Mr. Lucky

34

Valentine reached up and pulled Ricky down beside him. “No more advice,” he said.

Then he stuck his head around the tree and stared at the house. Juan was hitting the rifle with the heel of his palm like it was jammed. The two Cubans he’d sucker punched were on their feet and encouraging Juan to give it up. Juan was having none of it.

“I’m going to get him if it’s the last thing I do,” Juan said.

Again Valentine aimed at Juan. He aimed directly at his heart and started to squeeze the trigger, then hesitated. Killing Juan didn’t change the situation. They had a rifle, and he had a handgun. Any of the other three could pick up the rifle and come after them. Then he had an idea and aimed at the light above the back door. It was illuminating the entire backyard. He fired twice and hit the bulb with the second shot. The backyard turned dark.

He jumped to his feet. “You first.”

With the Doberman nipping at their heels, they ran down a well-worn path. Valentine stopped after a few hundred yards to see if anyone was following them. The only sounds he heard were animals chattering nervously in the forest. With his hand he found Ricky’s arm.

“You okay?”

Ricky swallowed hard. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Who lives nearby?”

“Hank Ridley.”

“Think he’ll let us use his car?”

“If I ask him, sure. Where are we going?”

“To the police.”

Valentine dropped his hand, expecting Ricky to lead the way. But the big lug just stood there and wrestled with something he wanted to say. The words refused to come out, and finally he spun around and took off through the woods.

A minute later they emerged onto a large backyard with a bamboo tiki hut sitting in its center. Hank Ridley’s house sat on the other end of the property, a shingle farmhouse with a brick chimney and large weather vane. An American flag with the stars replaced by a peace symbol hung across the front porch. They crossed the lawn, and a motion-sensitive floodlight momentarily blinded them. Ricky started to climb the steps to the porch, then stopped.

“Hank’s pretty heavy into the reefer, okay?”

Valentine said okay. Potheads didn’t bother him the way drunks did. He guessed it was because he’d had little interaction with them as a cop. Potheads didn’t batter their spouses or fight in bars; they just hung out at home, ate sweets, and melted into the furniture.

Ricky rapped loudly on the front door. From within came the strains of rock ’n’ roll music. Ricky put his ear to the door. “Dick’s Picks. Grateful Dead, Tampa, Florida, December 1973. The ‘Here Comes Sunshine’ track on this set was really awesome.”

“What’s Dick’s Picks?”

Ricky’s foot was tapping the beat on the porch as if he’d forgotten what had brought them here. “A guy named Dick Latvala collected bootleg Grateful Dead recordings and released the good ones with the band’s permission. There were thirty-one CDs in all.”

“Does Hank have every one?”

“You bet.”

The front door opened, and a marijuana fog enveloped the front porch. A heavyset, bearded man in his late fifties emerged. He was dressed like the last of the Beat Generation and wore ratty shorts and a tie-dyed T-shirt. He seemed oblivious to the chilly weather, and offered the burning joint in his hand to Ricky. Ricky shook his head, and Hank offered Valentine the joint like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“He’s an ex-cop,” Ricky said.

Hank’s bloodshot eyes went wide, and he tossed the joint into his mouth and snapped his lips shut. Then he started to gag like the joint was burning his head off.

“I said ex!” Ricky exclaimed.

Hank swallowed the joint anyway. He smiled loosely at his visitors.

“You into poetry?”

Valentine realized the question was directed at him. “I just started reading Billy Collins.”

“Man after my own heart. I’d invite you in and show you my collection, but there are illegal pharmaceuticals lying around. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.”

“We need to borrow your car,” Ricky said.

Hank dug the keys out of his shorts and tossed them in the air. Valentine grabbed them before Ricky could. He watched Hank spin around and walk straight into the doorjamb with his face. He bounced like he was made of rubber and went inside.

“He always so messed up?” Valentine asked as they walked around back.

“That’s pretty straight for Hank,” Ricky replied.

Hank’s car reeked of reefer. It was an ancient Checker Cab that Hank had bought from a dealer in Chicago over the Internet. The seats reminded Valentine of an old school bus, and he got behind the wheel and fired up the engine. Taking the Glock from his pocket, he laid it on his lap. Ricky made the dog sit on the floor in back, then strapped himself in.

“Tell me how to get out of here.”

Ricky pointed at the gravel driveway. “Go out that way. At the top of the hill, hang a left. We’re going to have to pass my place to go to town.”

“Is that the only way out?”

“In a car, yeah.”

Valentine didn’t like it. If the Cubans were waiting, they might follow them and start shooting. He said, “How far is your place?”

“About half a mile.”

Valentine killed the cab’s headlights and rumbled down the road. The engine sounded like it was about to hit the ground, and he had a feeling that the Cubans would hear them even if they didn’t see them. The road was on a steep incline, and he killed the engine and left it in neutral. The cab rolled silently down the hill.

They passed Valentine’s rental house, then came upon Ricky’s place. The black SUV sat in the driveway, its front end pointing toward the street. Beneath the moonlight Valentine could see exhaust coming out of the muffler.

“That’s them,” Ricky whispered fearfully. “Gun it.”

Valentine considered it. They’d get a jump on the Cubans, but that was all they’d get. Even an SUV weighted down by four men could catch this clunker. He brought the cab to a stop in the middle of the road. Taking the Glock off his lap, he lowered his window and took aim. He thought about putting a bullet through the SUV’s engine, then realized the Glock wasn’t powerful enough to do that.

“Oh, Jesus, can’t we just get out of here?” Ricky said.

Valentine shook his head. He had to assume that the Cubans had scoped out the neighborhood and knew that this was the only escape route. He had to stop them right now or risk never talking to Mabel or chewing out Gerry or changing his granddaughter’s diaper again.

“No,” he added for emphasis.

“You going to shoot them?”

Valentine nodded. “Does that bother you?”

“Yeah. I never bargained for this.”

“You know these guys?”

“Yeah.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Just do as I say,” Valentine said.

Ricky brought his hands up to his eyes. It was something a little kid might do. Valentine turned and stared at the SUV idling in the driveway. He rested his left forearm on the windowsill and balanced the Glock on it. The SUV’s windshield was dark, and he had to imagine where the driver was sitting.

An ember of light appeared. The driver was smoking a cigarette. It made a nice target, and he put it into the Glock’s sight and squeezed the trigger.

The gun barked. Then the SUV’s windshield imploded. As the glass fell inward, the Cubans screamed and dived to the floor. Except for the driver. It was Juan, and he remained strapped in his seat, the burning cigarette glued to his lower lip. The bullet had whacked him in the forehead. Like the boys in the bank, he’d never seen it coming.

Valentine started the cab’s engine and floored the accelerator.

“You can open your eyes now,” he said.