Mr. Lucky

12

Slippery 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.