Redemption (17 page)

The woman who was about to get more than she bargained for peered over the top of her glasses. “Your chart says Simon Harrison.”

“Anybody hunting me knows where I am. No use hiding behind a fake name.”

Not at twitch, not a flinch, just a slight forward lean, her “favorite aunt” to Walter’s “favorite uncle” stance. Which pretty much guaranteed Lucky would run off at the mouth for the next ten minutes. “Okay, Mr. Lucklighter.”

“Lucky, call me Lucky.”

“Okay, Lucky. Tell me what I need to know to help you.”

Where to start? When did his life go to hell? “I was a punk kid, fresh off the farm. Stole cars and resold them. I stole the wrong one and wound up with a choice: work for a crime boss or disappear.” On his knees, staring up at Victor Mangiardi for the first time, ready to kiss his ass goodbye. Victor let him live, gave him a job, shared his home and bed, and later, planned a life for them. If Victor’d gotten his way, even now they might be basking in the sun on a beach somewhere, enjoying the high life.

But then Lucky wouldn’t have Bo.

“I found myself on his payroll and in his bed for the next few years. He trafficked drugs until we got busted.”

No surprise, no squirming. “
You can trust me! Tell me anything!”
the doctor’s open, honest expression said.

Lucky never made a habit of trusting. But hell, nothing he told her couldn’t be dug up—with a high enough security clearance and access to Southeastern Narcotics Bureau files.

“I testified against Victor in court, and for years I thought he’d killed himself after the judge handed down a life sentence. Now, I’m not sure what happened. Turns out his nephew put a hit on him. There’s a chance he made a deal with DEA and is still alive.” Damn, South Bend Springs, soap opera extraordinaire, had nothing on the twists and turns of Lucky’s life.

“Are Victor and his nephew why you’re using an assumed name?”

“Partly, them and others. I made a deal too. The judge gave me ten years. I spent two in prison, then got recruited to work off the other eight with the SNB, rounding up folks like me, and sharing the tools of my old trade.” Patient old Walter always treated him like any other member of the team, even turning a blind eye to Lucky’s cockiness.

No, that wasn’t right. Walter set Lucky apart, but never treated him as less. He expected more of Lucky because Lucky was capable of more. Plain and simple. Funny how those things just now occurred to him.

“I did my time, my boss arranged a fake death, and now I’m Simon Harrison. I met my partner on assignment. I’ve told you about Bo.”

One side of the woman’s mouth twitched, the closest she’d come to a smile all afternoon. “You might have mentioned his name a time or two, along with Cyrus Cooper’s.”

Two thousand might be more accurate. “Yeah. Well, he’s more than my work partner.”

Not a flinch from the doctor. Her upper lip curled into the barest hint of a smile. “I guessed that part.”

She had? “How?”

“I deal with law enforcement personnel daily, Sim—Lucky. While I’m used to them praising their partners, they rarely wax poetic. Especially about dimples.”

Wax poetic about Bo and The Dimple? Lucky? “I do not!” Well maybe. Sometimes.
Gotta watch that.
It was a really cute dimple, though, and rarely seen as of late.

In talking about Bo, he didn’t have to talk about himself. “He’s getting a hold on Cyrus. Still acts like him from time to time, but is more of himself lately. Going undercover as someone else for a year plays hell with your mind.”

“I’m glad he’s doing better. You’ve made it clear how much his well-being is important to you. You were telling me about your past, and how you met. What brought you here? Why did the department send you?”

“Oh, yeah.” So much for stalling. “Anyhow, Victor’s asshole nephew dragged me and Bo to Mexico, and I killed a man, so here I am.” Lucky rolled his shoulders and stared at the woman who’d turned showing no emotion into an art form. “Bet you wish hadn’t asked.”

***

He spilled his guts all right, an hour with the shrink and twenty minutes in the men’s room. Who knew that a soul-puke came with an automatic gut-puke? But best to get every-damn-thing out at once.

He’d gone through the wringer, been tossed over the line to dry, and had to pull himself together and act civilized in forty minutes.

Lucky sought out the nearest Starbucks.

***

“Sign wherever you see arrows, and initial all boxes, please.” The last time Lucky’d sat in an attorney’s office he’d been heading to prison. Now he’d do time of another sort—to a mortgage.

He picked up a pen and signed away the next thirty years of his life. His head pounded and his nerves jangled. Shoulda known better than to order full caf and real sugar after too much time on decaf and stevia.

“Did you bring the cashier’s check?”

Lucky reached into his billfold and extracted the costly paper he’d gotten from the credit union. “Are we done?”

“Yes, we are.”

The Realtor smiled for the first time in Lucky’s presence since the day they’d met. “Congratulations, Mr. Harrison, on your new home. This envelope contains keys, the garage remotes, and two remotes to the subdivision entry gate.”

Lucky took the package and shook hands with the attorney and the woman.

“I’ll bet you’re going straight over there, aren’t you?” she asked.

“No. I got somewhere else to go first.”

***

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” the redhead who’d once followed Lucky around on Walter’s orders said.

“Why not? You’re in electronics and surveillance, right? I want to see if you can break into a house.”

The guy eyeballed Lucky with too much suspicion for one so young. “And whose house do you want me to break into?”

“Mine.”

Two hours later the redhead handed Lucky a list. “Okay. Change the locks, reprogram the garage door opener, and have a talk with property management about the gate. It took a junior techie less than five seconds to break their code system. The windows are all contacted, so a monitored security system shouldn’t set you back too much.”

Would there ever come a time when Lucky didn’t have to check over his shoulder?

Lucky watched the guy leave and called Walter. “Boss, I need to ask you something.”

“Ask away.”

“Stephan’s trying to make something out of me and Bo being together, and Bo thinks it’s best if we stay apart. What do you say?”

Walter remained silent for a few moments. “He’s been living with you, hasn’t he?”

“Not at the moment. As soon as you got that call he hauled ass to a hotel.” Damn it all to hell.

“Does he have a home or apartment in his name?”

“Not anymore.”

“Is there proof of him living with you?”

“His mail comes to my house.” Fuck. If Lucky’s head hadn’t been spinning he’d have worked out the damning evidence himself. He’d once taught Bo how to track folks. Now they were the ones being tracked.

Again Walter quieted. Lucky visualized wheels turning in the man’s mind. After a long pause, Walter said, “If I hadn’t told you, what would you do?”

“Continue to live together.”

“Then that’s the best course of action. Don’t act like guilty men with something to hide. Keep doing as you’ve always done, but stay above reproach.” Walter’s breath wafted over the phone. “I don’t think I need to remind you about the DEA fiasco.”

“No, sir. But what does sex parties with prostitutes paid for by Columbian cartels have to do with me and Bo?”

“The media has the public set up to look for corruption among agents. Please tell me you didn’t accept gifts from anyone in Mexico. If you did, say so now. I have no intention of stepping down due to scandal, like the recent DEA director.”

“Nestor returned Bo’s property that Stephan took.”

“Did you accept money from Stephan or Nestor?”

“Nestor, no. And Stephan kept me broke. He doled out just enough for me to eat off when I was working.” Hell, Lucky hadn’t even drawn a wage.

“Bo kept account of his earnings and expenses. He turned over $20,000 dollars in wages from Stephan.”

Twenty thousand dollars? Damn, Lucky hadn’t even thought to ask about Stephan paying him. “What do we do now?”

“Continue your normal routine. Attend therapy as policy dictates. And Lucky?”

“Yeah?”

“It’ll be all right. We’ll get through this.”

Easier to believe if Walter risked losing as much as Lucky and Bo.

***

How was a guy supposed to celebrate a new house with his lover while keeping the house a secret? Not to mention the damper of Lucky’s conversation with Walter.

At one time Bo had wanted to be seen in public as a couple, now he worried. No telling what went on in his mind. If they were going to live together, time for Lucky to take the plunge.
Don’t act like guilty men with something to hide,
Walter had said.

Kissing in the middle of Walmart might be a stretch, and earn Lucky a kick in the shin from Bo, but he could surely manage dinner.

A nice dinner was what Johnson advised. She hadn’t steered him wrong—yet. At least Bo agreed to meet at Lucky’s even if the man used taking Moose for a walk as an excuse.

What was wrong with the heater? Lucky cranked up the dial. The Camaro spit out cold air. He turned the heater back off. Something else to get fixed. And he wasn’t getting a rental and letting a shade tree mechanic work on his car. He’d keep driving until the wheels fell off—the Lucklighter way. Only, his new neighborhood didn’t allow retired vehicles up on cement blocks, a common sight in Lucky’s hometown.

He’d cross that bridge when he got there, and not a moment before.

He skipped up the front steps and stopped on the porch. Down, boy. Couldn’t let Bo see his excitement and figure something was up. At a more normal gait, he opened the door and stepped into the living room.

“Hey.” Bo lay sprawled on the couch, Cat Lucky on his chest and Moose lying beside him on the floor. He wasn’t on his e-reader, he wasn’t watching TV, he was just idly stroking Cat Lucky with one hand, Moose with the other, and gazing off into space. Not good. His clothes appeared slept in, and his faded T-shirt might as well have said, “I don’t give a shit”.

Lucky forced a smile. At least most of Bo’s things were here. “Get dressed. We’re going out to dinner.”

“What? Dinner? You want to go out in public? Risk being seen by someone from work? Are you sure we oughta do that?”

“Don’t I look sure?” Yes. No. Maybe. The best way to get used to being seen as a couple was… to be seen as a couple. Now Bo didn’t want to be seen as a couple, thanks to Stephan Fucking Mangiardi. Damn, Lucky’s brain hurt. “I spoke to Walter. He said hiding now would make us look guilty. That we need to act like nothing happened.”

Bo scowled. “You’re making that up.”

“No, I’m not. Go on, call him.” Wow, did Bo actually believe Lucky would lie about such a thing?

While Bo took a shower Lucky rambled through his closet to the very back. A blue button down shirt and not-too-badly-wrinkled khaki pants was as far as he went toward dressing up—without a direct order. He blew the dust off a pair of loafers that didn’t pinch his feet nearly as badly as he’d made out the last time Walter forced him into business casual for a meeting.

Once dressed, he paced back and forth in the living room like a pimple-faced teenager on a first date. Why so nervous? To burn off energy, he sat down and ripped open a packing box. Dragons. Lots and lots of dragons. The bookshelves in the living room of the new house were a perfect place for Bo’s collection. Tonight. He’d tell Bo about the house over dinner.

The bedroom door clicked open. Bo strode into the living room, buttoning his shirt cuffs.

Whoa! Didn’t the man clean up nice? He’d even shaved. Lucky’d gotten used to the scruffy look. But if Bo planned to banish Cyrus Cooper, or at least confine him until needed, looking the part might help.

“Sure you ain’t ashamed to be seen with me?” Even cleaned up, Lucky was no prize.

“Why? Did you forget to do a nose and zipper check?”

Yep, he had. Lucky dashed back into the bathroom.

“I was just kidding.”

Still, it didn’t hurt to check. Lucky didn’t like jokes he wasn’t in on, and having his zipper at half-mast without a snappy comeback ready could be embarrassing. Of course, “The hooker on my street died” worked last time.

“Where are we going?”

“Where’d you like to go? And no, I’m not pulling the car over for you to graze in some field.” The average houseplant would have withered under the heat of Bo’s gaze. Good. Last time the lame joke hadn’t even gotten a response.

“Italian?”

“Yeah, that works.” Lucky had become familiar with a good Italian place during Bo’s rehab stay. He slipped on his jacket while Bo did the same. Bo waited on the porch for Lucky to lock the door and take Moose over to Mrs. Griggs.

Bo’s truck and Lucky’s car sat side by side in the driveway. Bo rattled his keys. “We should take my truck.”

“What’s wrong with my car?” If they took the truck, Bo got to drive, and they’d get to the restaurant. Eventually. Ten bucks said he’d never broken a speed limit in his life.

“Aren’t you afraid the seats will dirty up our nice clothes? Not to mention that whole ‘starts three times out of five’ thing.”

“Hey! It’s not that bad.” The Camaro’s seats were torn and stained, yes. A little. Okay, more than a little. Duct tape helped. Lucky screeched the driver’s door open. Time for a shot of WD-40. He climbed in and turned the key in the ignition.
Rrrrrrrr
… click, click, click.

Bo opened the passenger door, stuck his head in, and frowned. “I’ll go get a gun and put the poor thing out of its misery.”

Lucky tried the engine again. It fired to life. He smiled. “Get in.”

“Do I have to?”

“I’ll blow you.”

“You will anyway.”

Lucky whipped his head around. What? Bo wanted a blow job? Keeping a straight face and resuming an old argument with the expected words wasn’t easy. “Won’t.”
Yes, I will! Right here, right now. Drop your pants.

Bo grinned. “Yeah, you will.”