Mr. Lucky

26

It was noon when Valentine heard the doorbell ring. He’d decided that renting the house in Slippery Rock was one of the stupidest things he’d ever done. Everyone knew exactly where to find him. The front door had warped from all the rain, and he had to jerk it open. On the stoop stood Sergeant Gaylord. He was in his uniform, hat in hand.

“Sergeant Gaylord. What a pleasant surprise.”

Gaylord shot him an unfriendly look. “I normally don’t work Sundays, but seeing as I’ve got three dead men lying in my morgue, I’m clocking extra hours. Mind if I come in?”

“What’s this about?”

“You, my friend.”

Valentine ushered him into the kitchen and offered him a chair. Then he brewed a fresh pot of coffee with the coffee-maker he’d found in the pantry. He’d never known a cop to refuse a cup of joe, and Gaylord did not let him down. Tempering the drink with several teaspoons of sugar, the sergeant took a sip and winced.

“That’s mighty strong. You a caffeine junkie?”

“Afraid so.”

“Everyone’s got an addiction. Be happy yours is legal.” The sergeant took a bigger sip this time, and it made his eyes widen. “Here’s the deal, Tony. I called around and checked you out. You’re not in Slippery Rock writing your memoirs.”

Valentine guessed Gaylord was the last person in town to figure that out. He said, “Kind of obvious, huh?”

“Just a little.” Gaylord loosened the knot in his necktie. “So here’s the deal. I want you to come clean with me. I need to know why you were in that bank with Ricky Smith. Now, understand, I’m not accusing you of anything. But I need to know the truth. And if I think you’re lying, I’m going to haul you in under suspicion. Understand?”

Valentine nodded. He’d put Gaylord in a bad position by not coming clean with him yesterday. It was disrespectful, and they both knew it. He took a gulp of coffee and told the sergeant the real reason he was in Slippery Rock.

At first, Gaylord didn’t say much. There didn’t appear to be much going on behind his dull green eyes. Small-town cops were notoriously dumb; below-average IQs were a requirement among many police departments, the belief being that someone with brains wouldn’t be interested in sitting in a patrol car all day. Ripping open a pack of gum, the sergeant stuck three sticks into his mouth and began to vigorously chew. When Valentine was finished talking, Gaylord said, “Want a piece?”

“No thanks.”

He put the gum away. “So you think Ricky may be staging all this stuff, making himself look like he’s the world’s luckiest man?”

“That’s my theory,” Valentine said.

“But you don’t have any proof.”

“No, sir.”

“But you have a motive,” he said, working his gum hard.

Valentine shook his head.

“Sure you do. Ricky’s trying to be something that he’s not.”

“What do you mean?”

Gaylord put his cup in the sink, then returned to his chair. “That’s the motivation behind most robberies. The robber wants the money because he thinks it’s going to change him in some life-altering way. It’s his ticket to the big time.”

The coffeepot was still on. Valentine refilled his cup, thinking back to the robbery at the bank. “Sort of like Beasley and the scarecrow.”

“Exactly.”

Gaylord removed a spiral notebook from his back pocket and stared at his notes. “Just before you shot them, Beasley told his partner they were going to be eating cheeseburgers in paradise. That’s a line from a Jimmy Buffet song. My wife is a Parrot Head, has all his CDs.”

“Is that what they call his fans?”

Gaylord nodded. “I listened to the song last night. You know what it’s really about?”

“No.”

“The song is about dreams.”

Valentine sipped his coffee. Mary Alice Stoker had told him that she thought Ricky’s lucky streak and the bank robbery were somehow connected. Now Gaylord was inferring the same thing. He wasn’t seeing the connection and put his cup on the table. “Maybe I’m missing something, but what does that have to do with Ricky Smith winning everything in sight? The bank robbers didn’t act like they knew him.”

Gaylord flipped his notebook shut and slapped it on the table. There was a spark behind his eyes now. “I honestly don’t know. But my gut tells me they’re connected. Beasley and the scarecrow didn’t have arrest records. Something drove them to do what they did.” Glancing at his watch, he said, “My wife is going to kill me,” and pushed himself out of his chair.

“She making you lunch?”

“We’re going out. It’s our anniversary.”

Valentine followed the sergeant outside to his car. Gaylord had his keys out. As he started to get in, an SUV passed on the road. The sergeant watched it like a hawk, then said, “See that car? Brand-new Lexus SUV. Owner is a housepainter. Set him back forty-five thousand bucks.”

“I hear they’re nice cars,” Valentine said.

Gaylord shot him a funny look. “Know how many new cars I’ve seen in the past week? An even dozen. BMW, Mercedes-Benz, Lexus, even one of those crazy-looking Hummers. I’ve worked here sixteen years and never seen that many new cars.”

“Are the people who’re buying them connected?”

“Nope. Just a bunch of locals. They’re going to the bank and taking out loans.”

Valentine felt himself stiffen. They were buying on credit, just like Ricky Smith.

“Not just for cars, either,” the sergeant went on. “People borrowing money to buy plasma-screen TVs and motorcycles and putting additions on their houses. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Slippery Rock was single-handedly trying to jump-start the economy.”

Valentine’s cell phone rang. He took it out and flipped it open. It was Gerry.

“My son,” he told the sergeant.

Gaylord climbed into his car, then lowered his window. He held out a paper bag, which Valentine took from him and looked inside. It contained his Glock.

“Thanks.”

He watched Gaylord drive away and felt himself shiver. He’d come outside without his overcoat and was already regretting it. The old adage was true: People from the north were always cold, people from the south always warm.

“How’s it going?” he said to his son.

“Not so great,” Gerry replied. “I’m still in Gulfport.”

Valentine went into the house and slammed the door behind him. The reception on his cell phone instantly got better. “How much did you lose?”

“What do you mean?” his son said, sounding hurt.

His ass hit the chair hard. Gerry had come into this world kicking and screaming and had been causing headaches ever since. “How much did you lose in the casino? That’s what you’re calling about, isn’t it?”

“No, Pop, it’s not. Three brothers tried to execute me outside Gulfport last night. They’re in the Dixie Mafia. I dumped some logs on them and killed them. I’m staying in Gulfport until the police arrest their father. He’s in the Dixie Mafia, too.”

Valentine felt his heart racing out of control. He could hear real fear in his son’s voice. When he opened his mouth, he heard the same fear in his own.

“Why did they try to kill you?”

“Tex Snyder asked me to help him cheat a sucker. I turned him down. Turns out Tex was working with these guys.”

“You doing okay?”

His son took a deep breath. His voice sounded like it was going to crack. Valentine wished they were in the same room so he could throw his arms around his son’s shoulders and comfort him.

“No,” Gerry said.