“Luke! Hey, boy, is that you?”
Luke knows that voice. Luke doesn’t want to know that voice. That voice sends chills deep into his bones, colder than a winter spell.
Ronaldo Voracek. The meanest hood-rat this side of the Mississippi.
“Hey, Paul,” Ronaldo says to his associate. “Lookie who we have here. It’s our lucky day.”
Not this, Luke thinks.
Anything but these guys.
Two thugs, built like jacked-up bulls and garbed in black leather jackets, cross the street.
Luke puts up his hand. “Honestly, guys, today’s no good for me, I’ve gotta get—”
The two men grind Luke up against the brick wall of the convenience store. Ronaldo holds him tight.
“The boss has been looking for ya, Lucky Luke. But you knew that already, didn’t you? In fact, Paul and I just paid a visit to your apartment. Pretty wrecked, even before we got through with it. But you know something?” He leans a little closer. Onions on his breath. “We didn’t find so much as a dime in that place. That’s a problem for me. And it’s a problem for old Paulie here. And most certainly, it’s a problem for the big boss. You know what that means?”
Another shove. The back of Luke’s head bounces painfully against the wall.
“What?” Luke grunts.
“That means it’s a hell of a problem for you,” Ronaldo says. “So unless you wanna give up one of your digits—my choice—we’d better start seein’ some cheddar, you understanding me? With interest, your total comes to five grand. You’d better be good for it.”
Luke’s eyes narrow. “Five grand? That’s more than twice—”
A hand to his throat. “It’s five G’s or someone’s pinky gets flushed unceremoniously down a gas station toilet.” Ronaldo squeezes Luke’s esophagus.
Gasping, choking. “Don’t worry. I’ve got your money.”
Ronaldo grins like a pirate, gold teeth glinting yellow. The hoodlum backs off.
“You’d better,” he says. “Let’s see the color of your green.”
Luke hands him the ticket, partially scratched.
Ronaldo’s grin grows shallow, unfriendly. “You think this is some kinda joke?” He turns to Paul. “Hey Paul, I think our boy Luke here thinks this is some kinda joke.”
Paul shrugs. “Doesn’t he know what we do with jokers?”
Ronaldo turns back to Luke. “I don’t think he does know what we do with jokers. Cuz if he did know, I don’t think he’d be joking around quite so much.”
Rough hands reach out to grab him.
“Scratch the ticket,” Luke says, fending them off.
The grin and the gold teeth disappear. A fist with brass knuckles replaces them.
“I’ve had it with you, little man,” Ronaldo snarls. “By the time we’re done with you, your momma’s gonna wish she never—”
“Here.”
Luke holds up a dime. “You’ll need it to scratch the ticket.”
Paul eyes the dime for a moment and then snatches it from Luke’s hand. He grabs the ticket from Ronaldo and starts scratching.
“We’re gonna take your whole hand for this,” Ronaldo says, pulling his coat back to reveal a glinting steel blade.
Paul lets out a chuckle.
“Wouldn’t you know it, Ron, the first row’s a match. Says on the back that’s worth fifty bucks.”
Ronaldo’s frown becomes a grimace. “Gimme that,” he says, and takes the ticket. Examines it.
He scratches the next row.
Over his shoulder, Luke can see it’s also a match.
“Lookit that,” Paul says. “Thousand bucks in your hand right there, Ronny. Scratch the multiplier next.” He points at a box near the bottom.
Ronaldo spits.
Scratches the multiplier.
The box reads 5X.
This ticket is a five thousand dollar winner.
Ronaldo holds his fury in his eyes, conjuring up fiery heat.
He slaps Luke across the face, brass knuckles drawing blood.
“What the hell is this? Some kinda punk-ass game? Are you gaming the system, Luke? Is this a fake?”
Luke shakes his head. “It’s not a fake. And I’m done talking. Just take your money and leave me be.”
He looks at his watch.
Running late.
“Listen, guys, I’ve gotta run. It’s been great catching up. Seriously. So see you… never, preferably. No offence.”
A left hook, straight to the temple. Pain shoots through his skull and down his neck. Proverbial stars flash before his eyes. Luke’s arm goes up to shield him from the next attack.
But it doesn’t come.
Ronaldo steps away from him with a scowl. Sour and sharp like rotted apples.
“If I find out this ticket is a sham, and I can’t cash it in, may the lord provide you shelter, cuz we’ll be comin’ for you. And we’ll happily make due on our earlier promises.”
The two men turn to go, staring at the ticket in Paul’s hands.
They step out onto the road.
A bus jams on its brakes, squealing, but it’s too late.
SLAM!
Both men are reduced to rhubarb pie on the concrete.
‘Tis the season.
The bus screeches to a halt. A woman screams.
The scratch ticket flutters out of nowhere, somersaulting in the wind just beyond Luke’s outstretched hand.
He jumps and snatches the ticket from the air. Tucks it into his jacket pocket.
Sirens rise in the distance as Luke jogs back to the coffee shop. More sirens. Police, ambulance, fire trucks.
A crowd starts to gather around the ghastly scene of the accident—curiosity draws them, and carnage keeps them.
Luke is shivering when he steps into the restaurant, but the interior is warm and inviting.
He walks up to the counter.
“Hi, Betty.”
“Luke.” She’s looking outside. “What happened out there?” Her expression is full of worry.
“It’s okay, Betty. Just a little traffic accident.”
Her eyes fall on him. “Do you think anyone died?”
Her attention drifts to the window once more.
“I’m not sure,” Luke says. “But, hey, look what I brought.” He slaps the ticket down onto the counter. “This will be good for a few meals on the house, don’t you think? Oh, and can I borrow a twenty? I really need to catch a cab to Newtown. Let’s put a rush on things, darling, I’m in a hurry.”
Betty peels her eyes away from the crowd outside.
She stares at the ticket. Flips it over and over in her hands, speechless.
“This some kind of joke, Luke?”
Luke smiles. “Hardly. I’ll be needing that twenty, please.”
Her eyes are glassy as she stares at the ticket—beach balls and dollar signs. She’s transfixed.
Luke reaches over the counter, opens the register, and grabs a crisp twenty-dollar bill. Slips it into his pocket.
“I’ll be seeing you later, Betty.”
She waves a facsimile of a goodbye, still staring at the paper ticket in her hands.
Luke leaves the shop.
Hails a cab.
“Just hold it together now, Luke,” he says aloud. The cab comes splashing up through puddles. Wheels dripping and yellow paint tinged with mud.
Luke opens the backseat door and slides in. The inside of the vehicle smells of cigarette smoke and Febreze.
It’s already quarter past eleven.
“Newtown courthouse, please. Next town over.”
“I know where it is,” the cabbie grumbles. He puts the car in gear and pulls into the street.
Luke settles back into the cushions. Muscles relaxing.
He wonders what he’ll say to his ex-wife. Julia can be so heartless sometimes. Especially when it comes to Abigail. She’s every bit Luke’s child, but it hasn’t felt that way in months.
“Ride’s gonna be thirty bucks,”
the driver says. “I only take cash.”
Luke groans. Digs into his coat pocket for the twenty.
“Come on, man. I make this trip a couple times a year. It’s never more than twenty. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive.”
The cabbie catches Luke’s eye in the review mirror.
“It’s not the time, it’s the mileage. You seen the price of gas, lately? Pretty soon a ride like this’ll be forty.”
Luke curses himself. Why didn’t he grab more from the register? Less than ten minutes ago he had five grand to his name, now he’s arguing with a cabbie over a ten spot. Betty’s gonna owe him, big time.
He glances out the window. Watches the streets and houses of Covington fall away and give rise to farmland and forest. In another eight miles or so, they’ll reach the outskirts of Newtown. Barring any unforeseen disasters, he’ll arrive nice and early for his meeting at the courthouse.
“Listen, buddy,” Luke says. “If you take me to an ATM when we get to town, I’ll sort you right out.”
“That won’t be necessary.” The cabbie grins, flashing yellow teeth in the mirror’s reflection. A shiny black pistol is visible in his free hand.
A jolt of adrenaline shoots through Luke’s bloodstream.
“Seriously? You’re gonna rob me? I’m a deadbeat, man, I’ve got nothing to offer you. Not worth the crime.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Luke’s phone rings, and for the first time in months, the ring tone is welcome. He takes it out of his pocket.
“Don’t even think about it,” the cabbie warns.
“What are you gonna do, shoot me? I’m answering it.”
“Don’t—”
The cabbie reaches backward, knocking the phone out of Luke’s hands. But his fingers slip on the wheel and the vehicle starts sliding wildly.
“Shit!”
Luke ducks as the cab smashes into a telephone pole. As if in slow motion, he’s thrown across the back seat. He watches the cabbie’s head bang sickeningly against a window. The car jerks to a stop, bringing a harsh silence, alarming and unfamiliar. Bright streaks of blood drip down the glass and Luke’s world fades to black.
++++++++
A ring tone penetrates the darkness, calling out to Luke, trying to liberate him from swirling storm clouds.
The end of each unanswered ring is like crushing defeat. How many times? Ten? Twenty?
Luke comes to. Scrambles for his phone, but it stops ringing before he can pick it up. Like a cricket, which goes silent when its location is discovered. He tries to make a call, but the signal is virtually non-existent on these back roads.
Luke scrambles from the wreck and finds the cabbie unconscious in the front seat. Good riddance.
He checks his watch.
Ten of twelve.
Very late.
He spots something lying beside the cab. A black leather bag, disgorged from the trunk.
Luke picks up the bag, unzips it.
It’s full of crisp, clean bills. All hundreds. Maybe ten thousand dollars’ worth.
He slumps it over his shoulder and staggers away from the wrecked car. Disoriented, he searches the horizon for the nearest farmhouse. He sees one around a bend, and limps toward it.
He walks up to the front porch, bangs on the door.
It opens an inch. An old, grisly man peers through the slit.
“There’s been an accident,” Luke says. “Please, I need to use your phone.”
The farmer glares at Luke, then at the leather bag.
“Sure you can,” he says. “Give me a minute, will you?”
He disappears.
Thirty seconds later, the farmer opens the door wide. He’s got a shotgun pointed at Luke’s head. He motions toward the bag.
“You’d better hand me that bag, and get off my land. I recognize the stitching. You really think it’s a good idea stealing from those people?”
Luke steps back. “That gun looks pretty ancient, farmer.”
“It’ll do the job.”
“Will it?”
Luke bolts.
The farmer fires the shotgun.
It explodes in his hands.
Luke dashes down the driveway, turns off onto the road, past the smoking cab.
Checks his phone again. Still no signal.
Checks his watch.
It’s noon.
He is officially late. And still miles out from where he needs to be.
Dismayed, Luke starts walking along the road, in the general direction of Newtown. Pick ’em up and put ’em down. He’ll get there, one way or another.
He hears a truck barreling around the bend behind him and is hit with a flash of inspiration.
Steps into the middle of road.
More of a chance the truck will stop for him that way.
The shiny black pickup stops. Nice tires. Newest model.
Luke yanks the passenger door open. A well-dressed man with a black moustache stares at him suspiciously. Then spots the cab over Luke’s shoulder.
“Jesus, everything okay? Hey, don’t I know you?”
It’s Donald Tildes, Julia’s attorney.
Of course it is.
Luke nods. “Yeah, Luke Chalmers. We met just the once.”
Donald shakes his head. “You and I are both late for the same meeting. What are the odds of that? What the hell happened here, anyway? I was driving by and—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Luke says. “Cabbie was trying to scam me. Can you give me a ride to the courthouse?”
“Sure. But shouldn’t we call the cops or something? Or get you to a hospital?” He eyes the side of Luke’s face. There’s a wound there; Luke can feel it.
Luke hops into the cab. “That’s not from the car wreck. Just drive, okay? We’ll call the cops once we’re on the road.”
Donald spots the bag, a few renegade bills sticking out the top.
“What the hell is that?” He looks back at the cab. “Luke, you didn’t.”
Luke zips the top and stashes it under the seat.
Donald gives him a sour look. “You robbed the driver,” he says.
Luke shrugs. “He was about to do the same to me. He got what was coming to him.”
“So you ran his car off the road?” Donald frowns.
“The whole thing was an accident. Come on, just drive.”
Donald shakes his head and puts the truck in gear, pulling away from the crash site. The crazed farmer all but forgotten.
A few miles down the road, they re-enter the land of cell signal. Donald calls 9-1-1. To Luke’s immense relief, he tells the operator about the accident, but doesn’t mention the black bag or the fact that there was another passenger involved.
“So why are you so late, anyway?” Luke asks when Donald hangs up the call.
“Not my fault,” Donald says. “Some kinda bus accident in downtown Covington. Traffic was held up for three blocks. Took me a while to find a way around it. I’ve been having weird luck today.”
Luke laughs. “Tell me about it.”
++++++++
It’s ten past twelve, and they haven’t hit Newtown yet. But with Julia’s attorney late too, Luke doesn’t feel so bad. Maybe things are turning in his favor, after all.
“So,” Luke says, breaking the silence. “Anything specific I should be prepared for at the meeting?”
“Sorry, pal, not supposed to discuss that with you. Technically we shouldn’t even be in contact now, but these are extraordinary circumstances.”
They finally reach the outskirts of Newtown. Once a thriving industrial center, the place is now derelict and defeated.
The truck’s engine sputters.
Donald taps the foot pedal, but gets no response from the motor. Donald pulls over, and tries the ignition. Engine won’t turn over.
The needle on the gas gauge is far below the empty marker.
Donald slaps the steering wheel with both hands. “I meant to fill up in Covington but that d
amn bus accident got me all screwed up. This is just bad luck.”
Luke hops out of the car.
Freezes in his tracks.
Donald steps out beside him. Follows his gaze to an old mechanic’s garage. Place looks deserted.
“What’s up?” Donald asks. “Besides the fact that we’re both going to get capital punishment from your ex.”
“I know this place,” Luke says.
Donald looks around. “Doesn’t look like much to me.”
A man cries out: “Luke!”
Luke whispers to Donald. “Just keep it cool. These guys can be pretty rough.”
“What guys?”
The owner of the voice steps out of the garage. Tony Saliari. A man hardened beyond his forty years, black pepper beard and piercing eyes that haunt.
“Luke Chalmers.” Tony grins gold. “Wrapped and delivered to my front door. Come to deliver the five grand you owe me?”
“I gave the money to your goons,” Luke says. “It’s not my fault they can’t cross a street properly.”
“What’s going on here, Luke?” Donald says.
More men emerge from the interior of the building, many of them armed.
“You’re not seeing the full picture here,” Tony says. “The point I’m trying to make is: I don’t have my money.”
Luke shrugs. “Your men lost it. Not my problem.”
A gun blast.
Donald’s front windshield explodes in a shower of glass.
Tony turns the gun toward Luke.
“You’re next.”
Donald jabs Luke in the ribs. “The bag. Give him the bag.”
Tony smiles. “You should listen to your friend, Luke.”
“Alright, alright,” Luke says. “I’ll get your damn money.”
He walks around the truck and reaches inside for the bag of cash. Counts out five grand and holds it forward.
Tony stares at the cash. Doesn’t move.
“And the loss of my two best employees? That’s gonna cost me. Therefore, it’s gonna cost you.”
“That’s not how this works,” Luke says.
Another blast; this time Donald’s rear passenger window disintegrates.
Tony points the gun toward Donald. “If you think your friend values his kneecaps, you’ll want to reconsider.”
Luke takes a deep breath.
Digs into the bag.
He begrudgingly takes out another two grand, one for each fallen marauder.
The Powers That Be: A Superhero Collection Page 4
