot in the grass. Valentine stood there and watched the sergeant remove a small flashlight from his pocket and flyspeck the area. He took his time, and Valentine felt himself shiver as the chilly night area knifed through his clothes.

  After a minute, Gaylord went into a crouch. Sticking the flashlight into his mouth, he plucked several things off the ground and placed them on his outstretched palm. Rising, he came over to where Valentine stood. Valentine stared at several tiny shards of tinted glass and the butt of a cigarette. It looked odd, and he picked it up and gave it a whiff. Reefer. The men in the van had been smoking a joint when he’d shot them.

  “Looks like they cleaned up after themselves,” Gaylord said.

  They had also cleaned the interior of Ricky’s house. No broken or damaged CDs on the living-room floor, the furniture back in its proper place. Even the pool of urine left by the dog in the kitchen was gone. Gaylord dug into the trash and, finding nothing, went outside and looked in the garbage cans beside the garage. Ricky’s destroyed CD collection was nowhere to be found.

  “You said they shot at you,” the sergeant said.

  Valentine stood on the back lawn and re-created what had happened. Gaylord looked through the grass for shell casings from Juan’s automatic rifle but found none. He took a cell phone out of his pocket and called for backup. They went inside and sat in Ricky’s kitchen.