Mr. Lucky (19 page)

33

T
here were times when Valentine was happy he was no longer a cop. He’d liked the work and the sense of balance it had brought to his life, but the rules had sometimes confined him, especially when dealing with bad people.

He approached Ricky’s house from the rear, the music so loud it made his head hurt. The song sounded familiar. Stevie Ray doing Jimi Hendrix’s “Manic Depression,” the chords etched into his brain from hearing it so many times when he was a cop. His partner at the time had called it the drug dealer’s national anthem.

Ricky’s house was built by a weekend carpenter, with an addition that did not mesh with the original structure, and mismatched shingles on the roof. There was a back door, and he stared through the glass into the kitchen. An aging Doberman and a cat were huddled in the corner. Both animals looked frightened, and he saw a pool of urine on the floor.

He tried the knob. The door was unlocked. He cracked it open and saw the dog and cat jump forward, wanting out. He opened the door fully. Both bolted past him.

He went in and smelled something burning in the oven. He turned the heat off, then pulled the oven door open. A TV dinner lay smoldering inside.

The music changed to Stevie Ray playing an instrumental with a big-band accompaniment. Valentine loved big band; but, this was too damn loud. He went to the swinging door that led to the next room, opened it with his finger. Through the crack he spied Ricky collapsed on a chair in the dining room. He wore jeans and a ratty T-shirt and was staring at the floor.

“No,” Ricky said.

A muscular guy wearing black pants and a black turtleneck stepped into the picture. He looked Cuban, late thirties, with his hair greased down like an old-time hoodlum. His hand cradled Ricky’s chin and lifted his head up. With his other hand, he slapped Ricky in the face.

“You’re going to do what I tell you,” he shouted over the music.

“No, I’m not, Juan,” Ricky said.

“You don’t have a choice,” Juan shouted.

Ricky looked up, his face defiant.
“It’s over.”

Juan looked across the dining room. Three other Cuban macho men were holding up the wall. “You hear that? Ricky said it’s over.”

“Ha!” one of them said.

Valentine pushed the door open a little more. Judging by the bulges beneath their shirts, the Cubans were packing heat. Lying on the floor were hundreds of shattered CDs, and he guessed this was Ricky’s prized music collection. They were giving him the same treatment they’d given Mary Alice. He let the door close and walked through the kitchen and out the back door. Heroes, he’d learned long ago, were dead people who got elementary schools named after them. He’d call Gaylord and let him deal with this.

Out on the lawn he found the Doberman waiting expectantly. He let the dog sniff his hand and heard a loud pop, followed by shouting.

He spun around. The house had gone completely dark, and he guessed a fuse had blown.
Serves you right for playing the music so damn loud,
he thought. In the kitchen he heard someone banging around in the dark.

“The fuse box is out back,” a man said. “I saw it when we came in.”

“So go flip the switch,” another said.

Valentine looked for someplace to hide. With the moon out, he was going to be easy to spot, and he ducked beside the house and held his breath. Moments later, one of the Cubans came out the back door and headed straight to where he was standing. Valentine pressed his back to the house, feeling ridiculous. Yet somehow it worked: The man didn’t see him.

They were the same height, the Cuban heavier and about thirty years younger. Opening the fuse box, he squinted at the switches beneath the moonlight, then glanced at Valentine standing a few feet away. Reaching out, he placed his hand on Valentine’s arm like he was some trick of his imagination and not real.

“Hey,” he said.

Valentine took his hand and bent the fingers back. Groaning, the younger man sunk to the ground. Valentine kneed him in the jaw, and he fell backward and lay still on the ground.

“What’s the holdup?” another man called from the house.

Valentine grabbed the Cuban’s arms and dragged him around the house. He heard the back door bang open and the other man step outside.

“Just flip the fucking switch,” the man said. “Is that so hard?”

Valentine came around the side of the building just as the man reached the fuse box. Valentine hit him flush on the jaw. The man did a crazy dance across the yard, and the Doberman tackled him. He went down hard.

“Good dog,” Valentine said. He went to where the second man lay. Out cold. He pulled up the man’s sweater and, to his surprise, saw a cell phone where he’d expected to see a gun. He quickly frisked him. The guy wasn’t armed.

He ran around the building and frisked the first guy. He wasn’t armed, either. That changed the balance of things. Kneeling, he drew the Glock from his ankle holster, then went to the fuse box and flipped the down fuse. The house instantly came back to life.

He marched into the kitchen and straight into the dining room. Ricky was still sitting in the chair, looking dazed. Valentine pointed the Glock at his two tormentors.

“Arms in the air, girls.”

Juan and the other man froze. Then, slowly, they reached for the ceiling. Valentine led them across the room to a small closet. “I hope you two like each other,” he said.

They reluctantly squeezed themselves into the cramped space. Valentine shut the door and propped a chair up against it. Then he went to the front door and opened it. A black SUV with tinted windows was blocking Ricky’s Lexus from leaving.

“Out the back door,” he told Ricky.

They went outside, and the Doberman instantly jumped on its master.

“You see my cat?” Ricky asked.

“Cat’s fine,” Valentine said.

Valentine considered marching straight over to his house and calling Gaylord, but then decided that was a bad idea. If the Cubans decided to follow, they could surround the house. “You know the trails in the woods?”

“Like the back of my hand,” Ricky said.

“Lead the way. And don’t do anything stupid.”

“Like what? Tell you your mother dresses you funny?”

Valentine stared at him. Ricky’s face was swollen, his lips and nose bloodied. Usually those were things that lent people sympathy. Valentine shoved him forward and saw Ricky wince like he’d been kicked.

A hundred yards into the woods, they heard a commotion. Valentine glanced over his shoulder as the back door to Ricky’s house burst open. Juan and his friend had broken free. Juan was cradling a rifle in his arms while his partner screamed at him.

“For Christ’s sake, put that thing down.”

“I’m gonna kill that fucker,” Juan said. He stared into the darkened forest. “I can hear them rustling around out there. Hey, boys—think we can’t hear you? Think again!”

Valentine grabbed Ricky’s arm and pulled him behind a tree. He could feel his heartbeat kicking against his chest and the adrenaline pumping through his veins. The two Cubans were standing beneath the back-door light and made easy targets. He went into a crouch, raised his Glock, and aimed at the center of Juan’s chest.

“Please don’t shoot him,” Ricky whispered.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“They’re just a bunch of mutts.”

“What does that—”

“They’re not going to hurt us.”

“They roughed you up pretty good.”

“I deserved it,” he whispered.

“That rifle could do some damage.”

“He’ll probably shoot his foot off with it.”

Valentine watched Juan and his friend argue back and forth. If Juan hadn’t been holding a rifle, it would have been comical. They had the physical mannerisms that gangsters had been using in movies for years. What was missing was the guts to pull it off.

“These guys related?” Valentine whispered.

Ricky nodded in the dark.

“Cousins?”

“Yeah,” Ricky said, “how did you know?”

Valentine had grown up with a slew of cousins and thought he recognized what was going on. Juan was acting tough to impress his cousin. If he didn’t, his cousin would later give him shit for it. Valentine lowered his Glock. Ricky was right; the only people they were probably going to hurt were themselves.

The Doberman pinned to Ricky’s side curled its upper lip and emitted a fierce snarl. Ricky put his hand on the dog’s snout and clamped it shut.

“You hear that?” Juan said.

“It was just an animal,” his cousin said. “Come on, let’s beat it before the cops get here.”

“They’re right out there. Come out here, you fuckers!”

His cousin tugged at his sleeve. “Come on.”

Juan shoved him aside. Taking a step forward, he raised the rifle to shoulder height and began shooting. Valentine pulled his head behind the tree while cursing his missed opportunity. Bullets tore through the trees on either side of them. It sounded like a heavy rain and was punctuated by a dozen sleeping animals waking up and darting for cover. After a few moments the shooting subsided. Valentine glanced up at Ricky and saw him hugging the tree and sobbing.

34

V
alentine reached up and pulled Ricky down beside him. “No more advice,” he said.

Then he stuck his head around the tree and stared at the house. Juan was hitting the rifle with the heel of his palm like it was jammed. The two Cubans he’d sucker punched were on their feet and encouraging Juan to give it up. Juan was having none of it.

“I’m going to get him if it’s the last thing I do,” Juan said.

Again Valentine aimed at Juan. He aimed directly at his heart and started to squeeze the trigger, then hesitated. Killing Juan didn’t change the situation. They had a rifle, and he had a handgun. Any of the other three could pick up the rifle and come after them. Then he had an idea and aimed at the light above the back door. It was illuminating the entire backyard. He fired twice and hit the bulb with the second shot. The backyard turned dark.

He jumped to his feet. “You first.”

With the Doberman nipping at their heels, they ran down a well-worn path. Valentine stopped after a few hundred yards to see if anyone was following them. The only sounds he heard were animals chattering nervously in the forest. With his hand he found Ricky’s arm.

“You okay?”

Ricky swallowed hard. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Who lives nearby?”

“Hank Ridley.”

“Think he’ll let us use his car?”

“If I ask him, sure. Where are we going?”

“To the police.”

Valentine dropped his hand, expecting Ricky to lead the way. But the big lug just stood there and wrestled with something he wanted to say. The words refused to come out, and finally he spun around and took off through the woods.

A minute later they emerged onto a large backyard with a bamboo tiki hut sitting in its center. Hank Ridley’s house sat on the other end of the property, a shingle farmhouse with a brick chimney and large weather vane. An American flag with the stars replaced by a peace symbol hung across the front porch. They crossed the lawn, and a motion-sensitive floodlight momentarily blinded them. Ricky started to climb the steps to the porch, then stopped.

“Hank’s pretty heavy into the reefer, okay?”

Valentine said okay. Potheads didn’t bother him the way drunks did. He guessed it was because he’d had little interaction with them as a cop. Potheads didn’t batter their spouses or fight in bars; they just hung out at home, ate sweets, and melted into the furniture.

Ricky rapped loudly on the front door. From within came the strains of rock ’n’ roll music. Ricky put his ear to the door. “
Dick’s Picks.
Grateful Dead, Tampa, Florida, December 1973. The ‘Here Comes Sunshine’ track on this set was really awesome.”

“What’s
Dick’s Picks
?”

Ricky’s foot was tapping the beat on the porch as if he’d forgotten what had brought them here. “A guy named Dick Latvala collected bootleg Grateful Dead recordings and released the good ones with the band’s permission. There were thirty-one CDs in all.”

“Does Hank have every one?”

“You bet.”

The front door opened, and a marijuana fog enveloped the front porch. A heavyset, bearded man in his late fifties emerged. He was dressed like the last of the Beat Generation and wore ratty shorts and a tie-dyed T-shirt. He seemed oblivious to the chilly weather, and offered the burning joint in his hand to Ricky. Ricky shook his head, and Hank offered Valentine the joint like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“He’s an ex-cop,” Ricky said.

Hank’s bloodshot eyes went wide, and he tossed the joint into his mouth and snapped his lips shut. Then he started to gag like the joint was burning his head off.

“I said ex!” Ricky exclaimed.

Hank swallowed the joint anyway. He smiled loosely at his visitors.

“You into poetry?”

Valentine realized the question was directed at him. “I just started reading Billy Collins.”

“Man after my own heart. I’d invite you in and show you my collection, but there are illegal pharmaceuticals lying around. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.”

“We need to borrow your car,” Ricky said.

Hank dug the keys out of his shorts and tossed them in the air. Valentine grabbed them before Ricky could. He watched Hank spin around and walk straight into the doorjamb with his face. He bounced like he was made of rubber and went inside.

“He always so messed up?” Valentine asked as they walked around back.

“That’s pretty straight for Hank,” Ricky replied.

Hank’s car reeked of reefer. It was an ancient Checker Cab that Hank had bought from a dealer in Chicago over the Internet. The seats reminded Valentine of an old school bus, and he got behind the wheel and fired up the engine. Taking the Glock from his pocket, he laid it on his lap. Ricky made the dog sit on the floor in back, then strapped himself in.

“Tell me how to get out of here.”

Ricky pointed at the gravel driveway. “Go out that way. At the top of the hill, hang a left. We’re going to have to pass my place to go to town.”

“Is that the only way out?”

“In a car, yeah.”

Valentine didn’t like it. If the Cubans were waiting, they might follow them and start shooting. He said, “How far is your place?”

“About half a mile.”

Valentine killed the cab’s headlights and rumbled down the road. The engine sounded like it was about to hit the ground, and he had a feeling that the Cubans would hear them even if they didn’t see them. The road was on a steep incline, and he killed the engine and left it in neutral. The cab rolled silently down the hill.

They passed Valentine’s rental house, then came upon Ricky’s place. The black SUV sat in the driveway, its front end pointing toward the street. Beneath the moonlight Valentine could see exhaust coming out of the muffler.

“That’s them,” Ricky whispered fearfully. “Gun it.”

Valentine considered it. They’d get a jump on the Cubans, but that was all they’d get. Even an SUV weighted down by four men could catch this clunker. He brought the cab to a stop in the middle of the road. Taking the Glock off his lap, he lowered his window and took aim. He thought about putting a bullet through the SUV’s engine, then realized the Glock wasn’t powerful enough to do that.

“Oh, Jesus, can’t we just get out of here?” Ricky said.

Valentine shook his head. He had to assume that the Cubans had scoped out the neighborhood and knew that this was the only escape route. He had to stop them right now or risk never talking to Mabel or chewing out Gerry or changing his granddaughter’s diaper again.

“No,” he added for emphasis.

“You going to shoot them?”

Valentine nodded. “Does that bother you?”

“Yeah. I never bargained for this.”

“You know these guys?”

“Yeah.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Just do as I say,” Valentine said.

Ricky brought his hands up to his eyes. It was something a little kid might do. Valentine turned and stared at the SUV idling in the driveway. He rested his left forearm on the windowsill and balanced the Glock on it. The SUV’s windshield was dark, and he had to imagine where the driver was sitting.

An ember of light appeared. The driver was smoking a cigarette. It made a nice target, and he put it into the Glock’s sight and squeezed the trigger.

The gun barked. Then the SUV’s windshield imploded. As the glass fell inward, the Cubans screamed and dived to the floor. Except for the driver. It was Juan, and he remained strapped in his seat, the burning cigarette glued to his lower lip. The bullet had whacked him in the forehead. Like the boys in the bank, he’d never seen it coming.

Valentine started the cab’s engine and floored the accelerator.

“You can open your eyes now,” he said.