Sucker Bet

45

Slash had graduated from Mabel’s school of blackjack cheating.

He had gone through an entire deck of cards without once having to ask Mabel a single question, the codes and computer signals now second nature.

“Well,” he said, “I guess that’s it.”

Mabel felt his eyes burning her face. She was holding the cards in her hands.

“Let’s play another round,” she suggested.

“I’m done,” he said. “You’re a good teacher.”

Her throat went dry. Slash’s face had taken on a visceral quality. She tossed the cards onto Tony’s desk. They scattered, and she found herself staring at a book lying next to the phone. Tony was an avid reader—westerns, mysteries, anything by Elmore Leonard—only, she’d never seen him reading this book. She stared at the spine. It was Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment.

She thought about how she was going to do this. Thought about it calmly, because that was what Tony had told her to do in tough situations. She remembered the gang of hustlers he’d caught past-posting at roulette. Mabel had watched the tape several times, but had not seen what the gang was doing until Tony had pointed it out. While two members distracted surveillance by yelling and banging the table, a third member—a petite old lady—had surreptitiously placed a late bet. The scam had flown right by everyone, and all because the old lady had slowly put her late bet on the table. So slowly, that no one had noticed.

“And you are a wonderful student,” Mabel said.

“You think so?”

“I’d give you an A.”

Slash grinned, and Mabel calmly reached across the desk and removed Dostoyevsky’s masterpiece from its resting place. Placing the book in her lap, she flipped it open. As she’d expected, it was hollow, and she removed the Sig Sauer resting inside and aimed it at Slash’s hairless chest.

Her abductor stared down the gun’s barrel. He smiled, exposing two crooked rows of teeth. “You got me,” he said.

“Yes, I do,” she said.

“You’re a cagey old broad.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Slash lifted his arms as if to stretch, and Mabel twitched the gun’s barrel.

“Don’t move,” she said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.

Yes, you would, Mabel thought. I’m a sixty-five-year-old woman with lousy vision. If you jump me—and I’m sure that’s exactly what’s going through your deranged mind—I might get a round off. Wounded, you’d still be strong enough to strangle the life out of me.

Mabel aimed the gun directly at her abductor’s heart. It took Slash a few seconds to comprehend.

Forgive me, God.

Slash leapt out of his chair. But by then, Mabel had already squeezed the trigger.

As Rico pulled off 595, Valentine had understood.

Like any other predatory creature, murderers often returned to places they believed safe. Rico was taking him to the swamps, to the place where he’d dumped Jack Lightfoot, and where Splinters had tried to shoot Candy.

Rico drove down the unlit road for a few miles, then pulled over. The shoulder was muck, and the wheels sank a few inches before coming to rest. He got out, then flung open Valentine’s door. “Move,” he barked.

It wasn’t easy to walk with his hands tied behind his back, and Valentine stumbled to find his legs, his body still feeling the effects of having the fat guy in the newspaper store pancake him. There was a full moon, and the swamp was alive with animal sounds.

Rico took out a handkerchief and tied it over Valentine’s eyes.

“Walk,” he said.

Valentine’s feet found the path, and he took a few uncertain steps. He felt a gun barrel press against his left ear, then heard a deafening roar.

The pain was white and traveled through his brain like a hot stake. He fell forward, his head wrenched to one side, away from the burning sensation that consumed the left half of his face. Lying on the ground, he thought about Gerry, and how angry his son was going to be when his will was read.

“Get up,” Rico barked.

Valentine staggered to his feet and stumbled down the path.

Rico shoved him. “This way.”

Valentine went to his right. Soon his feet found a clearing, the swamp sounds more prevalent than before. Rico stuck the .45’s barrel into his spine.

“On your knees,” he said.

Ray Hicks came around a bend in the road and saw Rico’s limo parked on the shoulder. He flashed his brights, then parked behind the limo and shut off the engine. Rolling down his window, he heard a pair of men’s voices coming from one of the trails.

Inside the glove compartment was a pearl-handled revolver he’d won in a poker game, and a Walther PPK. He removed the Walther and checked the chamber to ensure it was loaded. He watched Mr. Beauregard lower his window. Something in the swamps was calling the chimp, and Hicks imagined him running away.

“Mr. Beauregard, I am ordering you to stay here.”

Mr. Beauregard stared out the window, ignoring him.

“You will stay here.”

The chimp sighed. Hicks got out of the car. From the trunk he removed a flashlight, tested it, then cautiously headed down the path.

The swamp was jungle-thick with vegetation, and the flashlight’s beam caught elephant ears and tree vines that reminded him of the Louisiana bayous. As a boy, he’d spent countless hours in the low country with his granddaddy, learning to hunt and fish and all the other things it took to become a man. It had been a special time, and thinking about it had a calming influence on him.

He came to a fork in the path. The men’s voices had stopped, the swamp deathly still. Which way should he go? He was left-handed, so that was the direction he chose.

He walked a quarter mile, then came to a dead end. He kicked at the ground in frustration, then heard a gunshot pierce the still night air.

Hicks retraced his steps, then went down the other path to a clearing. His flashlight found a figure lying on the ground. It was a man with a bloody hole in his back. Beside him was another man, blindfolded and on his knees.

Hicks got closer. The blindfolded man had been shot, and his arms appeared tied behind his back. Hicks circled him, just to be sure.

“Is someone there?” the blindfolded man said.

“Yes,” Hicks said.

“Is he dead?” the blindfolded man asked.

Hicks’s flashlight found Rico’s face. He gave him a good kick. Rico was as dead as a dog lying on the side of the road. Hicks stared at the blindfolded man with blood pouring down his face.

“Yes, he is,” Hicks said.

The man started to weep. Hicks considered untying him, then decided not to. For all he knew, the man was a criminal and would try to kill him.

“Please,” the man said, “call the police.”

Shaking, Hicks got behind the wheel of his car. He dialed 911 on his cell phone, then smelled sulfur. He looked at Mr. Beauregard, then the open glove compartment. Reaching in, he touched the pearl-handled revolver. It was warm.

A police operator came on the line. Hicks struggled to find his voice. He gave the operator his location and said there had been a killing. The operator said a cruiser was on 595 and would be right there.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

Hanging up, Hicks tried to make sense of what had happened. If Mr. Beauregard had been following him, he would surely have picked up Hicks’s scent and followed his owner. Only he hadn’t. He’d gone looking for Rico. Had he somehow known another man’s life hung in the balance?

“I wish you could talk,” Hicks said.

A police cruiser appeared in his mirror, its bubble flashing. Digging a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped down the pearl-handled revolver and replaced Mr. Beauregard’s prints with his own. The police would want to know exactly what had happened. Keep it simple, he thought. He started to get out.

Mr. Beauregard picked up his ukulele and became lost in his music. Hicks felt his eyes well up with tears, the song instantly familiar.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

My Old Kentucky Home. It had been his granddaddy’s favorite.