Mr. Lucky

46

It took McFarland an hour and ten minutes to call every person in the stack of faxes. When he was done, he was sweating through his clothes. In between calls, he’d admitted he had a twenty-two-year-old mistress in L.A. who visited him in Las Vegas twice a year.

Valentine was sitting on the edge of the desk. Once, he’d gone to the door and glanced into the waiting room at the gang of little tykes and their mothers waiting to be seen. It had made him that much angrier at the guy. Long ago, he’d accepted that there were people in the world who were rotten to the core. He just didn’t want them to be people who dealt with children. He saw McFarland hang up the phone.

“That’s the last one,” the doctor said.

Valentine remained where he was. McFarland looked around the room. A frightened look crossed his face when he realized Gaylord had left to take a leak.

“Stop looking at me like that,” McFarland said, tugging on his collar.

“How am I looking at you?”

“Like I was something you scraped off your shoe.”

“I want you to tell me something.”

“I did what you asked. Get out of my office.”

Valentine came around the desk and put his hand on the back of McFarland’s chair. Before the doctor could protest, Valentine spilled him onto the floor, then put his foot to the small of his back.

“What do you want?” McFarland said, his face kissing the wood.

“I want to know what kind of doctor you are.”

“I’m a pediatrician.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I’m a good doctor. I just screwed up.”

“Think you’ll screw up again?”

“No, no. Never.” He looked at Valentine with one eye. “I promise.”

“While you’re cleaning up your act, lose the mistress.”

McFarland started to protest, then caught himself. “Okay.”

Gaylord came into the room, rolled his eyes, and immediately walked out. Valentine lifted his foot and followed the sergeant outside to the car.

They went to the town’s only stationery store, and Valentine bought a package of colored construction paper, a marker, and a box of colored thumbtacks. He had Gaylord drive him to Ricky Smith’s place while he made signs. Each one said MEETING INSIDE HOUSE/LET YOURSELF IN AND TAKE A SEAT. He finished as Gaylord pulled into Ricky’s drive.

“Make yourself scarce until a few minutes after eleven,” Valentine said, opening his door.

“You want me to come inside?”

“No. Just park out in the street. And have a couple of deputies pull their cars behind yours.” He had one foot on the drive and hesitated. “One other thing. Do you have a spare badge I can clip on my shirt? I think it will help.”

Gaylord searched his glove compartment, then removed his own from his wallet and tossed it to him. “Make sure you give it back, okay?”

“No problem. I like being retired.”

He hopped out and walked toward Ricky’s house. At the first tree in the driveway, he stopped and thumb-tacked one of his signs. He heard the sergeant call his name and turned to see him parked in the street, his window down.

“No rough stuff, okay?”

“What’s your definition of that?”

Gaylord shook his head and drove away. Valentine tacked the rest of the signs around the property, saving the last for the front door to Ricky’s house. Then he went around to the back and let himself in through the kitchen. He took the kitchen chairs and put them in the living room, then rearranged the couch and chairs in a semicircle. Hopefully, anyone who came in would feel at home and take a seat.

He left through the back door and walked across the backyard to his house. At the back door he found Ricky’s cat waiting for him. He bent over, and it jumped into his arms. He’d never been fond of cats, but this one was growing on him. He went inside and fixed it a plate of food.

The rocking chair on the back porch was calling to him. His mind said no, but his body said yes. He fell into it, then checked the time. Nearly ten. He leaned back and shut his eyes. The cat joined him a minute later, and he felt it make kitty biscuits on his chest with its paws. He stroked the top of its head without opening his eyes. Just as he drifted off, he told himself that the sound of the first arriving car would jolt him awake.

He dreamed he was speeding down Las Vegas Boulevard with Lucy Price. The car’s tires were bumping the concrete median. In a loud voice he told her to slow down.

“I can’t,” she said tearfully.

He reached across the seat and grabbed the wheel with both hands. He was not going to let her jump the median and slam into a car filled with tourists. He was going to stop what he knew had already happened. He was going to make the world right, even if it was only in his dream. The car came around a bend and gained speed.

“Slow down,” he shouted.

“I can’t,” she cried.

He brought his foot across the seat and stepped on the brake. It felt like putty beneath his shoe. The car continued to race ahead. He tried to turn the wheel, but it would not respond. Lucy sat in her seat, crying softly. “You’re too late,” she said.

The strip’s casinos were a blur of harsh neon. He continued to fight with the wheel, then felt the car jump the center median. He shifted his gaze just in time to see the faces of the British tourists in the vehicle they were about to hit. Two men, two women. He wanted to tell them how sorry he was. Only, it was too late.

The sound of his cell phone snapped him awake. He gently pushed the cat off his lap and dug the phone out of his pocket. The caller ID said it was Gerry.

“The cops arrested Huck Dubb a few hours ago,” his son said excitedly.

Valentine found himself staring across the backyard at Ricky’s house. He could partially see the front of the house; over a dozen SUVs and expensive imports were parked in the front yard. He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes before eleven.

“Where did they find him?” he asked.

“In northern Florida, about fifty miles west of Tallahassee. The highway patrol set up a roadblock, and Huck tried to get away but wrecked the car. His brother somehow managed to escape, but the cops say they should find him in a few hours.”

Valentine saw the back door of Ricky’s house open and a man step outside and have a look around. Ricky’s gang had assembled and were probably starting to wonder what was going on. He needed to get over there pronto.

“Do the Florida cops think his brother is a threat?”

“No,” his son said. “Guy’s retarded. Doesn’t have a driver’s license or any way to get down to Palm Harbor and harm Yolanda and the baby.”

“You believe them?” Valentine asked.

There was a long pause. Valentine guessed he’d just put the fear of God into his son. “Cops aren’t the smartest people on the planet,” he said. “They might have misjudged Huck’s brother. We’re talking about your family here, Gerry.”

“I know, Pop,” his son said, his voice measured. “I talked to Lamar about it. He knows the Dubbs pretty well. The retarded brother is named Arlen. Lamar said the greatest harm Arlen poses is to himself.”

“Meaning what?”

“Lamar said if Arlen got lost in the woods, he’d probably end up dying.”

“Can he use a gun? Did you ask him that?”

“Yes, Pop. Lamar said Arlen would probably shoot himself if you handed him a gun.”

Tallahassee was more than two hundred miles from Palm Harbor. If Lamar was right, then Arlen Dubb’s chances of finding his way to Palm Harbor and hurting anyone were slim at best. “Okay,” Valentine said. “Sorry to alarm you.”

“That’s okay, Pop. I appreciate you thinking it out so thoroughly. I’m going to head out of here. When are you coming home?”

Valentine looked at his watch and saw the second hand usher in eleven o’clock. It was judgment hour, and he rose from the rocker. “Soon,” he told his son.