Mr. Lucky

“I guess there’s a first time for everything,” he said.

53

Valentine was standing in the hallway five minutes later, watching Ricky say good-bye to Polly, when Roberts rushed past and took an elevator downstairs. The FBI agent was moving fast, and Valentine sensed that he had a bead on Stanley Kessel. He’d come too far to miss the grand finale, and started to leave.

“Wait a second,” Ricky said as he entered another elevator.

Valentine put his hand on the door to stop it from closing. Ricky stood awkwardly in the doorway, his wrists handcuffed together. Another FBI agent stood nearby, eyeing him.

“Tell me one thing,” Ricky said.

“What’s that?”

“Do they have art classes in prison?”

“They sure do,” he said.

When Valentine reached the lobby, he saw no sign of Roberts. Going outside, he saw the FBI agent jump into a black sedan and the vehicle pull away from the curb. He went into the street and hailed a yellow cab and was soon following Roberts uptown.

The cabdriver was Pakistani and drove like he was fighting for the pole at the Indy 500. Valentine told him to keep his distance, then settled back in his seat and watched the city pass by. As a cop, he’d loved the thrill of a chase, but he didn’t love it anymore. It meant that something bad was waiting at the other end, and he’d had enough bad things happen to last him a long time.

“They are stopping,” the driver said. He pulled the cab up behind the sedan and threw his flag up. “Fourteen dollars and thirty cents, please.”

Valentine paid the fare while staring out his window at the street sign. Forty-sixth Street and Third Avenue. The tony east side. Ricky had said that Stanley had a town house on the east side and liked to hang out here. Getting out, Valentine saw Roberts standing in front of a fancy restaurant called the Gold Door. Roberts saw him, as well, and hurried over.

“What are you doing here?” the FBI agent said angrily.

“Getting some lunch. How about you?”

“Don’t be funny,” Roberts snapped. “Stanley Kessel is in there, and we’re going to nab him and drag his ass downtown. Don’t you dare step inside that door, or I’ll throw you in the same cell as Stanley and his drug-dealing buddies. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another sedan pulled up to the curb, and three men jumped out. They had short hair and dark suits and had FBI written all over them. Roberts gave them orders like a drill sergeant, and then they marched into the restaurant.

Valentine went over and leaned against the cab. His driver had double-parked the vehicle and was standing in the street, staring at the Gold Door. “There is going to be fireworks, yes?”

Valentine ignored him, his eyes peeled on the restaurant.

“You are a cop, yes?”

He didn’t think the question deserved an answer.

“You look like a cop on that TV show, NYPD Blue,” the driver said. “Not the fat one, the other one. It is my favorite show on television. I watch it every week.”

Oh, brother, Valentine thought.

The driver came over and stood beside him. Dropping his voice, he said, “There is something I think you should know.”

Valentine wanted to tell him to take a hike. Except, something in the driver’s eyes told him otherwise. “Go ahead.”

“There is an exit in the back of this restaurant that is connected to an alley,” the driver said. “When celebrities and important people eat here, they use this exit.” He pointed to an alleyway a few doors down. “Over there.”

Valentine pushed himself off the cab. Stanley Kessel was one of the smartest criminals he’d ever encountered. He’d covered all his bases and then some. There was no reason to believe that he hadn’t covered this one, as well. Valentine took out his wallet and extracted five twenty-dollar bills. He handed them to the driver.

“I want you to use your cab to block that exit.”

The driver refused the money. “You do not have to pay me. I will do it.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. It is the correct thing to do.”

Valentine went around to the back of the restaurant with the words ringing in his ears. The correct thing to do. When was the last time he’d heard someone say that? His mother, fifty years ago. Coming around the alley, he spied a black limousine sitting outside the restaurant’s back door. Two men sat in front. They were the Cubans he’d sucker punched behind Ricky’s house. Stanley’s drug-dealing pals.

A row of garbage pails lined the alley. Valentine went to one and fished out an empty Jack Daniel’s bottle. He thought about the best way to handle this. Pulling his shirt out from his pants, he staggered over to the BMW with the bottle clutched in his hand. The Cuban in the passenger seat got out and pointed at him.

“Get lost, old man,” he said.

Valentine watched the Cuban turn his back and start pissing against the alley wall. He staggered up to the driver’s side and saw the window come down.

“You heard him,” the Cuban behind the wheel said. “Get lost.”

Valentine removed the twenties he’d offered the cabdriver and let them fall to the ground. Then he pointed. “I think you dropped this, mistah,” he said.

The Cuban stared at the money. He started to get out, and Valentine threw his weight against the open door. The Cuban yelped and fell to the ground.

Valentine walked around the car to the guy taking a leak. He could tell that the guy wanted to fight him; only, he couldn’t do it without pissing on himself. Valentine hit him in the head with the bottle. The guy went down holding his dick.

Valentine heard shouting inside the restaurant. He went to the back door and listened. Stanley was not going easily. He thought about rushing inside, but then remembered Roberts’s warning and decided to stay by the door.

Next to the door was an upturned crate. A half-smoked cigarette lay on it, a whisper of smoke trailing off one end. He couldn’t help himself, and put the burning end up to his nose and inhaled. He heard both Cubans groaning. Normally, he didn’t like hurting people, but this was different. These guys were drug dealers.

He’d worked narcotics in Atlantic City for a while and discovered how drug dealers operated. They went to parties and handed out free coke or heroin. Someone always got hooked. The dealer would feed their addiction until they ran out of money. Then the dealer would move on.

Inside the restaurant he heard the pop-pop-pop of gunfire. He threw the cigarette away and cracked the door open. Down a darkened hallway he could see a man standing with his back to him, shooting an automatic handgun into the brightly lit restaurant. The man was walking backward as he fired.

Valentine shut the door and stepped away from it. He felt his heartbeat quicken. He could run, or he could try to take Stanley down. Running was the smart choice; only, if he did, Stanley might get away, and all this would be for nothing.

Valentine pressed himself against the wall beside the doorway to the restaurant. He reminded himself that he was no longer a cop and the rules were different now. The door banged open, and the man stepped outside waving his automatic.

“Hey, Stanley,” Valentine said.

The man turned, startled. He was short and had perfectly tanned skin. He wore a light-gray designer suit that was spotted with someone else’s blood. Without hesitation, he aimed the automatic at Valentine’s heart. Valentine grabbed Stanley’s arm with both hands and pointed the gun’s barrel skyward. It went off with a loud retort.

“Drop it,” Valentine told him.