Mr. Lucky (24 page)

“You know what this means?” Gaylord asked.

“It’s how you rig a horse race,” he said.

43

T
hey left Stanley Kessel’s house at one-thirty. Valentine had Gaylord drive to the Off-Track Betting parlor where Ricky had picked winners the day before. In the backseat of the car was the garbage bag of used lottery tickets they’d found inside the house. Gaylord was convinced that it was evidence, and Valentine was too tired to argue with him. Ricky had bought a bunch of tickets, found a $50,000 winner, and re-covered the scratch-off spots with a similar-looking substance. There was no crime in that.

They stopped at an all-night convenience store and got coffee. It was really strong. When their cups were empty, Valentine explained to Gaylord why the tickets weren’t evidence. This time, the sergeant got it.

“So where does that leave us?” Gaylord asked when they were back on the highway.

“We need to find evidence that Ricky scammed the OTB parlor. Otherwise, we don’t have a case.”

They did not speak for the rest of the drive. Valentine had dealt with a lot of brilliant criminals, and Stanley Kessel was heading for the top of the chart. He didn’t leave meaningful clues, or evidence that would hold up in court. That was the difference between the average criminal and the pro. The pros rarely went to jail.

They crossed the state line and pulled into the OTB parlor’s parking lot. A low-slung car was parked in the back of the lot. The vehicle was rocking to the beat of love, and Gaylord pulled a flasher off the floor and stuck it on his dashboard. He turned it on while hitting his siren. Two half-dressed adults bounced up in the seats.

“Make him take you to a motel,” the sergeant yelled out his window.

The car sped away. Gaylord parked in front of the parlor and killed his headlights. Valentine got out and walked to the front door. He stood on his tiptoes and tried to see the roof. The moon was taking a powder behind some clouds, and he couldn’t see anything. He returned to the car and asked Gaylord for a flashlight.

“It’s in the trunk. I’ll pop it for you.”

Valentine walked around to the trunk and took out the flashlight. He twisted the light on and walked up to the front door. Shining the light on the roof, he ran the beam back and forth several times. He saw only one antenna. He went back to the car.

“Mind if I climb on the hood of your car? I need a better vantage point.”

“Go ahead. But take your shoes off, okay?”

Valentine slipped his shoes and socks off and climbed onto the hood. This time, he focused the flashlight’s beam on the spot where the antenna was. A thick black wire protruded from the roof. He swore and climbed down.

“They beat us here,” he said, getting in the car.

“They destroyed the evidence?”

“Yes.” He punched the dashboard and watched the indentation slowly vanish. It was a perfect metaphor for what was happening. He knew how Ricky had scammed every single game, and he couldn’t prove a damn thing. “I need more coffee.”

“You think that’s going to make you think better?” Gaylord asked.

“Yes.”

“You think there’s something you missed?”

“Maybe.”

“Why don’t you sleep on it? Maybe in the morning—”

“By tomorrow they’ll have destroyed every piece of evidence there is. If you want to pack it in, I’ll drive you home.”

“I was only suggesting—”

Valentine turned sideways in his seat. “Suggest something else.”

“Like what?”

“Like a solution.”

“What do you mean?”

“How would you handle this case if it was yours?”

Gaylord chewed it over all the way to the convenience store. Valentine had decided that the guy wasn’t stupid, just stuck in a crummy system that wouldn’t let him use his brains for anything besides typing reports. As Gaylord pulled into the lot, he slapped the wheel.

“Got it,” he said, a triumphant smile on his face. “We go after the woman who helped Ricky with the blackjack scam. She’s an accessory. Stick the computers we found at the house under her nose and turn the steam on.”

Valentine found himself smiling. Out of the mouths of babes and police sergeants came the most amazing things. He tried to recall the woman at the blackjack table. White hair and cigarettes was all he could pull up. She’d passed Ricky dozens of signals. That took hundreds of hours of practice. And trusting your partner. Only, that had to come naturally.

“She’s a relative,” Valentine said.

Gaylord stared at him. “You think so?”

“Positive.”

“That first cup of coffee must still be working.”

Sitting in the convenience store’s parking lot, Valentine called Bill Higgins at home on his cell phone. Normally, he tried not to call Bill at home and ruin his evenings. In the end, it was only casinos’ money they were talking about, and usually that could wait until the next day. But this was different. He had to assume that Ricky had contacted the woman who’d helped him cheat at blackjack and alerted her to what was going on. Bill needed to grill her, before she had a chance to work on her story.

“Her name is Helen Ledbetter,” Bill said.

“You know her?”

“I interviewed her last week. She’s a retired bookkeeper, used to work for the casinos. You really think she was involved?”

There was real doubt in Bill’s voice. Had Helen Ledbetter served him coffee and something to eat and won him over? She’d rehearsed her role in the scam and probably rehearsed being interviewed by a policeman as well.

“Let me put it another way,” Valentine said. “She’s the only lead we have. And if you can’t link her to Ricky Smith, we don’t have a case.”

“And I’ll probably end up losing my job,” Bill said.

“Correct.”

“I’ll need a search warrant,” Bill said. “Considering I don’t have any evidence, I’m going to have to do some tap dancing before a judge. This is going to take time.”

“How much?” Valentine said.

“Give me until early tomorrow morning.”

Valentine filled two sixteen-ounce Styrofoam cups with coffee and walked to the front of the convenience store. Gaylord was shooting the breeze with the manager, a turbaned Middle Easterner with a permanent smile plastered on his face. As Valentine put the cups on the counter, he saw Gaylord glance at the doughnuts sitting in a cardboard box beside the cash register. What did marketing people call that? Point of purchase. Valentine picked up a napkin and plucked a pair oozing with purple jam.

“These too,” he said. “My treat.”

“Would you like some cigarettes?” the manager asked as he rang up the items.

“How did you know I smoked?”

“Sergeant Gaylord said you were a policeman,” the manager replied.

“Do all cops smoke?”

“All the ones that come into my store do.”

“I’m trying to quit.”

“Nicotine gum perhaps?”

Valentine threw up his arms in defeat. The manager’s smile grew, and he added a package of nicotine gum to his items. Taking out his wallet, Valentine extracted a ten-dollar bill and handed it to him. As he waited for his change, he glanced at his money. He was running low and would need to find an ATM soon. He took the change from the manager and tucked it into his billfold, then noticed a piece of paper he hadn’t remembered seeing before.

He pulled it out and stared at Ricky’s racing slip from the OTB parlor. Printed on it was the date and time of the race and the three winning horses Ricky had picked. Ricky had wagged the slip in his face, then left it on the seat of the car. Valentine guessed he had subconsciously known the slip would come in handy and had stuck it into his wallet. Putting the slip to his lips, he kissed it.

“Did you win the lottery?” the manager asked excitedly.

“Close enough,” Valentine said.

44

H
uck and Arlen Dubb were driving across the Florida Panhandle when Arlen said he had to pee. It was growing light, and they were on a desolate stretch of highway called I-10. The highway bisected the northern part of Florida and stretched into two time zones. They had left Gulfport four hours ago and hadn’t pulled over once, Huck fearful of being seen by some rent-a-cop who had nothing better to do than look for wanted criminals.

“Can’t you hold it in?” Huck asked.

“Nuh-uh,” Arlen said.

Forty-eight years old, and Arlen’s brain had never grown past the second grade. Huck reminded himself of that every time he got angry with Arlen. Huck picked up the thermos off the seat and poured the last of Grandma’s iced tea out his window. Handing it to his younger brother, he said, “Do it in this. It will save time.”

Arlen scrunched his face up. “Nuh-uh.”

“Why not?”

“I gotta do both.”

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

“Didn’t want to.”

Huck reined in the urge to curse him. He pushed the car over the speed limit. After a minute a sign flashed by. Rest stop, two miles.

“Hold on, little bro,” he said.

Arlen had his pants undone before he was out of the car. He ran to the brick building that housed the restrooms and hit the door hard with his shoulder, then disappeared.

Huck got out and stretched his legs. His ass felt like it had melted and become part of the car seat. He walked around the grounds and saw a bunch of signs planted in the grass. One was a welcome from Jeb Bush. Another said a twenty-four-hour guard was on duty. He looked for the guard, didn’t see him, then looked for the guard’s car. The lot was empty. It didn’t feel right.

He walked down a concrete path to the edge of the building, lit up a cigarette, and in the flame’s temporary light stared across the grounds. A police cruiser materialized before his eyes. It was sitting in the shadows beside the exit. Was the cop hiding, or taking a snooze?

Huck got back into his car and tapped his fingers on the wheel. The cop hadn’t put his lights on. Maybe he was asleep. Or hadn’t seen them. Or didn’t care. Arlen came out a few moments later munching on a candy bar and hopped in.

“Put your seat belt on,” Huck said.

Huck pulled out of the rest stop and got on the highway. He put the car up to the speed limit but didn’t go over it. A minute later a car appeared in his mirror. Then another, the two vehicles driving side by side. They’d been spotted.

He floored his accelerator. He watched the two cars disappear from his mirror, then glanced at the dashboard. He was flying at one hundred miles per hour. Arlen clapped his hands like a seal.

Up the road a few miles was a suspension bridge that Huck thought was the prettiest man-made thing he’d ever seen. It hung over a steep valley of trees and rushing water. Passing over it, they would go from the Central time zone into the Eastern. No police would be on it—too risky for a roadblock. The roadblock would be on the other side. Flashing lights appeared in his mirror. In the distance, but gaining.

“You see the bridge that’s coming up ahead?” he said.

Arlen nodded enthusiastically.

“There’s going to be a roadblock on the other side. Cops. I’m going to have to ditch the car. You remember what to do if that happens?”

“Cops?”

“Yeah. You want me to tell you again?”

“No, I remember.”

“You sure?”

Arlen’s head bobbed up and down. Huck steered with one hand and dug out his wallet. He tossed it to Arlen and saw him dig for the money and his credit cards.

“Leave me some,” Huck screamed at him.

“How much you want?”

Damn little shit, already acting like everything in the wallet was his.

“Enough to get by,” Huck said.

The suspension bridge loomed in his windshield. It looked eerie at night. During one of his moonshine runs years ago, he remembered thinking that by crossing it, he was actually going back in time. A lot of crazy thoughts had gone through his head. Like all the things he’d do differently with his life, if he had the chance.

He hit the bridge doing one ten. Halfway across he put his brights on. There was no roadblock on the other side. He felt a momentary sigh of relief and relaxed his foot on the accelerator. Then he saw the faint outline of four cruisers parked sideways on the highway. They were a half mile up the road. He wondered why they’d picked that spot. Maybe they’d been fearful that some redneck would come burning over the bridge and plow right into them. In his mirror the cruisers behind him were gaining. He looked at his brother. “Hold on to something.”

Arlen wrapped his arms around his chest.

“Not yourself, you idiot. Hold on to the car!”

Arlen grabbed the door handle. Up ahead, the cruisers simultaneously turned on their headlights and their bubbles, the highway awash in light. Huck flashed his brights at them. When he was close enough to see their faces, Huck spun the wheel to his left and jumped onto the grass median. It was risky: Parts of the median had deep culverts, but it was a chance he had to take.

He heard the tires grind on the dirt. He flew past the roadblock and saw the flash of a shotgun blast. It missed them. Sons of bitches couldn’t hit an elephant.

His right rear tire exploded, and the car sagged to one side. He jerked the wheel to his right and got back on the highway. In his mirror he could see the cops jumping into their cruisers and giving chase. He guessed he had a minute on them.

“I’m going to ditch the car,” he said. “I’m going to run one way, you run the other.
Don’t run after me
.”

“I won’t,” Arlen said.

“Do you remember what to say if the cops nab you?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Arlen tapped his finger on his skull. “I got it burned in my brain.”

Two thousand miles away, Helen Ledbetter climbed out of bed and threw her bathrobe on. For thirty years, she’d risen every morning at six-thirty and gone to work. Being retired, she’d expected her inner clock to start letting her sleep in. So far, it wasn’t cooperating.

She ate a bowl of sugar-coated cereal. A couple of times she glanced at the phone on the counter. The little red light was blinking, indicating she had a message. She muted the ringer when she slept, and sometimes forgot to turn it back on. She’d put her name on the National Do Not Call Registry, but sneaky telemarketers found clever ways to call her. “We’re conducting a survey,” was the usual opening line. Or the company was one she “did business with” and wanted to let her know about a “special offer.”

When she was finished eating, she put her dishes in the sink, then punched the play button on the phone.

“Aunt Helen, this is Ricky calling,” her nephew said. “I’ve got some bad news. A detective the casinos hired is onto us. He’s here in Slippery Rock. It’s only a matter of time before he figures out the blackjack scam.”

Her rump hit her chair hard.
“No,”
she said aloud.

“You have to run,” her nephew went on.

“No,”
she shouted at the phone.

“I’m going to wire you five thousand dollars. It’s the last of my money. You need to get out of Las Vegas. I’m sorry to be telling you this.”

Helen Ledbetter’s vision went blurry. Five thousand dollars? Ricky had promised her more than two hundred thousand dollars. She’d gotten brochures for everything she wanted to buy and spread them across the living-room floor. One night, she’d even danced in front of them.

“Call me when you get this. Please.”

She felt paralyzed and stared at the answering machine. Ricky had said it
couldn’t
go wrong. And what was the harm of taking money from a casino? They swindled their patrons all the time with false promotions.

Finally she found her legs and walked into the living room. The brochures were stacked in a neat pile on the coffee table. She’d put Post-its on the pages that contained the things she wanted to buy. Taking the brochures into the kitchen, she threw them into the trash compactor while cursing silently to herself.

She was packing a suitcase when she heard a car’s wheels on the driveway. She went to the window and parted the curtains with her fingers. Light streamed out, and she saw two middle-aged men in a black Impala. The one behind the wheel was familiar-looking. As he got out, she realized it was Bill Higgins, the director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board who’d interviewed her.

She ran to the hall closet and pulled out the purse with the miniature camera she’d used to scam the Mint. The camera was sewn into the purse, so it couldn’t accidentally fall out if dropped. Ricky had told her to throw the purse off the Hoover Dam. Helen had agreed but hadn’t done it.

She ran into the kitchen and shoved the purse into the trash compactor. The front doorbell chimed. She hit the button and went to the back door. The second man was standing on the stoop.

“No, no, no,” she shouted at him.

His cold eyes met hers. He put his silver badge to the glass. “Please let us in,” he said politely.

Helen ran back into her bedroom and locked the door behind her. Ran around the room with her hands on her head. She knew what they did to cheaters in Nevada; she’d seen it countless times in the casinos she’d worked in. They dragged them into court in handcuffs, convicted them, and put them in prisons like Ely, which were living hell. Cheating a casino was a felony because you were also stealing from the state. The average sentence was four and a half years.

She heard her back door being kicked in. Sat on her bed and cried.

“Ms. Ledbetter,” Bill Higgins said through the door.

“Go away!”

“Ms. Ledbetter, please open the door.”

She was going to federal penitentiary. She would live in a cell and do what other people told her to. She was seventy-three years old and was going to lose her freedom. She could not imagine a more horrible fate.

She went to the room’s rear window. It faced west and looked out onto the desert. Every day she took a long walk in the desert, even when it was hot as an oven. It cleared her head and gave her thoughts a special clarity. And now she was going to lose that.

“Please, Ms. Ledbetter,” Bill Higgins said.

There was a shelf above the window. She took the revolver from it and pressed the barrel to her temple. Squeezing the trigger was not nearly as hard as she’d imagined.