Mr. Lucky

by James Swain

  Huck smiled to himself as he started up his engine. The police up in the Panhandle must have figured out that Arlen wasn’t him and alerted the police down here. In a way, he was happy he’d run into the sheriff. Now he knew to be on his toes—and that Gerry Valentine didn’t keep a dog running around his property.

  He parked in the spot the sheriff had vacated. As he killed the engine, his stomach growled. He hadn’t put anything in his mouth since leaving Gulfport, and the pizza on the backseat was calling him. First things first, he told himself.

  Getting out, he removed one of the insulated boxes from the backseat, then opened the trunk and removed the short-barreled shotgun he’d brought from his grandmother’s house. He stuck the shotgun beneath the box. It was just small enough to stay hidden.

  He walked up the front path, wondering how foolish he looked in his coveralls and the pizza driver’s hat tilted rakishly on his head. At the front door he stopped and peered through a wire mesh screen door onto a porch. Baby toys were scattered across the floor. His breath caught in his throat. What did the Old Testament say? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. With his free hand, he rapped on the screen door.

  When no one came out, he tested the knob and got it to turn. He pulled the door open and stepped inside the porch. It was small and cozy, with newspapers scattered on the furniture. He glanced behind him on the street. Still quiet as a church.

  “Anyone home? Pizza delivery.”

  He could hear music inside the house. It had a Latin rhythm that made Huck instinctively tap his foot. He tested the front door and found it unlocked. He opened it and slipped inside the house of the man who’d killed his three sons.

  Huck had been a criminal since he was eight. He’d learned from his daddy, who’d made ruckus juice out of a still in the back of his house and sold it for a buck a gallon to the blacks and farmhands. If he’d learned one lesson from his daddy, it was that you had to move fast. Whatever the crime, speed was key. Everything else was secondary.

  He put the pizza box on the floor. The music was coming from a room off to his right. Gloria Estefan and Miami Sound Machine. He drew a hunting knife from the sheath hanging beneath his shirt, then walked down a short hallway and entered the room. More baby toys scattered on the floor, a crib in the corner. Gerry Valentine was a proud new daddy. It made Huck that much more enraged. Then it hit him what he’d do. He’d kill the wife and take the kid. That would put a knot in Gerry’s colon for the rest of his life.

  He walked into the center of the room and looked for a picture. He didn’t want to end up killing the goddamn cleaning lady. In the corner of the room was a small desk with a computer in its center. On its ledge was a family photo. He got close enough to make out Gerry and the woman in his arms. She was a real beauty.

  Gloria Estefan’s singing was getting to him. He liked Latin music, especially to dance to. What people back home called cutting the rug. He found the stereo and turned the music up. He was about to ruin another man’s life. It made him feel incredibly powerful. He went into the hallway and walked to the foot of the stairway. He listened hard for a few moments, thought he heard a noise. He put a foot on the stairs, then halted. He needed to be sure she wasn’t downstairs, or risk letting her get away.

  He went to the end of the hallway. It cut to his right, and he stuck his head around the corner. The hallway led to the kitchen in the rear of the house, and he squinted at Gerry Valentine’s wife standing at a sink in the kitchen with her back to him. She wore jeans and a T-shirt and stood motionless at the sink. He guessed she was cleaning dishes.

  He pulled his head back around the corner. Knife or gun? He decided on the gun. It was quicker. He’d rush into the room, shoot her, and be done with it.

  Payback time.

  Mabel Struck was serving homemade eggplant lasagna to Brownie and Little Pete when the telephone in the kitchen rang. She’d invited them to lunch after they’d agreed to help her, then learned from Brownie that neither man ate meat. So she’d found a vegetarian recipe online that looked easy to make.

  “Will you excuse me?” she asked.

  “Of course,” the two retired carnival men said.

  “Please start without me. I don’t want your food to get cold.” She went into the kitchen and picked up the phone. After all the work they’d done—and so quickly!—having them for lunch was the least she could do. “Hello?”

  Her caller was the chief of the Palm Harbor police department. He told her the news, and Mabel leaned against the wall and brought her hand to her mouth.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “I’ll be right over.”

  The chief didn’t think that was a good idea. There was a lot of blood in the house.

  “I’m coming anyway,” Mabel said.

  She put the phone in its cradle before the chief could reply. Her head felt light, and she stared out the window at the gloriously sunny afternoon. It seemed unfathomable that something so horrible could happen on such a beautiful day. She found herself wishing Tony was here, so they could go across the street together. Only, she couldn’t lean on Tony for the rest of her life. Sucking in her breath, she went to the back door and pulled it open.

  Yolanda sat on the back stoop, rocking the sleeping baby in her arms. Lois had started wailing a few minutes ago, and Yolanda had brought her outside so Brownie and Little Pete wouldn’t have their eardrums ruined. The younger woman looked up at her.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Our trap worked,” Mabel said.

  Yolanda rose from the stoop. “Are the police there now?”

  Mabel nodded. “Your neighbor heard a shotgun blast and dialed 911.”

  “Did they catch him?”

  “Yes. He shot himself in the foot. The police think…”

  “What?”

  “They think he might die.”

  Yolanda grabbed Mabel by the wrist and looked her in the eye with a steely gaze. “Don’t feel sorry for him. He was going to hurt me and my baby.”

  “I know. It’s just—”

  “He got what was coming to him.”

  It was exactly what Tony would say, and Mabel found herself nodding. Cradling the baby in her arms, Yolanda hurried inside with Mabel right behind her.

  Three Palm Harbor sheriff’s cars and an ambulance were parked in front of Yolanda’s house. Yolanda identified herself to the uniform in charge and asked to be let inside. The sheriff stared at the baby in her arms, then at Mabel.

  “She’s with me,” Yolanda said.

  “It ain’t pretty,” the sheriff warned her.

  “Please let us in,” Yolanda said.

  The sheriff led them inside the house. Everything looked normal until they reached the rear hallway that led to the kitchen. The floor was sheeted with blood, the sight of it so unsettling that Mabel felt her breath go away. If it bothered Yolanda, she didn’t show it.

  Mabel stared at the door at the end of the hallway. That morning, Brownie and Little Pete had painted a trompe l’oeil on it that showed Yolanda standing at the sink with her back to the door. The painting was poor compared to those at the Showtown, but the bad light in the hallway hid the imperfections. Huck Dubb must have been looking at it when he fell.

  “Where is he?” Yolanda asked the sheriff.

  “Out in the ambulance,” the sheriff replied. “He hit the trip wire your friends ran across the floor, and blew his foot clean off. We’re trying to find a hospital that will take him.”

  “Why bother?” Yolanda said.

  Mabel could no longer stomach the blood and left the house. There was a massive oak tree on the front lawn, and she stood beneath its cool shade and tried to regain her composure. The ambulance’s back doors were open, and she watched the EMS team work on Huck Dubb. He was a big man and looked like a beached whale lying on his back. No matter how horrible a person he was, she didn’t want to see him die.

  Then she looked at the gang of sheriffs standing by the curb. They were talking and laughing a
nd enjoying the beautiful day. And they were eating something. Her vision was poor, and she had to stare before she realized what it was. Pizza.

  Staring up into the clouds, Mabel thanked God for looking out for them.

  51

  One St. Andrews Plaza was the address of the U.S. Attorney’s Office in New York City. The building was eight stories of steel and dirty glass and housed some of the most powerful federal prosecutors in the country. Valentine had visited there before and always wondered when the feds were going to clean the place up. So far, no one had bothered.

  Next door to the U.S. Attorney’s Office was St. Andrew’s Church. It was one of the city’s great historic Roman Catholic churches and dated back to the late 1700s. At seven-thirty the next morning, Ricky Smith climbed the steps of the church to go to confession, while Valentine and Polly waited outside on the sidewalk. From where they stood, they had an excellent view of the Brooklyn Bridge, and the early morning view was spectacular. Polly was wearing her Sunday-best clothes. So was Ricky.

  “Will these men be fair with Ricky?” she asked.

  “Yes. Ricky’s coming forward makes a huge difference,” Valentine said.

  “Will he have to testify against Stanley in court?”

  “Probably.”

  She chewed on a fingernail. “Will Ricky go to jail?”

  Valentine stared at the line of traffic coming off the bridge. He had a feeling that the AUSA—the Assistant United States Attorney—would be more interested in prosecuting Stanley Kessel. That was what his gut said. But, the AUSA might put the screws to Ricky, as well. It was one of the chances you took turning in state’s evidence.

  “He might.”

  “How long will Stanley go to jail?”

  “Ten to twelve if he’s lucky.”

  “Do you think that’s long enough?”

  Valentine shrugged. Stanley Kessel had corrupted an entire town; Valentine didn’t know what the proper punishment was for a crime like that. At ten minutes before eight Ricky came outside. Confessing to a man of the cloth affected people differently. Ricky stared at the sidewalk as if it were about to open up and swallow him whole. Polly took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “You okay?” she asked him.

  “Not really,” he replied.

  “Sure you want to go through with this?”

  He looked at her, then at Valentine. “Positive,” he said.

  The lobby in the U.S. Attorney’s Office resembled a police station, with surveillance cameras perched on the walls and a metal detector that everyone entering the building was required to pass through. They gave their names and photo IDs to a stern-faced receptionist, then stood by a wall with a gang of others waiting to go upstairs.

  Valentine assumed the people they waited with were crooks and their attorneys. He killed a few minutes trying to discern which were which. It was impossible to tell the difference, and he finally gave up.

  At eight-fifteen the AUSA’s assistant came downstairs and got them. They passed through the metal detector and were wanded by a guard. When Valentine tried to get his ID back, he was told it would be returned when he left. Riding up in the elevator, the assistant said, “Everyone gets the same treatment. It’s the new world order.”

  They got off on the seventh floor and were escorted to a conference room consisting of a long table, six chairs, a flickering overhead light, and ceiling tiles that looked ready to fall on their heads. Two men rose from chairs as they entered. They identified themselves as Robert Knuts, AUSA, and Special Agent Stephen Thomas Roberts of the FBI. Knuts had a shock of blond hair and a ruddy complexion; Roberts was a tough-looking Irishman with dark eyes that looked capable of drilling a hole in your head.

  “Have a seat,” Knuts said, pointing at the chairs opposite him and Roberts. “Would you like something to drink?”

  They declined and sat down. Ricky had started breathing heavily, and Valentine wondered if he was going to bolt. The only thing that seemed to be holding him down was Polly. She was as solid as a rock.

  Ricky pointed at the tape recorder sitting on the table. “You going to record this?”

  Knuts nodded. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  Ricky started to say something. Valentine sensed that he was going to tell Knuts off and blow it. Instead Ricky snapped his mouth shut.

  Knuts put his finger on the record button, and the machine started to whir. He identified himself into the machine, gave the date and time, then glanced Ricky’s way.

  “The floor is yours,” he said.

  Ricky started at the beginning and explained how he and Stanley had learned to cheat while apprenticing with the Schlitzie carnival in Florida. Then he talked about returning to Slippery Rock, and the scams he and Stanley had pulled while growing up. To hear him tell it, virtually every promotion and sweepstakes that had run in Slippery Rock during that time was corrupted, and more than once Valentine saw Polly close her eyes and sadly shake her head.

  Stanley moved away from Slippery Rock after getting caught stealing test answers, and Ricky didn’t see him for many years. During that time, Stanley was in New York becoming a stockbroker and making his fortune, while Ricky stayed in Slippery Rock and bounced around between jobs. Then, one day three years ago, Stanley appeared on Ricky’s doorstep. “He took me out drinking and told me about this scam he’d been thinking about,” Ricky said into the tape recorder. “Stanley’s speciality was helping small companies go public. He knew that most of the companies were dogs. But every once in a while, there was a good one. Stanley was convinced that if he fed me the good ones, and I bought them when they were low, I could establish a track record of picking winners. Then, he could promote me to investors as the world’s greatest stock picker.

  “We kicked it around for a while. I told Stanley it wouldn’t work, because I didn’t know anything about the markets. Stanley said that most stock pickers didn’t know anything about the markets, either.

  “Stanley said the key was making investors believe that you had the golden touch. He was convinced we could do this by making people think I was the world’s luckiest man. He thought the best way to do this was by scamming a casino. He said the publicity would give me instant credibility. The other scams that came after that were my idea.”

  “How much money did Stanley think you could raise from private investors?” Knuts asked.

  “A hundred million at the start.”

  “At the start?”

  “Stanley wanted to use the initial capital to establish who I was, then establish a hedge fund that I would manage. Stanley said the sky was the limit once we got going.”

  “You must have discussed a figure.”

  “Half a billion dollars,” Ricky said.

  The sound of Polly’s sharp intake of breath made everyone’s heads snap. She covered her mouth with her hands and stared at her ex in disbelief. Valentine saw Knuts’s hand reach over to the tape recorder and turn it off. Then the AUSA looked at the FBI agent sitting to his right.

  “Your turn,” Knuts said.

  Valentine had dealt with scores of FBI agents over the years. They ranged from good guys to world-class jerks with an occasional wacko thrown in the mix. It was hard to tell into which category Roberts fell. He was Irish, which was usually a good sign, and looked like a normal guy, except for his eyes. They had the intensity of someone who’d been to hell and back and hadn’t enjoyed the experience. Valentine saw him reach into his jacket and remove a party-size bag of M&M’s. Tearing them open, Roberts poured a handful into his cupped palm, then slid the bag across the table in Ricky’s direction.

  “Help yourself,” the FBI agent said.

  Ricky fished a couple of candies out and popped them into his mouth.

  “I run the FBI’s office in lower Manhattan,” Roberts said. “Mostly I deal with white-collar crime and brokers gone bad. I spent yesterday afternoon with a friend of yours.”

  “Stanley?” Ricky said.

  “That’s right. He came to my office
and told me the same story you just did.”

  “Did you arrest him?”

  Roberts shook his head. “Nothing to arrest him for. There’s no crime in claiming someone’s the world’s greatest stock picker. Every brokerage house on Wall Street does it. And Stanley claims that he never gave you any inside tips. He says you talked about it, but it never happened. That true?”

  Ricky started coughing like he was choking. “Yes,” he finally said.

  “So the only real crimes here were ripping off the Mint in Las Vegas and past-posting a horse race at an OTB parlor,” Roberts said. “Stanley says that his involvement at the Mint was something called visual prediction at roulette and that what he did wasn’t illegal.” He stared at Valentine. “I’m told cheating at casinos is your speciality. That true?”

  “That’s right,” Valentine said.

  “Is visual prediction against the law?”

  “No.”

  “So Stanley didn’t break any laws at the Mint.”

  Valentine felt Roberts’s eyes drilling a hole into his soul. “That’s correct.”

  The FBI agent turned his attention to Ricky. “Stanley says that the OTB deal was your doing and that he had nothing to do with it, along with everything else in Slippery Rock.”

  “That’s not true,” Ricky said, his face growing red.

  “Can you prove Stanley was involved?”

  “He funded the whole goddamn operation.”

  “Stanley says he lent you some money.”

  Ricky put his elbows on the table. He looked ready to explode, and Polly put her hand on his arm. Through gritted teeth he said, “And you believed him?”

  Roberts picked up the bag of M&M’s and poured some more into his hand. His demeanor hadn’t changed, and he fished a couple of candies out and popped them into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed before speaking again. “It has nothing to do with what I believe or don’t believe. I deal in evidence, and right now, you don’t have any. Personally, I think Stanley Kessel is pond scum, and I’d enjoy throwing him in jail with a bunch of guys who lost their pensions in the crash and then watching the fireworks. But I can only do that if you’ll help me.”