Mr. Lucky (16 page)

28

V
alentine spent an hour on the phone talking to Gerry. He wasn’t sure it did any good. Killing the murderous Dubb brothers had ripped a hole in his son’s psyche.

Valentine knew the feeling too well. Television and the movies distorted how the act of killing another human being actually made you feel. There was nothing glorious or heroic about it, and there never would be.

“Pop, I need to go,” his son said. “Lamar just got a call from the local police. The Dubb brothers’ father is on the loose, and Lamar wants to take me to a more secure place.”

Valentine pushed himself out of the chair he was sitting in. He didn’t want his son to hang up. His boy’s situation had reminded him that there were more important things in life than figuring out how casinos got ripped off. “You keep yourself glued to Lamar Biggs’s side,” he said. “You don’t know who in that town Huck Dubb knows.”

“I will,” his son said.

“You tell Yolanda any of this?”

“Not yet. I wanted to do it in person. Like you used to with Mom after you had to shoot someone.”

Valentine had always wondered if his son had learned anything from him. It was nice to know something had sunk in.

“I’m going to leave my cell phone on,” Valentine said. “Call me anytime you want to.”

“You’re going to leave your cell phone on?” Gerry said, feigning astonishment. “That’s a first. I’m alerting the media.”

And a smart mouth. Gerry had learned that from his father as well.

Hanging up, Valentine went into the living room and browsed through the books left by the previous owners. An entire set of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
lined one shelf, their spines brittle with age. He pulled out the edition with the word
Atlas
printed on its spine. In the very front was a four-color map of the United States. With his thumb, he measured the distance between where he was in North Carolina to where Gerry was in Mississippi. It was about five hundred miles. His paternal instinct told him he needed to go.

He’d left his cell phone on the kitchen table and now heard it beep. Someone had left a message. He guessed it had come in while he was talking to Gerry. He went into the kitchen and retrieved it, and heard Mabel’s cheerful voice.

“Yolanda and I just had the most marvelous time with two flatties in Gibsonton,” his neighbor said. “That’s slang for carnival people. And guess what? They taught us how the Ping-Pong trick works! I’m not surprised it fooled you. Call me at home when you get a chance, and I’ll be happy to explain how it’s done.”

Valentine erased the message and then dialed Mabel’s number. He realized he was smiling. He was always explaining scams and cons to her and could tell she enjoyed knowing something that he didn’t.

“Let me guess,” he said when she answered. “A four-year-old kid could figure it out.”

“Oh, not at all,” his neighbor said. “In fact, I don’t think I would have figured it out myself. The Ping-Pong ball hides the secret.”

He sat down at the kitchen table. “Okay, I give up. What secret?”

“Five of the Ping-Pong balls are frozen ahead of time. Those are the winning numbers. The audience can’t tell that the balls are frozen, because they’re white to begin with. The person who pulls the balls out of the bag simply grabs the cold ones.”

Which meant that the barker at the high school was part of the scam. The smile faded from his face. But what about Mary Alice Stoker? Was she involved, or just a patsy, chosen because she was blind and wouldn’t know that frozen balls were in the bag?

“But the balls weren’t cold when I examined them,” he said.

“That’s the other clever part of the scam,” she said.

He waited and heard her breathing on the line.

“Uncle,” he said.

“Uncle?”

“Yeah. I give up. What’s the other part?”

“The balls warm up in a person’s hand,” his neighbor replied, sounding delighted with herself. “It takes about ten seconds for the plastic in the ball to return to room temperature. It’s an old carnival trick.”

“I bet it is,” he said.

“Oh, I also got the skinny on the gypsies that ran the carnival Ricky Smith lived with. They were called the Schlitzies, and they were real crooks.”

Valentine felt his face grow warm.
And so are a bunch of other people in this town
. From the front of the house he heard a frantic banging and realized someone was at the front door. He went into the hallway and put his face to the glass cutout in the door. No one was there.

“That’s funny,” he said.

“That the Schlitzies were crooks?” his neighbor said.

“Sorry. I was just talking out loud.”

“Well, I need to run. I’ve got lasagna baking in the oven, and Yolanda is coming over later for dinner. You take care of yourself.”

“You, too,” he said.

The phone went dead in his hand. He killed the connection when the frantic banging started again. It was so loud it nearly made him jump. He jerked open the door to find a young girl with a ponytail standing on the stoop. Out in the driveway lay a bicycle.

“Mr. Valentine,” she said breathlessly. “Please help.”

Valentine crouched down so they were eye to eye. It was a trick he’d learned when he was a street cop and had to talk to a kid. It immediately set them at ease. The girl was about twelve, tall and blond, and wore a navy sweatshirt that said
ASPIRING SHOPAHOLIC
. It was funny; only, there was nothing but fear in her eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Elizabeth Ford. Everyone calls me Liz.”

“Who do you want me to help, Liz?”

“Ms. Stoker.”

He gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “Has she been hurt?”

She was breathing hard and nodded her head.

“Did she send you?”

“She doesn’t know,” she said.

“Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”

“I went to her house. She was going to help me with a book report for school. I usually let myself in through the back door. There’s a key under the mat. I went into the kitchen and heard voices in the living room. I pushed the door open and looked inside.”

Tears raced down her cheeks. Valentine held her steady. “You’re a very brave girl. Now tell me what you saw.”

“There were four men in the living room with Ms. Stoker. They had accents. They were threatening her. She was sitting in a chair, and they were standing around her. One of the men was breaking things—”

“What kind of things?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was scared.”

“I know you were. What were the men saying?”

“One of them was threatening Ms. Stoker. He kept telling her she had a big mouth and that he’d hurt her if she said anything else. Ms. Stoker tried to talk back, but the man kept poking her in the shoulder with his hand. Finally she tried to say something, and…”

“And what?”

“He hit her in the face with his hand.”

Liz was really crying now. Valentine drew her into his chest and held her until the sobs subsided. He could remember it like it was yesterday: His old man getting drunk and slapping his mother around. The memory had only grown more vivid as he’d gotten older. “What did you do then?” he asked.

“I hid in the pantry. I heard the men leave and ran into the living room. Ms. Stoker was sitting in her chair crying. I asked her what she wanted me to do. She told me to go home and forget what I’d seen.”

“But you came here instead.”

She swiped at her eyes. “I heard you liked her.”

Valentine pushed himself up so he was standing. “You’re a smart kid, you know that?”

“Are you going to help Ms. Stoker?”

“You bet I am,” he said.

29

L
iz gave him instructions to Mary Alice Stoker’s house, then pedaled away on her bike. The blind librarian lived near the high school. Valentine had wondered how she got to work every day, and now he knew. She walked.

From the kitchen he got his Glock and ankle strap and put them both on. He planned on retiring the gun once he got home. But not a minute before.

He made the tires squeal backing down the driveway. If Mary Alice was being threatened for opening her mouth, then he was in danger as well. Braking the car, he reached down and drew the Glock from his ankle and laid it on his lap. Then he drove to Mary Alice’s house with one eye on his mirror.

As the high school came into view, he weighed calling Sergeant Gaylord and giving him a heads-up. Gaylord had made it clear he wouldn’t tolerate any more nonsense. Mary Alice’s street was directly behind the school, and Valentine pulled down it with the phone clutched in his hand.

But he didn’t make the call. Mary Alice had told Liz not to call the police, and he had no right to ignore her request. He laid the phone on the seat and searched for her address. He found her house at the street’s end—a simple two-story with peeling paint and a wraparound porch with a swing—and pulled into her driveway. Slipping the Glock into his pocket, he climbed out of the car.

Standing at the front door, he started to knock, then hesitated when he heard footsteps on the other side of the door. “It’s Tony Valentine. May I come in?”

“I was in the middle of something,” she said through the door. “What do you want?”

“I need to return an overdue book.”

There was a long silence. The four men had scared the daylights out of her. That was why she wasn’t opening the door. He knocked again, this time a little more forcefully.

“What do you want?” she asked again.

“Your permission.”

“To do what?”

“Beat up the four guys who threatened you.”

The door jerked open, and she stood silhouetted in the doorway. She wore a floor-length denim dress and had her hair down. Something hard dropped in his stomach. A hideous purple bruise marred the right side of her face. She held an ice pack in her outstretched hand, letting him see what they had done to her. He silently followed her inside.

His eyes canvassed the living room. Liz had said the four men had broken things while threatening Mary Alice. He didn’t see any evidence of that.

“Elizabeth Ford told you,” she said, sitting on the couch.

He drew up a chair and sat across from her. “That’s right. She said four men were threatening you.”

“It was a misunderstanding.”

Valentine stared at the bruise on the side of her head. It was a beauty. “I’ve discovered that kids are good barometers when it comes to bad people. These guys sounded scary.”

“I told you, it was a misunderstanding.”

“Liz said one of them hit you.”

“She has an active imagination.”

“How did you get that bruise?”

“I fell down earlier when I was outside. Blind people do that sometimes.”

He drew back in his chair. There was real defiance in her voice. The friendliness she’d shown that morning had evaporated, and he sensed that she didn’t want him in her house.

“Would you like me to leave?”

“You’re very perceptive,” she said.

He rose and put the chair back where he’d found it. He started to walk to the door and heard something crunch loudly beneath his shoe. His eyes found a tiny piece of porcelain lying on the rug. Kneeling, he picked it up with the tips of his fingers.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Wondering why you just lied to me.”

She shuddered. “I’d like you to leave. I was taking a nap. Please go.”

“No,” he said.

A swinging door led him into the kitchen. He went to the sink and started pulling open the large cabinet doors beneath it. She followed him uncertainly into the room.

“What are you doing? Please stop whatever it is you’re doing.”

“No,” he said again.

The back door was ajar. He opened it and stepped outside. A short flight of wooden stairs led to her garden. The garden was meticulously kept, with three rows of red, white, and yellow roses. They were all in bloom. Her babies, he guessed.

At the foot of the stairs he spied a cardboard box. He walked down the steps and picked up the box with both hands. It was heavy, and he felt its contents shift. He walked up the stairs and went into the house, dropping the box onto the kitchen table. Mary Alice jumped.

“You’re a lousy liar,” he said.

“Please don’t be angry with me as well.”

He peeled back the lid. Inside the box were porcelain statues that had been shattered into tiny pieces. One of the pieces was a little boy’s head, and he held it on his palm and stared at the painstaking detail that had gone into its creation.

“You collect these?” he asked.

She fumbled pulling a chair out from the kitchen table. Then she sat in it. “Yes. They’re from a town in Germany called Meissen. There’s a shop in Palm Beach that used to sell them. Every year I would save up my money and treat myself to one.”

“How many did you have?”

“Twenty-two. I gave each one a name.”

He put the head back into the box and closed the lid. Her other babies, he guessed. He pulled a chair out from the table and sat down beside her. He reached over and put his hand on her arm. A wall of resolution rose in her face.

“I would prefer if you didn’t touch me.”

He withdrew his hand. “When did I become the bad guy?”

“My friends in town called me. They told me what you did.”

“What did I do?”

“You shot the two bank robbers in cold blood. They were trying to talk their way out of it, and you shot them. The casinos sent you. You’re some kind of hit man.”

A porcelain bowl filled with white candy sat in the center of the table. He stuck his hand into it. Some of it was hard, while other pieces were soft. He put some into his mouth and chewed. It was sweet and disgustingly good.

“Do you know Roland Pew?” he asked.

“I taught Roland to read,” she replied.

He took the cordless phone off the counter and called information, got Roland’s number, and punched it in. Roland’s familiar voice answered on the second ring. Valentine handed Mary Alice the phone. “Roland was there during the robbery,” he said. “Ask him to tell you what really happened.”

Valentine ate the entire bowl of candy while Mary Alice talked to Roland. She made him repeat himself a number of times, and Valentine guessed she was comparing his version of things against that of her friends. She hung up shaking her head.

“I can’t believe my friends lied to me,” she said.

“Maybe someone lied to them,” he said. “This candy is absolutely delicious. You’ve got to give me the recipe.”

She broke into a faint smile. Her hand reached across the table, and Valentine realized she was trying to touch him. He put his hand on top of hers and left it there.

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” she said. “I hope you weren’t offended.”

“I’ll get over it.”

“The candy is made from peanuts, raisins, and Golden Grahams cereal. Put everything in a small garbage bag, then add melted chocolate, melted peanut butter, and a cup of confectioners’ sugar. Shake the bag hard, and you’re done.”

“It’s addictive. What do you call it?”

“White Trash.”

He repeated the recipe to himself. He was lousy in the kitchen and would have to entice Mabel to make up a batch. “Did you know the four men who threatened you?”

“Their voices were unfamiliar.”

“Spanish accents?”

“Yes.”

“They told you to stop talking to me, didn’t they?”

“Yes. They said you were responsible for all the horrible things that were happening.”

“Which one of them hit you?”

She shook her head, this time smiling.

“I really did fall down when I was outside,” she said.

Stuck to Mary Alice’s refrigerator was a list of important phone numbers, along with names of friends and family. The phone numbers were printed in English and in braille. He studied it for a few moments, then said, “Do you have any friends nearby you could stay with? I think it would be best if you got out of Slippery Rock for a few days.”

“I have a cousin in Brevard. It’s ten minutes away.”

“I’d like to drive you, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she said.

Ten minutes later Mary Alice was sitting in his car, her suitcase in the trunk. He hated taking her away from her house and the things she knew, but saw no other way to protect her. As he was backing out, his cell phone rang. He picked it up and stared at the caller ID.

“For the love of Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

“What’s wrong?”

It was Lucy Price, the last person in the world he wanted to talk to right now. He flipped the phone open and punched the power button. The phone went dead in his hand.

“Nothing,” he said.

“You killed the power on your phone.”

“It was someone I didn’t want to talk to. How do I get to Brevard?”

“Who might that be?”

He had reached the end of her driveway. He didn’t know which way to go and threw the car into park. There was suspicion in her voice, and he said, “It was a woman I met in Las Vegas last month. I tried to help her. It didn’t work out. Now she calls me ten times a day.”

“How did you try to help her?”

“If you don’t mind, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“I do mind,” she said stiffly. “I’m letting a strange man drive me someplace. I want to know who you are, or I’ll get out right now and go back in my house.”

She crossed her arms in her lap. She impressed him as someone who’d wait all day to get a straight answer. He killed the engine and turned sideways in his seat. “Her name is Lucy Price. She’s a degenerate gambler. She’s addicted to slot machines and owes money all over Las Vegas. I felt bad for her and gave her twenty-five thousand dollars to help her out.”

The figure made her head snap. “Seriously?”

“Yes. She isn’t a bad person; she just has this horrible problem. So I gave her the money.”

She looked puzzled, and Valentine watched her run her hand over the seat, then the dashboard, then the panel of the door. She shook her head.

“This is an old car, isn’t it?” she said.

“It’s a ’92 Honda Accord.”

“You’re not a rich man, are you?”

“I make a decent buck, but no, I’m not rich.”

“So you gave her the money out of the goodness of your heart.”

“I guess you could put it that way.”

“So why are you now shunning her? It doesn’t add up.”

Valentine felt the air escape his lungs. He didn’t want to go down this road. It was painful, and thinking about it would only ruin his sleep tonight, his dreams tortured by Lucy’s problems and his own troubled conscience. As if reading his mind, Mary Alice reached across the seat and grasped his arm. She gave it a healthy squeeze.

“Please answer me,” she said.

He had never liked talking in cars, and they got out and walked to her porch. The swing looked inviting so they sat in it. He stared at the maple tree in her front yard and tried to gather his thoughts. A big fat crow sitting on a branch stared back at him.

“When I first became a cop in Atlantic City, I thought part of my job was helping people,” he said. “I grew up there, so most of the people I came in contact with I personally knew. They were my friends, so I tried to help them work their problems out.”

“Instead of arresting them.”

“Exactly. One day, my supervisor took me aside. His name was Banko, and he liked to do things by the book. He told me I was making a mistake, that I needed to stop.”

“Did you listen to him?”

“Not at first. Then one day, something happened that changed my mind. Two cops I knew got called to a domestic disturbance. Their names were Manley and Hatch. I’d known them since grade school. Good guys. The disturbance was between a girl and her boyfriend. The girl was trying to break up, and the boyfriend was taking it hard. He was threatening her, so a neighbor called 911.

“Manley and Hatch entered the house, and the boyfriend got belligerent with them. Right then, they should have cuffed him, read him his rights, and thrown him in their cruiser. That’s what that situation calls for. Only, they didn’t. Manley put his hand on the kid’s shoulder and tried to talk some sense into him.

“The boyfriend was crazy angry. He worked construction, and his tools were sitting on the table. He reached down and picked up a ball-peen hammer.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a special hammer used to beat metal into shape. He smacked Manley in the face with it. Manley’s nose practically came off and was hanging on the side of his face. Hatch drew his gun and shot the kid through the heart.”

“Does that make Manley wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Please explain why.”

“Manley’s intentions were good, just like mine were when I interceded in disturbances. But the fact is, if Manley had cuffed the boyfriend like he was supposed to, he wouldn’t be walking around today with a steel rod in his face, and the kid would still be alive. Sometimes the best thing is to arrest a person and stick them in jail. Sure, it’s rock bottom, but that’s a place some people need to go.”