Mr. Lucky (14 page)

She escorted him down the empty hallway to the entrance of the school. She walked without a cane, and he thought how nice it was that she worked in a place that her memory still remembered. She stopped a foot before the front door.

“I know this might sound strange,” she said, “but you aren’t the man I expected you to be.”

He stared through the glass cutout in the door. His car looked lonely in the empty parking lot. He tried to imagine how a blind person would envision him.

“Did I live up to your expectations?”

A startled look registered across her face. She reached out, groping to find his arm. Her fingers found his wrist and squeezed it. “I thought you would be some kind of brute,” she said. “I was wrong. You’re a caring man beneath the tough exterior. You can help us.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I most certainly do.”

“Help you how?”

“By straightening out this mess.” With her free hand, Mary Alice made a sweeping gesture. “First Ricky wins all that money in Las Vegas, then he comes home and starts winning lotteries and sweepstake drawings. And then the robbery at the bank. That mess.”

“You think they’re connected?”

She released his wrist. “Yes. I just wish I could tell you how.”

Valentine watched her walk away. Her steps reverberated down the hallway, and when she was safely back in the library, he went outside and started up his car.

24

L
amar Biggs sprung Gerry out of the Harrison County jail at 5:00
A.M
. He was dressed in jeans and a Mississippi State sweatshirt and had a haggard look on his face. Every cop in the place knew him, confirming Gerry’s earlier suspicions that Lamar was not casino security but in fact involved in some area of law enforcement.

“Explain to me what happened during your drive,” Lamar said.

Gerry stared out the windshield. They were on the major east-west artery of I-10, six lanes of superhighway that shot traffic from Florida to west Texas. It was an industrial wasteland, and white dust jumped up from the road with each passing car. He found himself wishing he was back home with his wife and baby daughter.

“Three good ole boys ran me off Highway 49 near the pine-milling factory,” he said. “They had shotguns and were trying to kill me. I got desperate and pulled a lever that said
do not pull.
It released about a hundred logs and killed them.”

Lamar mumbled under his breath. He drove like a New York cabbie, his body hunched forward, his chin a few inches off the wheel. He took an exit and five minutes later pulled down an unmarked dirt road. They came to a handsome, two-story shingle house hidden behind a stand of trees. Lamar pulled up the driveway and killed the engine.

“You live here?” Gerry asked.

“Yeah. I figured it was the safest place to bring you.”

Gerry stared at him. “What am I hiding from?”

“My wife is making breakfast,” Lamar said. “Let’s have something to eat first, and then I’ll explain what’s going on.”

The smell of grilling sausage greeted them as they entered the house. The dining-room table had two place settings, and his host pointed at one of the empty chairs. Gerry dropped into it. Taking out his cell phone, he powered it up and checked for messages. Yolanda and his father had called, both sounding worried as hell. The door leading to the kitchen swung open, and Isabelle, the lady from Louisiana he’d met the day before, entered with two steaming plates of food. She served them, all the while smiling at Gerry.

“I heard you’ve had a rough night,” she said. “Hope this helps.”

Gerry stared down at his plate. Grits, sausage, a pile of scrambled eggs with green stuff mixed in, and two steaming-hot biscuits. That was one of the things he liked about the South. No one was ever on a diet. He dug in.

“Those three boys you killed were the Dubb brothers,” Lamar said, pushing back from the table when he was done. “They’re hit men for the Dixie Mafia.”

Gerry dropped his fork on his plate. “There’s Mafia in Mississippi?”

“Yeah. They’re not Eye-talian. But that’s what they call themselves. You done?”

Gerry nodded, and Lamar stacked their plates and took them into the kitchen, then returned with a pot of coffee. He filled Gerry’s cup without being asked, then his own. Sitting, he said, “Before the casinos came, Mississippi was the poorest state in the Union. Jesse Jackson once likened it to Ethiopia. The Dixie Mafia ran the crime. Mostly drugs, like crank and blow and amphetamines, but also prostitution and small-time gambling. They even sold ruckus juice now and then.”

“What’s that?”

“Moonshine. Then the casinos came. It wiped out their gambling dens overnight. Over time, it began to eat into their other operations, as well. Their customer base started to dry up.” He shook a toothpick out of a container on the table and worked it between his gums. “Now, what I’m going to tell you is not to be repeated.”

“Okay,” Gerry said.

“The Dixie Mafia has infiltrated the Dixie Magic and probably a couple of other casinos in town, as well. They’re stealing a lot of money. It’s their last stand, so to speak.”

Gerry understood the gravity of what Lamar was saying. If word got out that Mississippi had organized crime figures working in its casinos, the state’s gambling business would be ruined overnight. It would affect everything from health care to education.

“How do you figure in this?” Gerry asked.

“I run the enforcement division of the Mississippi Gaming Commission,” Lamar said. “Isabelle and everyone you saw in that room yesterday works for me. My job is to figure out how the Dixie Mafia is cheating the casinos, and put everyone involved behind bars.”

“Wow,” Gerry said.

“Wow is right. Now, I need to ask you a question, and I want you to come clean with me.”

Gerry stiffened. “Sure.”

“What the hell happened between you and Tex Snyder yesterday?”

The truth, Gerry knew, could be your best friend or your worst enemy. It all depended upon how it came out of your mouth. He put his elbows on the table and lowered his voice. “Tex asked me to help him fleece a sucker in a poker game yesterday afternoon. He offered me fifty grand. I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t tempted.”

“But you said no.”

“That’s right. I said no and walked out on him.”

Lamar worked the toothpick between his teeth and gums. “That explains a lot.”

“Why, what happened?”

Lamar smiled thinly. “From what we can figure out, the sucker got lucky and beat Tex for a few hundred big ones. The problem was, Tex wasn’t playing with his own money. He was playing with the Dixie Mafia’s money.”

Gerry felt like he’d been jabbed with a cattle prod. “Did they—”

“Go after him? Oh, yeah. The Dubb brothers beat Tex to within a few inches of his life. He’s lying in the hospital in critical condition. My guess is, Tex told them that you ran out on him and screwed up his scam. That’s why the Dubbs went after you.”

Gerry stared into the depths of his coffee and took a deep breath. If Yolanda hadn’t put his daughter on the phone, he probably would have gone along with Tex and fleeced the sucker. And that would have put him in cahoots with a group of organized criminals.

“Am I a marked man?”

“You are until we catch the last Dubb,” Lamar said.

“There’s another brother?”

“No, he’s the father. Name’s Huck. He was behind the beating of Tex. He let his sons go after you.” Lamar rose from the table, came back with a mug shot. “You can keep this.”

Gerry stared at Huck Dubb’s mug shot. He was in his mid-fifties, wore bib overalls, and looked like a hillbilly with his scraggily beard and visible nose hair. Gerry slipped the picture into his shirt pocket.

“The police are going to need you as a witness,” Lamar said, “so here’s what I’d like to suggest. You can stay here with me and Isabelle. We’ll make sure no harm comes to you, and you can enjoy some more good home cooking.”

“How long are you talking about?”

“Three, four days, tops.”

“That’s all?”

“The law works quick here.”

Gerry considered it. If Lamar’s position with the Gaming Commission was anything like the enforcement directors in other states with casino gambling, he was incredibly powerful. So powerful that he could tell the police to stick Gerry in a seedy motel and watch him round the clock. Offering to put him up was beyond the call of duty. “I’m happy to help,” Gerry said. “I appreciate the hospitality.”

Lamar smiled with his eyes. “There is one thing I’d like to ask in return.”

“You mean there’s a catch to eating Isabelle’s wonderful cooking?”

“Afraid so. The Dixie Magic is getting ripped off badly. I need you to look at all the games, see if you can spot anything. It would really help.”

Gerry took another deep breath. Telling Lamar he was an expert on casino scams had just bitten him in the ass. Would he ever stop lying to people? He doubted it; he’d been doing it too damn long. With his father’s and Mabel’s help, he guessed he could figure out what was going on.

“Be glad to,” he said.

Isabelle did not permit smoking in the house, and Gerry went out behind the garage and lit up. As he brought the match to his face, he saw that his hand was shaking. He’d nearly gotten himself in a whole lot of trouble. But somehow, for some reason, he’d been spared. He wondered if it had something to do with going to confession with Father Tom last month. Coming clean had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. But it was going to be harder to stay clean. He knew that now, and it scared him.

He removed Huck Dubb’s mug shot from his shirt pocket and stared at it. How had Huck reacted when he’d learned his three boys had gone to the big double-wide in the sky?
He’s probably looking for me right now
, Gerry thought.

He powered up his cell phone. He hadn’t talked to Yolanda since killing the Dubbs. He hadn’t known how to explain to her that he’d just killed three men, even though it was in self-defense. He’d disappointed his wife too much to drop this on her. So he decided to wait until he got back home. He knew it was shitty, but it was the only way he could handle it.

25

M
abel unlocked the front door of Tony’s house and was punching the code into the security system when the phone in the study rang. She didn’t like coming in Sunday mornings, but when Tony was out of town, there was no other choice. Casinos around the world did big business on Saturday nights and, as a result, were more susceptible to cheaters than any other day of the week.

The security system accepted the code and beeped. She walked down the hallway to the back of the house. Entering the study, she heard the phone stop, then immediately start ringing again. She guessed the caller was using speed dial to call back and was desperate.

“Grift Sense,” she answered cheerfully.

“Do you do psychic readings?”

It was Tony. She lowered her body into the chair behind the desk. “Just tarot cards and tea leaves.”

“No palm reading?”

“Afraid not. I once had a man read my palm. He told me I had a wet future and spit in my hand.”

She heard him laugh. It was an infectious sound, and she realized that he hadn’t been doing enough of that lately. She guessed it was because of that damn woman in Las Vegas, Lucy Price. Every time Lucy called, it put Tony in a terrible mood.

“Heard from Gerry?” he asked.

“Yolanda talked to him last night,” Mabel said. “Gerry met with Tex Snyder but didn’t learn anything. He was on his way home.”

“Tex didn’t think he was cheated?”

“No,” Mabel said. “Is that bad?”

“It’s the one part of the puzzle that doesn’t make sense. Games can be rigged. But cheating a world-class poker player is different.”

Mabel stopped reading e-mails. “So you think Ricky Smith is a cheater?”

“Let’s say I’m getting warm,” he said.

Tony’s computer sat on the desk, and Mabel scrolled through his e-mail messages. Over a dozen casinos had contacted him since yesterday. Normally, Tony would ask her to read the messages to him. He was more than warm, she decided.

“I need you to take a road trip and do some snooping for me,” he said. “Feel up to it?”

“Today?”

“Yeah. Take Yolanda and the baby with you. Make an outing out of it.”

“Well, aren’t you just filled with wonderful ideas. Next you’ll be telling me to pack a picnic. Now, where exactly am I going?”

“To the land of make-believe,” he replied.

At noon, Mabel pulled out of her driveway in her Toyota Tercel, drove half a block, and pulled up in Yolanda’s driveway. To her amazement, Yolanda came outside a few seconds later, holding the baby in one arm, the car seat in the other. Mabel had never known a new mother to ever be on time to anything. Yolanda strapped the baby in, then jumped into the front seat.

“Let’s roll,” she said.

Mabel stared at her. “Are you auditioning for Super-woman?”

“Why, is something wrong?”

“New mothers are always late. It’s a tradition.”

“I talked to Gerry earlier, and he got me so excited,” she said, a smile lighting up her face. “He’s going to be staying in Gulfport a few more days. The Mississippi Gaming Commission is asking him to help them with a case.”

Mabel backed down the drive. “You sound happy he isn’t coming home.”

“Oh, no. I miss him terribly. It’s just…” Yolanda struggled for the right words. “I’ve always wanted Gerry to be engaged in something. I think working for his father is going to turn out great.”

Mabel handed her a sheet of paper lying on the seat. It was driving instructions she’d printed off an Internet site called MapQuest. Yolanda’s eyes scanned the page. “Is this where we’re going?” she asked.

“Yes. The little town of Gibsonton. It’s about an hour’s drive.”

“What’s in Gibsonton?”

“Carnival people,” Mabel said.

Gibsonton was eight miles south of the interstate and smack in the middle of nowhere. The town barely resembled one, with a few businesses and mom-and-pop restaurants lining a deserted street, and a trailer park at the far end of the road. It was like many central Florida towns—sleepy and small—and Mabel found herself feeling mildly disappointed. She’d loved going to carnivals as a child and had envisioned the town having men walking around on stilts and jugglers on every corner. Yolanda pointed at a building on the other side of the street. A hand-painted sign said
SHOWTOWN BAR & GRILL
.

“Let’s go in there,” she suggested. “I need to change the baby’s diaper.”

Mabel pulled into the lot and parked by the front door. The drive had taken less time than she’d expected, and it was only twelve-thirty. Bars and restaurants weren’t allowed to sell alcohol on Sundays until after one, and she had a feeling that no one would be inside. Maybe they could get a bite to eat and wait for the regulars to arrive.

The Showtown was your average watering hole, with a long water-stained bar and a few tables scattered around the room. It was deserted save for two men—the bartender, a rail-thin man in his sixties sporting a goatee, and a dwarf sitting on a bar stool, nursing a glass of tomato juice. They both said hello.

“Good afternoon,” Mabel said, sidling up to the bar. The backlit mirror was covered with postcards, most of them showing traveling circuses and sideshows. The dwarf courteously removed his hat, and a butterfly flew out of its folds. He cackled with laughter.

“My name’s Brownie, and this here’s Little Pete,” the bartender said. “How can we help you ladies?”

“I was trying to get some information about a carnival that used to run out of Panama City,” Mabel said, “and was hoping one of you gentlemen could help me.”

Little Pete glanced over his shoulder. “Gentlemen? Who walked in?”

“You’ll do,” Mabel told him.

The dwarf smiled and so did the bartender.

“Hey,” Yolanda said from the other side of the room.

Mabel turned from the bar. “What’s wrong, my dear?”

“This door to the ladies’ room isn’t a door.”

The room’s light was poor, and Mabel squinted at where Yolanda was pointing. There was a door to the men’s room, and beside it, a door to the women’s room with a brass plaque. Yolanda was pushing on the women’s room door, but it wasn’t budging.

The baby was crying, her mother losing her patience. Mabel crossed the room, assuming the door was locked. Only when she was a foot from it did the illusion stop. It was a painting. The shadowing and detail were so exact, it tricked the eye into believing it was a door.

“It’s around the corner,” Brownie called out.

“What a bunch of practical jokers,” Yolanda said under her breath, hurrying away.

Mabel saw the men at the bar smiling at her. Little Pete pointed at her head.

“Your hair,” he said. “It’s come undone.”

Mabel touched her hair. She liked to wear it up. She saw the dwarf pointing at the mirror on the far wall. She went to it and stared at her reflection. A startled sound escaped her lips. Her reflection wasn’t there. But everything else in the room was.

She reached out and touched the mirror. It was another illusion made from paint. The room’s furnishings were faithfully reflected in it, including the mop bucket on the floor and the silver napkin dispensers on the tables.

“I’m impressed,” she said, looking at the two men. Brownie’s smile said he was the culprit, his eyes laughing. She started to cross the room, and Little Pete pointed at the floor.

“Watch out!”

Mabel looked down at the open manhole, complete with toppled cover. She instinctively stopped and touched the cover with her foot. Another painting. She shook her head in amazement. It didn’t matter that she knew it was a fake. Her brain still told her to be careful, and she gingerly stepped over it to the delight of the two men.

Back at the bar, she slapped the water-stained counter. “I think that deserves a drink. How are you in the ginger ale department?”

Brownie found a ginger ale in the cooler and poured it into a tall glass filled with ice. “On the house,” he said.

“What do you call these paintings?” Mabel asked, taking a long drink. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Trompe l’oeil,” he replied. “That’s French for ‘trick of the eye.’ They keep things lively. Hope we didn’t offend you and your friend.”

“Not at all,” Mabel said. “I like to be fooled.”

Brownie and Little Pete were both retired sideshow performers, and they talked about their lives when Yolanda returned and joined Mabel at the bar, the baby sleeping in her arms.

Brownie called the sideshow a detour of shock and wonder. He and Little Pete had crisscrossed the country with circuses and carnivals for more than forty years. Brownie had started as a teenage clown, making himself up with shaving cream and lipstick. Little Pete informed them that he personally hadn’t needed any makeup.

“As I got older, I became a talker,” Brownie went on. “That’s the guy who stands outside the tent and prods the crowd, called the tip, to buy a ticket. We used to have a bally—that’s a small stage—where one or two acts would perform for free to get the crowd’s attention. I also acted as a gazoony. That’s the guy who put up and took down the show.”

“You must have been awfully busy,” Mabel said.

“When I was working, I slept five hours a night. I loved every minute of it.”

Mabel removed a piece of paper from her pocket. It had her notes from her phone conversation with Tony. She pretended to consult them. She had a feeling that Brownie would talk all day if she let him. “Did you ever run across a carnival out of the Panhandle?” she asked. “It was run by a family of gypsies. This was about twenty years ago.”

Little Pete said, “Could be the Schlitzie carnival. They were gypsies.”

“They were criminals,” Brownie said. “Ran crooked games and stole money from people left and right.” He looked at Mabel. “That who you looking for?”

Mabel glanced at her notes. Tony had said the gypsies had brought Ricky Smith into their fold when he was a teenager, and taught him the tricks of their trade. She couldn’t think of anything more harmful for a young man.

“Yes, I think so,” she said.

“They were bad eggs. If I remember correctly, the mother and father got deported, and the carnival disbanded. This was about—”

“Fifteen years ago,” Little Pete said, having captured the butterfly beneath a glass. Taking his cap off, he deftly picked the glass up off the bar and shook the butterfly out. It landed in his cap, which he immediately placed on his head.

“How long do they last?” Mabel asked.

“This one’s going on six weeks,” the dwarf said.

Mabel consulted her notes. Tony had been fooled by a lottery drawing and had decided that the method was something that Ricky Smith might have learned during his carnival days.

“Last question,” she said. “A friend of mine was fooled by a lottery he saw. He thinks the drawing was rigged. It used Ping-Pong balls.” She looked up at Brownie and Little Pete. “Does this ring any bells?”

“Ping-Pong balls?” Little Pete said. “Did she say Ping-Pong balls?”

“I believe she did,” the bartender replied.

Little Pete jumped out of his chair and onto the bar. His balance was off, and he nearly fell, then instantly righted himself. Mabel guessed there was more than tomato juice in his glass. She watched him run down the bar to the end. He grabbed a brown paper bag sitting on the top of a refrigerator. He kept his back to her, hiding his actions. When he returned, he was holding the bag in his outstretched hands.

“Take a look inside,” he said, “and tell me what you see.”

Mabel peeked inside the bag. Yolanda looked as well. The baby hadn’t made a sound, God bless her. The bag was filled with white Ping-Pong balls. Each one had a number printed on it in block lettering. Little Pete shook the bag for effect.

“All right, ladies and little girl, I want you to watch close. My dear friend Brownie is going to pull five balls out
with his eyes closed
. And I, the all-knowing, all-seeing Little Pete, am going to tell you which ones before he does. Ready?”

Mabel looked at Yolanda. “You watch his left hand, I’ll watch his right.”

“Got it,” the younger woman said.

“The numbers nine, fourteen, twenty-three, thirty-five, and forty-seven. Those are the numbers which Brownie will pull from the bag. Nine, fourteen, twenty-three, thirty-five, and forty-seven.”