Mr. Lucky

47

As Valentine crossed the backyard, he clipped Gaylord’s badge to his shirt. It was a strange feeling to be wearing a shield again, but not an unpleasant one. He’d never disliked being a cop like so many guys he’d known. It was something he’d been born to do.

The cat walked beside him, preening around his legs. He scooped the animal into his arms, then entered Ricky’s house through the back door. Seven people were standing in the kitchen. Upon seeing him, one of them gasped, while another put her hands over her eyes and moaned.

“We’re screwed,” someone muttered.

“Let’s go,” Valentine said.

They didn’t understand. He pointed at the swinging door that led to the living room, while rubbing the cat’s head. It seemed to calm everyone down.

The seven walked through the door in single file. The rest of the gang was assembled in the living room, the women sitting on chairs and the couch, the men standing. It wasn’t a big room, and they were all bunched up and talking in hushed tones. Seeing him, everyone stopped.

“Shit,” someone said.

“Cut the profanity,” Valentine said, letting the cat slip out of his hands. He did a visual sweep and counted twenty-five heads. Half the faces were ones he’d seen in the past three days; half were strangers. McFarland hadn’t bothered to show.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “You’re all under arrest.”

More gasps. Several people closed their eyes or stared at the floor.

“Hold on a second,” a voice declared.

Valentine stared at a guy standing in the back of the room. He was in his late twenties and wore a dark suit and a screaming yellow tie. He had a baby face and a body like Jell-O, and Valentine guessed he’d never done a day of exercising in his life. The guy stepped forward, business card in hand.

“I represent these people,” he said.

He stuck his business card beneath Valentine’s nose. His name was embossed, the rest of the card plain. LAURENCE MATTHEW BENDER, III. ATTORNEY-AT-LAW, DICKUM & FINE. SPECIALIZING IN MEDICAL MALPRACTICE AND CORPORATE NEGLIGENCE.

“These people have rights,” Bender said. “You can’t drag them in here like this is a Charlie Chan movie. What you did this morning was entrapment. You broke the law.”

Valentine handed the card back. “Did you accept any money from these people?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Did anyone pay you to be here?”

“Well, no—”

“Then your opinion isn’t worth anything. Get out.”

“Now wait just a minute—”

Valentine grabbed Bender’s arm and gave it a mean twist. He saw the attorney’s knees buckle. He loosened his grip and hustled him toward the front door. Throwing it open, he led him outside and down the front steps. Two dozen cars were parked on Ricky’s front lawn, and he guessed no one in Slippery Rock had ever heard of carpooling. Up on the road, Gaylord sat behind the wheel of a police cruiser. Five cruisers were parked behind him, with two officers sitting in each. If it wasn’t the whole force, it was damn close. Valentine brought Bender to Gaylord’s car and threw him in the backseat.

“This guy’s gumming up the works. I’d appreciate your babysitting him until I’m done.”

“Not a problem,” Gaylord said. “Holler if you need anything.”

“I’ll do that.”

As Valentine headed back to the house, he heard the attorney barking like a junkyard dog. Gaylord silenced him with a threat that had something to do with Bender’s driving skills when he was intoxicated. Valentine’s eyes fell on the gang of people standing on Ricky’s front porch. They were staring at the line of police cars, their gums flapping in the breeze. Whatever ideas they’d had about taking their chances in court had collectively vanished from their faces, and they looked scared as hell. It was a good start, and he ushered them inside and shut the door forcefully behind him.

They shuffled into the living room and took their places. Valentine went to the room’s center and stood with his back to the swinging door, just in case he needed to make a quick exit. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “I talk, you listen. This isn’t Jerry Springer, where people shout out whenever they feel like it. Understand?”

His eyes swept the room, and he saw them nod. Every member of the gang fell between mid-thirties to late forties. They were well dressed and, he assumed, fairly well educated. He also guessed they had never broken a law in their lives, until now. Turning ordinary citizens into criminals was never easy, and he imagined Ricky Smith and Stanley Kessel had appealed to a common denominator among them all. Greed.

“Good. I’ve seen a lot of sophisticated scams in my day, but none that compares to what you folks did. You practiced in the basement of that house on the outskirts of town and got your roles down perfectly. Then you went out to Las Vegas and did your number on the Mint. Of course, Ricky had a lot to do with how it went, but he needed you folks to sell his streak of luck. And you did your jobs perfectly.

“You also covered your tracks real well. I’m going to guess that Stanley Kessel was the reason, because he seems to be the brains behind this operation. Stanley made sure that nothing was left behind that could be used against you in court. There was a miniature camera in a purse, but that got destroyed this morning. Stanley also picked scams that beat the eye in the sky, so there’s no videotape evidence either. The truth be known, there’s nothing to tie you to the Mint getting ripped off that will hold up in court.”

He saw several people in the gang exchange nervous glances. A man standing behind the couch raised his hand. He was short and wore a tie wrapped around his neck like a noose.

“You have to go to the bathroom?”

“I have a question,” he said. “If there’s no evidence, then why are we under arrest?”

“You another lawyer?”

“I’m an accountant.”

“Well, Mr. Accountant, it’s like this: Ricky and Stanley didn’t just scam the Mint. They also scammed a horse race.” Valentine removed the OTB racing slip from his pocket and held it in the air. “You aware of this?”

The accountant shook his head.

“How about the rest of you?”

The roomful of people shook their heads.

“No,” a woman on the couch added for emphasis.

“That’s too bad,” Valentine said, sticking the slip into his pocket while eyeing the group. It was his only evidence, and he was going to fly out the back door if anyone made a move to jump him. When he sensed no one had that in mind, he continued. “You see, even though I can’t prove you scammed the Mint, I can connect you to Ricky and Stanley in all sorts of ways. And I can prove that they scammed the horse race. That makes you their accomplices.”

“Would you mind telling us what they did?” the accountant asked.

“Sure. They stuck a satellite dish on the roof of an OTB parlor and used the feed from the dish to show the races from Belmont, instead of using the normal TV signal. The satellite feed had a seven-second delay on it because the satellite is up there in space. Those seven seconds allowed an employee in the OTB parlor to see which three horses came out of the gate first. Most people don’t know it, but the three horses that come out of the gate first usually finish in the money. Guys at the track have been using this information for years to place late bets. It’s called past-posting.

“The guy at the OTB parlor wrote the numbers of the horses down on a racing slip and passed it through the bars to Ricky. Ricky pretended to write on the slip, then slapped his money down and passed the slip back. Ricky told me he wasn’t always accurate when it came to picking the ponies, which should have been a tip-off.

“With this race, Ricky was lucky. All three horses were winners. He won eight hundred thirty-six dollars and eighty-seven cents for his three-hundred-dollar bet. If he’d been smart, he’d have torn the slip up. But he had to wag it in my face and gloat about it.”

“Let me guess,” the accountant said. “The slip had the time on it.”

Valentine nodded. No one else seemed to understand. He said, “The slip showed the time the bet was recorded, which was seven seconds after the race actually started. Stanley and Ricky couldn’t figure out a way to change that, so they didn’t.”

“How many laws did they break?” the accountant asked.

He was a pleasant enough guy, with a trusting face and caring eyes, and Valentine found himself feeling sorry for him. He wiped away the emotion and counted off the crimes on the fingers of his hand. “Racketeering, wire fraud, and conspiracy. The Belmont track is in the state of New York. The attorney general of New York doesn’t take kindly to this kind of stuff. He’ll come down hard on Ricky and Stanley, and all of you.”

“But we didn’t know about this,” a woman on the couch said.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re still part of the gang.”

“What are we looking at in terms of prison sentences?” the accountant asked.

The question silenced the room.

“About ten years in prison, with time off for good behavior,” Valentine said.

“Unless we cooperate with you.”

Valentine started to answer him, then saw a vehicle pull down the driveway and park directly in front of the house. The doors opened, and two people emerged. As they climbed onto the porch, their faces became recognizable. It was Polly Parker and Ricky.