Mr. Lucky

25

Mabel 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.”

Brownie unbuttoned his shirtsleeve and tugged it back to his elbow. His arm was covered in blue-black tattoos of mermaids and battleships. A navy man, Mabel guessed.

Closing his eyes, Brownie stuck his arm into the paper bag and removed a ball. It had the number twenty-three written on it.

“Twenty-three! Call me a genius. Everyone else does!” Little Pete said.

Brownie pulled out two balls at once. Numbers nine and fourteen.

“The daily double! How does he do it? Nobody knows!”

Grinning, Brownie pulled out a fourth ball. Number thirty-five.

“Someone start a religion after this man,” the dwarf said. He stared at Yolanda with a devilish grin on his face. Then he offered her the bag.

“Go ahead, take out the last one. Number forty-seven.”

“But I don’t understand how the trick works,” Yolanda protested.

“That doesn’t matter,” Little Pete said.

Clearly perplexed, Yolanda handed Mabel her sleeping baby, then rose a few inches off her seat and stuck her arm into the paper bag. Suddenly her facial expression changed, and it took a moment before Mabel recognized the look. Yolanda was in the know.

She withdrew her hand and handed Mabel ball number forty-seven.

“How did you do that?” Mabel exclaimed.