Mr. Lucky (15 page)

Brownie unbuttoned his shirtsleeve and tugged it back to his elbow. His arm was covered in blue-black tattoos of mermaids and battleships. A navy man, Mabel guessed.

Closing his eyes, Brownie stuck his arm into the paper bag and removed a ball. It had the number twenty-three written on it.

“Twenty-three! Call me a genius. Everyone else does!” Little Pete said.

Brownie pulled out two balls at once. Numbers nine and fourteen.

“The daily double! How does he do it? Nobody knows!”

Grinning, Brownie pulled out a fourth ball. Number thirty-five.

“Someone start a religion after this man,” the dwarf said. He stared at Yolanda with a devilish grin on his face. Then he offered her the bag.

“Go ahead, take out the last one. Number forty-seven.”

“But I don’t understand how the trick works,” Yolanda protested.

“That doesn’t matter,” Little Pete said.

Clearly perplexed, Yolanda handed Mabel her sleeping baby, then rose a few inches off her seat and stuck her arm into the paper bag. Suddenly her facial expression changed, and it took a moment before Mabel recognized the look. Yolanda was in the know.

She withdrew her hand and handed Mabel ball number forty-seven.

“How did you do that?” Mabel exclaimed.

26

I
t was noon when Valentine heard the doorbell ring. He’d decided that renting the house in Slippery Rock was one of the stupidest things he’d ever done. Everyone knew exactly where to find him. The front door had warped from all the rain, and he had to jerk it open. On the stoop stood Sergeant Gaylord. He was in his uniform, hat in hand.

“Sergeant Gaylord. What a pleasant surprise.”

Gaylord shot him an unfriendly look. “I normally don’t work Sundays, but seeing as I’ve got three dead men lying in my morgue, I’m clocking extra hours. Mind if I come in?”

“What’s this about?”

“You, my friend.”

Valentine ushered him into the kitchen and offered him a chair. Then he brewed a fresh pot of coffee with the coffee-maker he’d found in the pantry. He’d never known a cop to refuse a cup of joe, and Gaylord did not let him down. Tempering the drink with several teaspoons of sugar, the sergeant took a sip and winced.

“That’s mighty strong. You a caffeine junkie?”

“Afraid so.”

“Everyone’s got an addiction. Be happy yours is legal.” The sergeant took a bigger sip this time, and it made his eyes widen. “Here’s the deal, Tony. I called around and checked you out. You’re not in Slippery Rock writing your memoirs.”

Valentine guessed Gaylord was the last person in town to figure that out. He said, “Kind of obvious, huh?”

“Just a little.” Gaylord loosened the knot in his necktie. “So here’s the deal. I want you to come clean with me. I need to know why you were in that bank with Ricky Smith. Now, understand, I’m not accusing you of anything. But I need to know the truth. And if I think you’re lying, I’m going to haul you in under suspicion. Understand?”

Valentine nodded. He’d put Gaylord in a bad position by not coming clean with him yesterday. It was disrespectful, and they both knew it. He took a gulp of coffee and told the sergeant the real reason he was in Slippery Rock.

At first, Gaylord didn’t say much. There didn’t appear to be much going on behind his dull green eyes. Small-town cops were notoriously dumb; below-average IQs were a requirement among many police departments, the belief being that someone with brains wouldn’t be interested in sitting in a patrol car all day. Ripping open a pack of gum, the sergeant stuck three sticks into his mouth and began to vigorously chew. When Valentine was finished talking, Gaylord said, “Want a piece?”

“No thanks.”

He put the gum away. “So you think Ricky may be staging all this stuff, making himself look like he’s the world’s luckiest man?”

“That’s my theory,” Valentine said.

“But you don’t have any proof.”

“No, sir.”

“But you have a motive,” he said, working his gum hard.

Valentine shook his head.

“Sure you do. Ricky’s trying to be something that he’s not.”

“What do you mean?”

Gaylord put his cup in the sink, then returned to his chair. “That’s the motivation behind most robberies. The robber wants the money because he thinks it’s going to change him in some life-altering way. It’s his ticket to the big time.”

The coffeepot was still on. Valentine refilled his cup, thinking back to the robbery at the bank. “Sort of like Beasley and the scarecrow.”

“Exactly.”

Gaylord removed a spiral notebook from his back pocket and stared at his notes. “Just before you shot them, Beasley told his partner they were going to be eating cheeseburgers in paradise. That’s a line from a Jimmy Buffet song. My wife is a Parrot Head, has all his CDs.”

“Is that what they call his fans?”

Gaylord nodded. “I listened to the song last night. You know what it’s really about?”

“No.”

“The song is about dreams.”

Valentine sipped his coffee. Mary Alice Stoker had told him that she thought Ricky’s lucky streak and the bank robbery were somehow connected. Now Gaylord was inferring the same thing. He wasn’t seeing the connection and put his cup on the table. “Maybe I’m missing something, but what does that have to do with Ricky Smith winning everything in sight? The bank robbers didn’t act like they knew him.”

Gaylord flipped his notebook shut and slapped it on the table. There was a spark behind his eyes now. “I honestly don’t know. But my gut tells me they’re connected. Beasley and the scarecrow didn’t have arrest records. Something drove them to do what they did.” Glancing at his watch, he said, “My wife is going to kill me,” and pushed himself out of his chair.

“She making you lunch?”

“We’re going out. It’s our anniversary.”

Valentine followed the sergeant outside to his car. Gaylord had his keys out. As he started to get in, an SUV passed on the road. The sergeant watched it like a hawk, then said, “See that car? Brand-new Lexus SUV. Owner is a housepainter. Set him back forty-five thousand bucks.”

“I hear they’re nice cars,” Valentine said.

Gaylord shot him a funny look. “Know how many new cars I’ve seen in the past week? An even dozen. BMW, Mercedes-Benz, Lexus, even one of those crazy-looking Hummers. I’ve worked here sixteen years and never seen that many new cars.”

“Are the people who’re buying them connected?”

“Nope. Just a bunch of locals. They’re going to the bank and taking out loans.”

Valentine felt himself stiffen.
They were buying on credit, just like Ricky Smith
.

“Not just for cars, either,” the sergeant went on. “People borrowing money to buy plasma-screen TVs and motorcycles and putting additions on their houses. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Slippery Rock was single-handedly trying to jump-start the economy.”

Valentine’s cell phone rang. He took it out and flipped it open. It was Gerry.

“My son,” he told the sergeant.

Gaylord climbed into his car, then lowered his window. He held out a paper bag, which Valentine took from him and looked inside. It contained his Glock.

“Thanks.”

He watched Gaylord drive away and felt himself shiver. He’d come outside without his overcoat and was already regretting it. The old adage was true: People from the north were always cold, people from the south always warm.

“How’s it going?” he said to his son.

“Not so great,” Gerry replied. “I’m still in Gulfport.”

Valentine went into the house and slammed the door behind him. The reception on his cell phone instantly got better. “How much did you lose?”

“What do you mean?” his son said, sounding hurt.

His ass hit the chair hard. Gerry had come into this world kicking and screaming and had been causing headaches ever since. “How much did you lose in the casino? That’s what you’re calling about, isn’t it?”

“No, Pop, it’s not. Three brothers tried to execute me outside Gulfport last night. They’re in the Dixie Mafia. I dumped some logs on them and killed them. I’m staying in Gulfport until the police arrest their father. He’s in the Dixie Mafia, too.”

Valentine felt his heart racing out of control. He could hear real fear in his son’s voice. When he opened his mouth, he heard the same fear in his own.

“Why did they try to kill you?”

“Tex Snyder asked me to help him cheat a sucker. I turned him down. Turns out Tex was working with these guys.”

“You doing okay?”

His son took a deep breath. His voice sounded like it was going to crack. Valentine wished they were in the same room so he could throw his arms around his son’s shoulders and comfort him.

“No,” Gerry said.

27

H
uck Dubb felt an invisible knife stab him in the heart. He stood in the basement of the Harrison County morgue, staring at his three sons lying side by side on slabs. Their naked bodies were covered in purple bruises, their heads twisted unnaturally to the side. He’d heard the news and rushed over. He had to see it with his own eyes.

He touched each of his boys. Their skin had turned cold and clammy. He’d never believed in God and believed in him less now. God wouldn’t rob a man of his three sons all at once. Not even a man as bad as him. He looked at the walleyed orderly who’d let him into the morgue. His name was Cur. Huck had run moonshine with his daddy years ago.

“Cover them,” Huck said.

Cur draped black sheets over the three boys. Huck reached out and touched each of them again. Last Sunday, they’d gotten together and drunk whiskey on the front porch of his house. Their combined weight had caved the porch in and killed his best hunting dog. His sons had laughed like hell. He withdrew his hand.

It wasn’t fair. One of his boys dying he might be able to live with; not all three. He looked at Cur. “What you hearing?”

“I’m hearing it was an Eye-talian that killed ’em,” Cur said, shuffling his feet as he spoke. “Named Valentino or something.”

Huck felt the knife give his heart another stab. Valentine was who he’d sent his boys to kill. “Where’s Valentine, in the county jail?” he asked.

“Nuh-uh,” Cur said, still doing his little dance. “Lamar Biggs sprung him.”

“The niggah with the casino commission?”

“Yeah. I hear he’s a mean one, that Lamar. I hear he’d kick a baby in the ass.”

Huck spit on the floor. Lamar Biggs was a college-educated colored boy. He couldn’t think of anything he hated more. “Know where this baby-kicker lives?”

Cur’s head bobbed up and down. “You gonna go get Valentine?”

“What the hell do you think?” Huck said.

“Gonna kill him?”

“What the hell do you think?”

“Biggs, too?” Cur looked up. “I hear he’s got a pretty, white wife.”

“Him, too,” Huck said.

Cur smiled crookedly and told him how to get to Lamar Biggs’s house.

Huck went out to his Chevy pickup, took his shotgun off the gun rack, made sure it was loaded, and with it sitting on his lap drove to Lamar Biggs’s place. The truck was brand-new, with cushy leather and all the fancy stuff, yet had cost no more than the Chevy truck he’d bought six years ago. The salesman had explained that everything was made in Mexico, then assembled here. Huck hadn’t liked that. Mexicans were as bad as blacks; he didn’t want his money going into their pockets. Then he’d driven the truck for a while and decided he could live with it.

Halfway to Lamar Biggs’s house a thunderbolt hit him. Any black man who lived with a white woman in Mississippi had serious firearms in his house. Huck didn’t want to be outgunned, and did a hasty U-turn in the middle of the road.

Huck’s own house was on the northern end of Gulfport near the industrial plants. He had no neighbors. The stench from the pollution kept the civilized folks away.

Ten minutes later, he drove down the single-lane dirt road and pulled up the driveway. The house was actually a double-wide with a facade tacked on to make it look like a real house. It wasn’t much to look at, but Huck liked it. The obscure location made surveillance by the police impossible, unless they decided to watch him by satellite.

His girlfriend’s lime-green Mustang was parked on the front lawn. Her name was Kitty, and she slung drinks at a honky-tonk called Junebugs. Parking beside her car, Huck saw a new dent in the driver’s door. Drunks propositioned Kitty all the time. Those that didn’t like being turned down took their frustration out on her car.

“Where you been?” she asked as he came in.

“None of your business,” he said.

Kitty lay on the couch beneath a blanket, the TV on so loud it made the room shake. “Well, excuse me. You having a bad day?”

“Lost my boys,” he said, heading toward the bedroom in back.

“Try looking in the bars,” she called after him. “They’re usually there.”

Huck shut the bedroom door behind him. Got on his knees and pulled the cardboard box out from beneath his bed. Pulled out the AK-47 and began stuffing his pockets with ammo. He’d drive up to Biggs’s house, jump out, and start shooting. The AK-47 would shoot right through the walls, probably go right through the damn house. Anything inside would die. He started to leave, when another thought struck him. If he killed Biggs or his wife, he’d have to leave town for a while. He’d need money, and began to search through the drawers of his dresser for any spare cash.

“Goddamn woman,” he swore angrily.

Kitty had cleaned him out. She claimed she’d been clean for five weeks, but Huck knew she was lying. Kitty would swallow or smoke or stick up her nose anything that would get her high. Then she’d lie on the couch and clean out the refrigerator. As a result, he’d started taking precautions. Picking the AK-47 up off the floor, he went into the front of the house.

“Hey,” she said, “where you going with that thing?”

“Squirrel hunting. Where’s the stash box?”

“On top of the TV. I smoked the last of the pot.” She silenced the TV with the remote, then rose from the couch with the blanket draped around her shoulders. “Say, you got any money? We need groceries.”

Huck stared at her and felt his anger boil up. Damn woman was a leech. She’d spend all his money until he was tapped out and then find herself another sugar daddy.

He grabbed the stash box off the TV, turned it upside down. A pack of rolling papers and a hash pipe hit the floor. Sticking his hand into the box, he pulled out the false bottom and removed a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills. Kitty shrieked.

“You been holding out on me!”

Huck pointed at the couch. “Shut up and sit down.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had money?”

“You heard me.”

Kitty drew the blanket farther around herself and sat down. A little-girl pout appeared on her lips. “It’s not fair. You’re going to hit the bars with your sons and leave me here.”

“My boys are dead,” he said.

She looked up, startled. “What?”

“You heard me. I need to enact a little payback. I may have to disappear for a while. The police come looking for me, you don’t know nothing, understand?”

“Dead? All three of them? How can that be?”

Her eyes were glassy; she was high on something, and it wasn’t pot. Probably speed someone had given her at Junebugs. Long-distance truckers came in, plied the girls with pills. Huck peeled two hundred-dollar bills off his wad and tossed them at her. She tried to grab them out of the air and missed by a foot. She retrieved them from the floor.

“Thanks, Huck.”

“What are you going to say if the police come?”

“Nuthin’. I ain’t saying nuthin’.” She opened her blouse and stuffed the bills down between her breasts. It was another bad habit she’d picked up at Junebugs. “I washed your clothes. They’re in the dryer, case you need them.”

Huck looked at her. “I’ll call you when I can.”

She nodded woodenly.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked.

“I guess,” she said.

Huck got his clothes out of the dryer. Rolled them in a ball and heard Kitty raise the volume on the TV. She’d live here until her money ran out, he guessed.

“Hey,” she called out. “Come here and look at this.”

“No time,” he said, stuffing his clothes under his arm.

“We’re on TV!” she exclaimed.

“What you talking about, girl?”

“The house is on the TV,” she said. “I changed the channel, and we’re on TV.”

Huck went back into the living room. The TV was a big-screen he’d bought on sale at Sears. He’d had the worst time getting it through the front door. He stared at the picture of his house and the two cars parked on the lawn. The clothes under his arm hit the floor.

“What channel you on?”

“One of the satellite ones,” she said.

He threw open the front door and stuck his head out. Everything looked the same; then his eyes settled on the telephone pole sitting in his yard. A white transformer can was sitting on top of the pole. Kitty shouldered up next to him. Huck pointed at the can.

“When did they install that?”

“Yesterday. Telephone crew came by. They were here awhile. Is the camera in that?”

“Yeah. It’s a pole pig.”

She let out a cry. “Don’t go calling me names!”

“I ain’t calling you names. It’s a pole pig.”

“Stop that!”

Huck ignored her and raised the AK-47 to shoulder height. Pole pigs were law enforcement’s newest toy, the can hiding a high-resolution camera with a telephoto lens. A microwave video transmitter sent the video signal from the camera to a receiver up to a mile away. The can probably had a leak in it, and the leak was getting picked up by the antenna on top of his house. He got the can in his sights and pulled the trigger.

The can shot blue flames. He went back inside and stared at the blank screen on his TV. Then he looked at Kitty. She was crying her eyes out.

“You’re a piece of shit,” she said.

Huck threw her in the bathroom and propped a chair against the door. Outside he could hear sirens, and guessed the police had been waiting for him to come home. He ran outside through the back door. His sons’ four-wheelers were parked in back. He got one started and made its engine bark. Then he ran back inside.

Through the front window he saw four police cruisers burning down the road. He busted out the glass with the barrel of the AK-47 and started shooting. The front cruiser took the hit in its engine and spun crazily off the road. The other cruisers pulled off as well. Huck went to the bathroom door.

“Lie on the floor,” he said.

“Don’t leave me,” she wailed.

He went outside and jumped on the four-wheeler. Miles of dirt trails twisted through the woods behind his house. He drove down one for a minute, then pulled off. In the distance he could hear staccato bursts of gunfire, and imagined the police shooting his house up. The local cops were cowards. They usually hid behind their cruisers and shot blind. He put Kitty’s chances of surviving at fifty/fifty.

“Good luck, baby,” he said, and drove away.