Mr. Lucky (7 page)

11

V
alentine found instant coffee in the cupboard, boiled water, and fixed himself a mug. It tasted horrible, but that was okay. Not every cup was going to be perfect.

He sipped his drink while thinking about Lucy Price. He’d met her by accident while doing a job in Las Vegas. She was a degenerate gambler and not the kind of person he normally gravitated to. Only, Lucy had ignited a spark in him; an emotion he’d thought long-dead had flickered to life. So he’d given her some money and tried to help her.

She’d taken the money and gone on a gambling bender. First she was up—at one point, her winnings had totaled more than a hundred fifty thousand dollars—then down, then up again. Feeling invincible, she went to the Bellagio and blew it all on the hundred-dollar slot machines. The casino’s staff treated her like a princess and showered her with attention until her money ran out. Then, they turned a cold shoulder.

Devastated, Lucy got her car from the valet and drove away. Five blocks from the casino, she jumped a concrete median on Las Vegas Boulevard and broadsided a rental car filled with British tourists. One died.

Lucy was arrested and charged with vehicular homicide. Her trial was scheduled to begin in a few days. She was facing hard time and was terrified of going to prison.

Valentine put his empty mug into the sink and stared out the window at the forest behind the house. Giving Lucy money had been a terrible mistake. He’d set into motion a series of events that could not be fixed. It was a nightmare he couldn’t wash from his mind.

At precisely eight o’clock, he powered up his cell phone. He hated his cell phone almost as much as he hated screaming brats on airplanes. But he had to use one to stay in business. To compromise, he turned his phone on only at certain times of the day. So far, it seemed to be working out okay.

He had a message in voice mail. It was Gerry, the prodigal son. He hoped Gerry’s trip to Gulfport was going okay, and that he hadn’t gone and done something stupid. His son had been doing stupid things since early adolescence. Gerry believed there was such a thing as a fast buck, and two months ago, that belief had nearly cost him his life. Gerry swore he’d learned his lesson, but Valentine had a feeling that only time would truly tell.

“Hey, Pop, guess what?” his son’s voice rang out. “I think I got us a new client. It’s a floating casino in Gulfport called the Dixie Magic. I met the head of security last night. I sort of went out on a limb and said I’d help him nail some employees who are stealing from him. Problem is, I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”

Valentine swore into the phone. Didn’t Gerry know not to go around bullshitting people like that? The casino business was small. If Gerry got caught with his pants down, every casino manager from Atlantic City to Reno would hear about it.

“So here’s the deal, Pop. The money
isn’t
being stolen from either the hard-count or soft-count rooms. Lamar, the head of security, has cased them both. So it has to be coming off the tables. They only have one craps table and one roulette wheel, but more than sixty blackjack tables. My guess is, it’s coming off a blackjack table.”

“Brilliant,” Valentine said.

“The shuffling procedures here are pretty rigid, and the players can’t touch their cards, so the cards probably aren’t being manipulated. That leaves an employee either stealing chips from the tray, or stealing chips from other players. That’s as far as I’ve gotten. So I was wondering…would you mind calling me and giving me some hints of what to look for? I’d really appreciate it, and so would Lamar.”

Valentine took the cell phone away from his ear and stared at it. What about Tex Snyder? Had Gerry bothered to locate him yet? Wasn’t that why he’d sent Gerry to Gulfport? He angrily dialed his son’s cell number.

“Hello…”

“Get out of bed,” Valentine said.

“Pop, is that you?”

“No, it’s an impersonator. Rise and shine.”

“It’s an hour earlier here,” his son protested. “It’s still dark outside.”

Valentine told himself to calm down. His son had gotten a new client. That was a good thing, so why was he barking at him like a junkyard dog? Because he’d been pissed off since Lucy Price had entered his thoughts, and needed to vent his anger on someone before he popped a blood vessel and had a stroke.

“Sorry,” he heard himself say.

“No, that’s okay,” Gerry replied, sounding more awake. “I need to get up and call Yolanda. Thanks for calling me back.”

“You’re welcome. You said in your message that the Dixie Magic is losing money to insiders. Based upon what you told me, I have a couple of theories of what’s going on. Get something to write with. I’ll tell you everything you need to know to help your friend Lamar.”

“Great. Did I tell you I think he wants to hire us?”

“Yeah,” Valentine said. Then added, “Good going.”

Valentine had decided that the Dixie Magic was getting ripped off by chip scams. They were practically undetectable and a favorite among employees looking for quick money. So he spent twenty minutes explaining to his son how they worked.

Before casinos had surveillance cameras in the ceiling, dealers who wanted to steal chips simply handed off a stack to an accomplice while paying off a winning bet. So long as the boss wasn’t looking, the theft was invisible.

Then, eye-in-the-sky cameras had come along. Part of surveillance’s job was to watch dealers paying off customers. If an overpayment or “dumping” was detected, the dealer was terminated on the spot and often prosecuted.

But some cheating dealers had gotten clever and devised techniques to steal chips while fooling the cameras. Valentine had seen many during his years policing Atlantic City’s casinos. They were like magic tricks. They happened in front of your nose; only, you couldn’t see them, unless you knew what to look for.

He spoke in a slow, relaxed tone to his son, pausing occasionally when he thought Gerry was getting behind. His son was smart; he’d just never applied himself. Someday, Gerry would start using the brains God gave him, and the world would be a better place.

“That pretty much covers it,” Valentine said. He heard the unmistakable clicking of poker chips on the line. “What are you doing? Practicing?”

“Got a stack of ten green chips right here,” Gerry said proudly. “It’s amazing how deceptive these scams are.”

Green chips were worth twenty-five bucks apiece. His son didn’t have two nickels to rub together, and was traveling on money his father had given him.

“What are you doing with those chips?” Valentine said.

“Pop, it’s not what you think.”

“You’re supposed to be hunting down Tex Snyder, remember? Come on, Gerry, get with the program.”

The line grew silent.

“That woman out in Vegas still calling you?”

Valentine rubbed his face with his hand. “Yeah. Is it that obvious?”

“She’s got you climbing up the walls,” his son said. “She’s a stalker, Pop. You need to get your cell number changed. Maybe she’ll get the hint and leave you alone.”

The front doorbell rang. It was a cheap sound, as if someone had replaced the bell with a joy buzzer. He told his son good-bye and got off the line.

Valentine recognized Ricky Smith the moment he opened the front door. Ricky’s picture had been splashed across every TV news show in the country: a sloppy, boyish grin offset by eyes always looking somewhere else. He was a self-professed geek who liked to eat junk food and as Valentine stepped onto the front stoop, Ricky stuck out a big paw of a hand and said, “Welcome to the neighborhood. My name’s Richard Smith, but everyone calls me Ricky. I live two houses away.”

“The guy with the loud music,” Valentine said.

Ricky flashed a sheepish smile. “Yeah. Hope it didn’t keep you up.”

“Only half the night. You like the blues?”

“I like Stevie Ray Vaughan,” Ricky confessed. “Lucky for me, Stevie Ray recorded just about everything—rock, blues, rockabilly, surfer music, acoustic—so it never gets tiring.”

“Except for your neighbors,” Valentine said.

Ricky let out a laugh that caused his whole body to shake. On the surveillance tape from the Mint, he had acted like a zombie, and no emotion had registered on his face as he’d beaten the casino silly. In real life he was playful and animated, with the face of a kid who’s just gotten caught stealing a cookie out of a jar.

“So, listen,” Ricky said, “I wanted to invite you to the May Day Annual Fair. It’s being held down at the local high school. There’s lots of good food, and exhibits from the school, and it’s a great way to meet your neighbors.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah. It goes on all day. I’d be happy to drive you.”

Valentine considered the offer. He needed to meet people in town, and establish who he was, and put them at ease when he came around later and started poking his nose where it didn’t belong. Only, something was wrong with Ricky’s offer. Guys didn’t drive the welcome wagons in most neighborhoods. Women did. Ricky was up to something. Valentine saw him look at his watch.

“They’re having a drawing at the fair at eleven,” Ricky explained. “You can’t claim the grand prize if you’re not there.”

“What is it?”

“An all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii.”

“Think you’re going to win?”

Ricky took out his wallet and removed a brown ticket with five numbers printed on it. “I bought this ticket before I went out to Las Vegas and won a million bucks. I figure if I’m going to win that trip, now’s the time.”

Valentine looked at the numbers on the ticket, then into Ricky’s pale blue eyes. Ricky made it sound like a given. Valentine realized his neighbor was challenging him. That was why he’d come to the house and rang the bell. He’d found out who Valentine was and why he was visiting Slippery Rock. He wanted Valentine to see it himself and decide.

“Let me get my jacket,” Valentine said.

12

S
lippery Rock High School was a rambling one-story structure nestled behind a stand of poplars and pines. A colorful banner announced that today was the May Day Annual Fair, Come One, Come All. The parking lot was nearly full, and as Ricky parked his Lexus in the last available space, he explained how different buildings had been added on as local townspeople had passed away and willed their money to their favorite departments.

“It’s sort of a tradition,” he said, killing the engine.

For a long moment they sat silently. In the nearby woods, a deer with two fawns lifted its head to stare at them. Its mouth was full of leaves, and it munched away, convinced they posed no threat.

“Which department are you going to will yours to?” Valentine asked.

“The art department. It was the only class I ever really liked. I wanted to be a commercial artist, but my parents drummed it into my head that it was a bad career choice.” He looked at his watch, then popped open his door. “Better hurry. The drawing is in five minutes. Don’t want to miss winning the big prize.”

As Valentine followed him across the lot, he remembered Mabel’s remark about Ricky running from one game to another at the Mint, like he was on some kind of timetable. It had sounded suspicious as hell; only, what if he really was on some kind of lucky streak? Wouldn’t there be some type of urgency behind it?

Going inside, they walked down a long hallway scuffed by years of running kids and into a gymnasium with a raised stage at one end of the room. It was filled with hundreds of people huddled around exhibit tables that had been pushed against the walls. On the other end of the room, volunteers sold hot dogs and hamburgers at the cafeteria’s food stations, with all the proceeds benefitting the school. Ricky tapped the face of his watch.

“Made it with a minute to spare. You want something to eat?”

“A drink would be fine,” Valentine said, following him over to the food stations. A stern-faced woman wearing a hairnet smiled at Ricky as they approached. Without having to be told, she took an Orange Crush soda from a chest and said, “What will your friend have?”

“Diet Coke,” Ricky said.

Valentine felt his face burn and watched the woman take out a sixteen-ounce bottle of his favorite drink and unscrew it with a twist. How had Ricky found that out? He’d been in the newspapers a lot the month before; probably one of them had mentioned it after they’d run out of interesting things to say. Ricky had really done his homework.

“Thanks,” Valentine said to the woman.

The sound of someone tapping a finger on a microphone shushed the room, and everyone turned to face the stage. In its center stood a guy in his mid-thirties wearing a carnival barker’s outfit: porkpie hat, paisley bow tie, and a red sports jacket that looked a size too small for his lean, angular body. He spoke with a loose smile on his lips.

“Good morning, folks, my name’s Vernon Hudsinger,” the barker said.

“We know what your name is,” someone in the crowd called out.

“I bet you do! It’s my privilege to officially welcome you to the annual Slippery Rock May Day Fair. Sorry for the cloudy day, especially after this rotten winter. Which is why the grand prize of this year’s festival drawing is most appropriate. A week’s paid vacation at the fabulous Mauna Kai resort on the beautiful island of Oahu. Let’s give a big Slippery Rock thank-you for the folks at Tripp Travel for donating this fabulous prize.”

Half the people in the cafeteria clapped their hands. The other half stomped their feet. The sound reminded Valentine of a hockey game. It lasted for about three seconds, and then everyone stopped on cue. Then there was a hush and everyone started laughing.

“What did I miss?” Valentine said.

“It’s an old tradition,” Ricky said.

“Now,” the barker continued, “let’s get this show on the road. I’m sure all of you know how this works. Our own town librarian, Mary Alice Stoker, is going to come out with a paper bag filled with Ping-Pong balls. I’m going to roll up my sleeve, and stick my hand down inside that bag, and pull out five Ping-Pong balls. Each Ping-Pong ball has a number printed on it. If the five numbers I pull out match the five numbers on your ticket—and remember, they can be in any order—you win the grand prize. If no one hits five, the person who has four numbers wins, or three, or two, or I just do it over. Although I don’t think that’s ever happened before.” He stepped back, and through the backdrop said, “Hey, Ms. Stoker, we ever have a do-over before?”

“Not that I can recall,” a voice behind the stage called out.

“So there you go,” the barker said. Walking to center stage, he pulled off his jacket as Mary Alice Stoker made her appearance to a smattering of applause. The librarian was white-haired, smartly dressed in a floor-length dress, and had perfect posture. Holding a brown paper bag between her hands, she was the picture of small-town grace.

Vernon dropped his jacket on a nearby chair, then rolled back his sleeve. For effect he wiggled his fingers, and a bunch of people in the crowd laughed. “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “let me introduce my helpers. Come on out, kids.”

Five kids who couldn’t have been more than ten came trotting out and got a huge round of applause. The boys wore ties and jackets, the girls Sunday dresses, their hair done up in bows. Standing in line, they smiled nervously at the audience as video cameras whirred.

“Ready, kids?” Vernon said. “Okay, here’s the first number.”

Sticking his hand into the bag, Vernon shut his eyes and swished his hand around for a moment, then pulled a Ping-Pong ball out and handed it to his first helper. The little boy stared at the Ping-Pong ball.

“Tell them the number,” Vernon whispered to him.

“It’s a number six,” the boy said loudly.

The kid’s parents burst into applause. Ricky, who’d been swigging his soda and laughing at everything Vernon had said, pulled his ticket from his pocket and shoved it a foot away from Valentine’s face.

“One down, four to go,” he said.

Valentine stared at the six in the center of the five numbers. He looked back at Vernon and saw him pull a second Ping-Pong ball from the bag. Valentine’s eyes were still pretty good when it came to distances, and he saw the number on the Ping-Pong ball clearly. It was a twelve. Valentine stared at the twelve on Ricky’s ticket.

“I’m so hot I’m steaming,” Ricky said.

The next number was twenty-three. It was also on Ricky’s ticket. By the time the fourth and fifth numbers were drawn, Valentine had already accepted that Ricky was going to win. It was obvious he and his friend had rigged the game, and the locals were too naive to realize it.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Valentine said when Ricky raised his hand to acknowledge he had won the jackpot.

Ricky’s face turned bright red. He lowered his arm stiffly, the winning ticket clutched between his fingers.

“Are you accusing me of cheating?” he said loudly, drawing stares.

“Tone it down.”

“Are you?”

“I sure am,” Valentine said through clenched teeth. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“No, you were born five hundred years ago,” Ricky shouted at him. “The people in Las Vegas sent you, because they don’t believe I won my money legitimately. They think I’m a cheater. They don’t believe in luck. And when someone comes along who is lucky, they try to destroy him.”

People were staring and acting uncomfortable. Ricky pointed at the stage. “We’ve been holding that drawing since before I was born. No one cheats. You think there’s something smelly going on, come up and prove it.”

The crowd parted, and Ricky marched up to the stage. Valentine felt angry stares rain down as he followed him. They climbed the stage together, and Ricky addressed the five little kids. One at a time, they came over and handed Valentine the Ping-Pong balls they were holding.

“Here you go, mister,” the last little kid said.

Valentine examined the five balls. They appeared normal. He went over to the librarian and peered down inside the bag. Easily a hundred Ping-Pong balls were inside of it, and he pulled out a handful and stared at the numbers printed on them. Each number was different. He compared them to the five winning balls in his hands. They were the same size and had the same smooth texture, ruling out Vernon somehow being able to pull them out by touch from the bag. That was how the scam
had
to be done; only, no evidence supported it. The five winning balls were exactly the same as the others. He glanced at the librarian, wanting to ask her a question, and saw her stare right through him. He felt a catch in his throat. She was blind.

“So, what do you say?” Ricky asked, standing next to the barker on the other side of the stage. “Is the game clean, Mr. Valentine?”

“Yes,” Valentine said.

“Could you say that a little louder? I don’t think everyone could hear you.”

Valentine shifted his gaze to the audience. He was ready to swallow his pride and tell the hometown crowd that he’d spoken out of turn and that the game wasn’t rigged. But then his eyes fell on the camera crew standing in the front. The crew consisted of a cameraman, a soundman, and a breathless female reporter with her hair tied in a bun. He hadn’t seen them from the back, and saw the soundman point a large mike in his direction.

Valentine exited stage left and within seconds was behind the safety of a curtain. He heard Ricky exhort the crowd into another raucous Slippery Rock cheer. They clapped and stomped their feet, mocking Valentine all the way to the parking lot, where he stood in the cold, wondering how he was going to get back home.