Mr. Lucky

5

Watch out!”

Valentine jammed the brake pedal to avoid a barefoot man in ragged jeans picking his way between cars. It was late afternoon, and the single lane of traffic crawling along Key West’s famous Duval Street had halted. The tops of cars gleamed with bright, shadowless light as a storm rumbled in the distance. Newsboys danced in the road along with women hawking flowers and an enterprising guy with lottery tickets trailing from a roll like toilet paper.

The barefoot man stopped in front of Valentine’s rental. Clenched in his fist was a soda bottle. Valentine tensed, guessing it was about to come through his windshield. Instead the man took a swig and, holding his body erect, ignited his breath with a lighter. An orange balloon of flame burst from his mouth. As he started to do it again, Valentine pulled his wallet out and motioned the man over to his window.

“Here,” he exclaimed, stuffing five dollars into the man’s hands. “Now, get out of here before you blow us all up!”

The man sauntered away, barely avoiding a motorcycle weaving in and out of traffic. Valentine shifted into drive and the rental rolled forward a few yards, and then traffic stopped again. He’d killed an entire day traveling from Palm Harbor to Key West, and now watched the sun balance on a cluster of palm trees.

A flower seller tapped on his window. She was Cuban, and in broken English hawked flowers for any occasion: birthdays, young mistresses, even suspicious wives. He smiled for the first time that day. “I’m looking for the Coral House. It’s supposed to be right off Duval.”

She pointed to the next block. The street sign had been covered by a banner announcing a festival that started tomorrow. A dented Volkswagen bus cut in front of him, its rear panel removed to help cool the engine. Raising her voice, the flower seller said, “At the end of that street, hidden behind a big hibiscus hedge, is the Coral House.”

“Gracias, señorita.”

“You want to buy flowers?”

He shook his head.

“Maybe there is a woman you secretly care about,” she insisted, trying to get him to take a handful.

Traffic had finally started to move, and Valentine frowned and drove away.

Valentine had given Gerry and his wife a week’s stay at the Coral House as a present. They had both taken the ban by the Las Vegas casinos hard. Until Yolanda could get back to work, they were existing solely on Gerry’s income. Losing that had put Gerry in a real bind. He was thirty-six years old and, except for running a bar that had fronted a bookmaking operation, had never held down a legitimate job in his life.

Walking up the path, Valentine was happy to see the place wasn’t a dump. The old Victorian two-story had a wraparound porch and rockers that looked like they got plenty of use. The reception area was right inside the front door. A prim little man sat at a desk, drinking herbal tea while balancing his checkbook. Looking up, he said, “Good afternoon.”

“Hello,” Valentine said.

“Are you…Mr. Valentine?”

The guy didn’t look like anyone he’d ever busted. “That’s right. How did you know?”

“The resemblance to your son is remarkable. They’re upstairs, room 7.”

Valentine thanked him and climbed up a winding staircase to the second floor, stopping halfway to admire the black-and-whites of old Key West hanging on the walls, Ernest Hemingway’s grizzled, sunburned face shining out from several. He’d toured Hemingway’s home during an earlier trip and come away impressed. A nice place, but nothing lavish.

Room 7 was at the hallway’s end. He tapped lightly and heard his son say, “It’s unlocked.” He opened the door and went in. Gerry was standing over the bed, attempting to change his two-month-old daughter’s diaper. He looked like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, his daughter kicking and screaming her displeasure.

“Let me show you how to do that,” Valentine said.

It had been Yolanda’s idea to name the baby after Valentine’s late wife. Gerry liked to say Yolanda was psychic, and in this case, she was. The baby had his late wife’s genes: china-delicate features, black hair, and beestung lips. Holding her in his arms, Valentine often found himself feeling incredibly happy and immensely sad at the same time. He tickled his granddaughter’s toes and got her to stop crying, then changed her diaper. When he was done, Gerry lifted her into the air and said, “Grandpa’s a star, isn’t he?”

“I changed her diaper, I get to hold her,” Valentine said.

“Sure. Just promise you won’t bite her.”

“Very funny.”

Handing the baby to his father, Gerry said, “So what’s going on? The way you sounded on the phone earlier, I thought you’d won the lottery until I remembered you don’t gamble.”

Valentine cradled the baby against his chest. He’d decided that grandkids were the greatest thing ever invented. All the fun, and none of the hassle. “I had a unique opportunity presented to me yesterday. It includes you.”

“I’m all ears,” his son said.

Yolanda came out of the bathroom and kissed her father-in-law on the cheek. She wore white shorts and a man’s white cotton shirt and looked stunning. His son had married a wonderful young woman who was a doctor. She also put up with Gerry’s nonsense, which qualified her for sainthood in Valentine’s book.

“Thank you again for giving us this vacation,” she said.

“Yeah, Pop,” Gerry said. “Thanks.”

Valentine handed the baby to her mother and said, “I need to talk to my son. I hope you don’t mind if we disappear for a little while.”

Yolanda gave Gerry the eye. The vacation had obviously agreed with them, and a mischievous look crossed his son’s face.

“Just don’t make it too long,” she said.

His son had always liked scenes, so Valentine was not surprised when they ended up on the pier at the end of Duval Street, watching street performers while the sun set. There were jugglers and buskers and a female contortionist covered with biblical tattoos, but the act attracting all the eyeballs was an emaciated guy with four trained house cats. The cats, all marmalade colored, were as skinny as their owner, and jumped through hoops and rang bells in return for tiny scraps of meat. The animals looked a few breaths away from expiring, and Valentine wanted to buy them a good meal but instead threw ten bucks into the guy’s hat.

“You’re such a soft touch,” his son said as they walked away.

“You think so?”

“That guy drives a Mercedes.”

“Then why is he so thin?”

“That’s his gimmick. People feel sorry for him and the cats. He makes a bundle.”

As daylight faded, the crowd dispersed, leaving Valentine and his son standing at the end of the pier, eating chocolate ice cream cones they’d bought from a vendor. Gerry bit off the end of his cone and sucked the ice cream out of the bottom.

“How would you like to come back and work for me?” Valentine asked.

His son’s head snapped, and melted ice cream ran down his chin. “You serious?”

“No, I just killed a day traveling here to pull your leg.”

Gerry wiped his face with a napkin. “You fix it with the guys out in Las Vegas?”

Valentine nodded. Bill Higgins had offered him a simple deal. Take the Ricky Smith job, and the casino owners would wipe the slate clean with his son, while paying him the biggest fee he’d ever earned. He had a lot of pride, but not enough to turn down a deal like the one Bill had offered him. Gerry tossed his cone into the ocean and threw his arms around him.

“Oh, man, Pop, you’re a lifesaver.”

The dying sun had turned the horizon pink, and long ragged strips of orange clouds were torn across the sky like a poster ripped in half. They left the pier and walked back to the Coral House. Key West had informally seceded from the Union years ago, and colorful Conch Republic banners hung from every tree and storefront.

Streetlights flickered a block from the guesthouse. Valentine stopped at the corner to watch a bicycle rickshaw with two drunk tourists. When it was gone, he said, “Here’s the deal. I need you to go to Gulfport, Mississippi, and talk to a poker player named Tex Snyder.”

“Tex ‘All In’ Snyder?”

“That’s right. You know him?”

“Just from the TV. Won the World Series of Poker twice, considered one of the best Texas Hold ’Em players alive. How’s he involved in this?”

Valentine took a pack of nicotine gum from his pocket and popped a piece into his mouth. Forty-five days without a cigarette and he still hadn’t killed anyone. As the nicotine entered his bloodstream, he felt himself relax. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the guy who won a million bucks at the Mint last week.”

“Ricky Smith, the guy they’re calling Mr. Lucky?”

“That’s him. Bill Higgins of the Nevada Gaming Control Board thinks he might have cheated.”

“You’re kidding. How?”

“I don’t know.”

“So you don’t think he’s cheating.”

Valentine shrugged. “I’ve watched the tape of him playing at the Mint a dozen times. I’m not seeing any cheating. Granted, his play is irregular—he makes some wild bets and seems oblivious to the odds against him—but he jumped out of a burning building, so you can’t expect his play to be normal.”

“How’s Tex Snyder involved in this?”

“Ricky Smith beat Snyder silly. Snyder’s had plenty of time to think about it. I want you to feel him out and see if he thinks he was swindled.”

“What’s Snyder doing in Gulfport? Playing in a poker tournament?”

“You’re psychic.”

“How am I going to get him to talk to me?”

“Charm him.”

A mosquito as big as a bird flew by. Gerry said, “Excuse me for sounding rude, but what are you going to be doing while I’m in Gulfport?”

Valentine popped another piece of the foul-tasting gum into his mouth. Excuse me for sounding rude. That was definitely a new addition to Gerry’s lexicon. Was Yolanda putting him through finishing school and getting him to clean up his manners? Valentine looked his son over. Gerry had lost the annoying earring, and his shirt was recently pressed. Yeah, she sure was.

“I’ll be in a little burg called Slippery Rock, North Carolina,” Valentine said. “It’s Ricky’s hometown. I’m going to do a little digging, see what I turn up.”

“I hope you don’t find anything.”

“No?”

“I’d hate to find out Ricky Smith was a cheater.”

Valentine chewed his gum vigorously. He knew exactly what Gerry meant. Ricky Smith had cheated death, and then he’d gone and cheated the odds. It was the kind of story that people never got tired of hearing, and Valentine hoped he didn’t go to Slippery Rock and discover that Ricky’s halo was really a pair of horns.