Mr. Lucky

22

Gerry’s insistence on not giving a statement until he had a lawyer did not sit well with the two highway patrolmen who appeared on the scene ten minutes later. The three dead men were locals; Gerry was a New Yorker recently transplanted to Florida. One of the patrolman wagged a finger menacingly in Gerry’s face.

“You better start talking, boy,” he declared.

“Not until I have a lawyer,” Gerry said.

So they cuffed his wrists and threw him in the back of their cruiser and eventually drove him to the Harrison County jail. On the way they passed several sprawling industrial plants and a refinery. The patrolmen continued to give him a hard time, and Gerry lowered his head and stared at the floor. His father had once told him that cops usually followed their first impressions. He obviously hadn’t made a good one here.

The jail was three stories of generic yellow brick topped by razor wire. Inside, the patrolmen turned Gerry over to a tobacco-chewing plainclothes detective in a three-walled cubicle. The detective asked questions—current address, date of birth, arrest record—while hawking gobs of spit into a trash can. Gerry felt his stomach turn over.

“So you’ve been arrested for selling drugs,” the detective said.

“Pot. When I was a kid. It was a little bag.”

“How little’s little?”

“A quarter ounce.”

“Where was this?”

“Atlantic City. It’s where I’m from.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen-year-olds in Mississippi drive cars and get married,” the detective said.

Gerry got his drift. The detective told him to stand up. They walked down a corridor to where fingerprinting equipment was shoved into a corner. The detective unlocked Gerry’s handcuffs and did his prints, rolling each finger carefully on the inkpad and then on the form. Then he did them again in weird groupings; four fingers together, both thumbs, until Gerry’s fingers were so black he couldn’t see the nails. The detective gave him a paper towel and a plastic spray bottle and led him to the bathroom.

“Don’t be long,” he said.

“How long’s long?” Gerry asked him.

Gerry thought he saw the detective crack a smile. Next stop was the mug-shot room, which also served as the snack room. The detective bought a Butterfinger bar from the candy machine while Gerry got a front and side shot taken by a techie.

“I need you to e-mail those shots to me,” the detective said.

“I’m kind of backed up,” the techie said.

“This can’t wait. I need to send them to the NCIC.”

The techie shot Gerry a look. “Okay,” he said.

Gerry was back in the detective’s cubicle when he remembered what NCIC stood for. National Crime Information Center. The tobacco-spitting detective was going to send his prints and mug shot to a law enforcement database to see if Gerry was wanted for any other nefarious deeds. He glanced at the clock hanging from the wall: 3:00 A.M.

“How long is this going to take?” Gerry asked.

The detective was staring at his computer screen like a kid stares at a test with questions he’s never seen before. Without looking away, he said, “Depends if I can ever get this stuff to send. Once they get the information, who knows? They get pretty backed up on weekends.”

“Give me a hint.”

The detective’s head jerked away. “One more wiseass remark out of you, and I’ll toss you in the holding pen.”

Gerry felt himself uncontrollably shudder. The holding pen on a Saturday night would consist of the worst scum Gulfport had to offer. With the way his luck was running, someone in there would be related to the three guys he’d just killed.

“Sorry.”

The detective grunted and resumed looking at his computer screen.

“I don’t want to be a jerk, but you haven’t let me call a lawyer,” Gerry said.

“That’s because there ain’t no lawyers working on Saturday night,” the detective said, spitting in the trash. “First thing tomorrow morning, you can call as many lawyers as you want.”

Gerry had not seen the detective take the tobacco out of his mouth before eating his candy bar. He felt like he was going to get sick again. He needed some fresh air and something cold to drink. But most of all, he needed to stop feeling scared.

“Can I call a friend in town?” Gerry asked.

“Who’s that?”

“Lamar Biggs.”

The detective turned from the computer. The look in his eyes was pure disbelief. Gerry sensed that he had crossed some imaginary line, and hurried to explain. “I did a job for him today. The Dixie Magic is having a problem with some employees stealing chips. I explained to his crew how the scam is working. That’s what I do.” He pointed at his wallet sitting on the detective’s desk. “My card’s in there.”

The detective took out his business card and read it. “You did a job for Lamar?”

“That’s right.”

“Why the hell didn’t you say so?”

Valentine awoke from a deep sleep to hear his cell phone ringing in the kitchen. The luminous clock beside his bed said 3:00 A.M. The only reason people called at night was because something awful had happened. He pushed himself out of bed.

Walking was a struggle. With age came certain dependencies. Eight hours of sleep a night was one of them. He sat down at the kitchen table and picked up his cell phone. His head felt like a balloon, and he stared at the phone’s face. The caller ID said UNKNOWN. Gerry, he decided. His son called whenever he felt like it.

“What’s up,” he said by way of greeting.

“Tony? Is that you? Oh God, I’m so happy you finally answered your phone.”

It was Lucy Price. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Are you still there? Please don’t tell me you hung up.”

“If I hung up, I couldn’t tell you,” he said.

Lucy laughed shrilly, and he realized she’d been drinking. The cold metal of the phone seeped into his hand. He could not talk to Lucy without seeing her face. She bore a strong resemblance to his late wife, who he missed more than anyone in the world. So he’d allowed himself to get to know her. A stupider mistake he’d never made.

“I had to call you. I’m sorry if I’ve bothered you,” she said.

His eyes went wide. Now she was laying on the guilt.

“What do you want? What’s wrong?”

“How did you know something was wrong?”

“Because it’s three in the morning,” he said, his voice rising.

“Oh God, you’re right. I always get the time change mixed up. A terrible thing happened today, and I just needed someone to talk to. You have been so…supportive.”

More guilt. Raised Catholic, he could ferret out the guilt in every sentence. He leaned back in the chair. “I’m listening.”

Lucy loudly blew her nose. “I went to the Holsum Bread building today to buy bread, and there’s this cashier I’ve gotten friendly with named Ashli. Real nice girl. Ashli says, ‘Well, it’s been nice knowing you, Lucy. We’re closing down.’ I went and got the manager and he confirmed it. The building is being converted into upscale condos called Holsum Lofts. I went out to my car and started crying.”

“Because they’re closing down the bread company?”

“Yes.”

“So buy your bread someplace else.”

“This is different. This is the Holsum Bread company.”

Then Valentine remembered. During a trip Valentine took to Las Vegas, a Nevada Gaming Control Board agent had taken him by the Holsum Bread building on West Charleston. The agent had explained that this was where every down-and-out Las Vegas gambler bought day-old bread to feed themselves and their families. If they were really desperate, the agent said, they got free two-day-old bread from the Dumpster in back.

“I know it sounds pathetic,” she went on, “but Holsum was a last resort. No matter how bad things got, you could always go there and get bread. And now they’re going to replace it with a chichi high-rise.”

She blew her nose again. He realized that was all she wanted to tell him. He stood up and cleared his throat. She’d lost everything in the past month—her money, her car, and probably her freedom—and he wondered if she’d finally hit bottom. Was Lucy finally ready to come to grips with her life?

“Maybe it’s a sign,” he said.

“What is?”

“The Holsum Bread building being torn down.”

“A sign from who?”

He thought about it and said, “From God.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“No,” he said. “You’ve hit the end of the line, Lucy. You need help. You always thought you could still buy bread and feed yourself, but that option is gone. God is telling you this is it. Take his advice and get some help.”

“But—”

“No buts. Just do it. And don’t call me until you do.”

“But I’m going to court in a few days. I’m afraid.”

Valentine felt something as big as a baseball catch in his throat. He wanted to help her; only, helping people didn’t work when they refused to help themselves. Sometimes, it actually made things worse.

“Good-bye, Lucy,” he heard himself say.