Mr. Lucky

“Yeah, Pop,” Gerry said. “Thanks.”

Valentine handed the baby to her mother and said, “I need to talk to my son. I hope you don’t mind if we disappear for a little while.”

Yolanda gave Gerry the eye. The vacation had obviously agreed with them, and a mischievous look crossed his son’s face.

“Just don’t make it too long,” she said.

His son had always liked scenes, so Valentine was not surprised when they ended up on the pier at the end of Duval Street, watching street performers while the sun set. There were jugglers and buskers and a female contortionist covered with biblical tattoos, but the act attracting all the eyeballs was an emaciated guy with four trained house cats. The cats, all marmalade colored, were as skinny as their owner, and jumped through hoops and rang bells in return for tiny scraps of meat. The animals looked a few breaths away from expiring, and Valentine wanted to buy them a good meal but instead threw ten bucks into the guy’s hat.

“You’re such a soft touch,” his son said as they walked away.

“You think so?”

“That guy drives a Mercedes.”

“Then why is he so thin?”

“That’s his gimmick. People feel sorry for him and the cats. He makes a bundle.”

As daylight faded, the crowd dispersed, leaving Valentine and his son standing at the end of the pier, eating chocolate ice cream cones they’d bought from a vendor. Gerry bit off the end of his cone and sucked the ice cream out of the bottom.

“How would you like to come back and work for me?” Valentine asked.

His son’s head snapped, and melted ice cream ran down his chin. “You serious?”

“No, I just killed a day traveling here to pull your leg.”

Gerry wiped his face with a napkin. “You fix it with the guys out in Las Vegas?”

Valentine nodded. Bill Higgins had offered him a simple deal. Take the Ricky Smith job, and the casino owners would wipe the slate clean with his son, while paying him the biggest fee he’d ever earned. He had a lot of pride, but not enough to turn down a deal like the one Bill had offered him. Gerry tossed his cone into the ocean and threw his arms around him.

“Oh, man, Pop, you’re a lifesaver.”

The dying sun had turned the horizon pink, and long ragged strips of orange clouds were torn across the sky like a poster ripped in half. They left the pier and walked back to the Coral House. Key West had informally seceded from the Union years ago, and colorful Conch Republic banners hung from every tree and storefront.

Streetlights flickered a block from the guesthouse. Valentine stopped at the corner to watch a bicycle rickshaw with two drunk tourists. When it was gone, he said, “Here’s the deal. I need you to go to Gulfport, Mississippi, and talk to a poker player named Tex Snyder.”

“Tex ‘All In’ Snyder?”

“That’s right. You know him?”

“Just from the TV. Won the World Series of Poker twice, considered one of the best Texas Hold ’Em players alive. How’s he involved in this?”

Valentine took a pack of nicotine gum from his pocket and popped a piece into his mouth. Forty-five days without a cigarette and he still hadn’t killed anyone. As the nicotine entered his bloodstream, he felt himself relax. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the guy who won a million bucks at the Mint last week.”

“Ricky Smith, the guy they’re calling Mr. Lucky?”

“That’s him. Bill Higgins of the Nevada Gaming Control Board thinks he might have cheated.”

“You’re kidding. How?”

“I don’t know.”

“So you don’t think he’s cheating.”

Valentine shrugged. “I’ve watched the tape of him playing at the Mint a dozen times. I’m not seeing any cheating. Granted, his play is irregular—he makes some wild bets and seems oblivious to the odds against him—but he jumped out of a burning building, so you can’t expect his play to be normal.”

“How’s Tex Snyder involved in this?”

“Ricky Smith beat Snyder silly. Snyder’s had plenty of time to think about it. I want you to feel him out and see if he thinks he was swindled.”

“What’s Snyder doing in Gulfport? Playing in a poker tournament?”

“You’re psychic.”

“How am I going to get him to talk to me?”

“Charm him.”

A mosquito as big as a bird flew by. Gerry said, “Excuse me for sounding rude, but what are you going to be doing while I’m in Gulfport?”

Valentine popped another piece of the foul-tasting gum into his mouth. Excuse me for sounding rude. That was definitely a new addition to Gerry’s lexicon. Was Yolanda putting him through finishing school and getting him to clean up his manners? Valentine looked his son over. Gerry had lost the annoying earring, and his shirt was recently pressed. Yeah, she sure was.

“I’ll be in a little burg called Slippery Rock, North Carolina,” Valentine said. “It’s Ricky’s hometown. I’m going to do a little digging, see what I turn up.”

“I hope you don’t find anything.”

“No?”

“I’d hate to find out Ricky Smith was a cheater.”

Valentine chewed his gum vigorously. He knew exactly what Gerry meant. Ricky Smith had cheated death, and then he’d gone and cheated the odds. It was the kind of story that people never got tired of hearing, and Valentine hoped he didn’t go to Slippery Rock and discover that Ricky’s halo was really a pair of horns.

6

As small towns went, Slippery Rock was a pretty nice one. The downtown dated back to the early 1800s and still boasted brick-lined streets and streetlamps, and plenty of businesses owned by people instead of faceless corporations. On Main Street there was an old-fashioned ice cream shop, a farmers’ market on weekends, and a movie theater with a Mighty Wurlitzer theater organ. Nine thousand hardworking souls lived here, and everyone knew everyone else’s business.

Now that Ricky Smith was a celebrity, he could not run out and buy a newspaper or loaf of bread without getting stopped on the street. It was strange being recognized after so many years of not, and in his neighbors’ eyes he saw a rainbow of feelings: happiness, envy, downright jealousy, and, in several guys he’d known in high school, quiet desperation. And everyone had peppered him with the same goddamned questions.

“You going to sue the Mint for your money?”

“Probably,” he replied.

“Think you’ll win?”

“Sure,” he said.

“What are you going to do with the money when you get it?”

“Rule the world,” Ricky said.

The truth be known, it was nobody’s business what he did with the money, not that he could convince his neighbors of that. Because he was from Slippery Rock, it was their money, too, and they would spend it vicariously through him whenever they got the chance.

Not having the million dollars he’d won at the Mint did not prevent Ricky from going on a shopping spree. His credit was good everywhere. At Moody’s car lot, the sales manager had welcomed him with open arms.

Moody’s was the only Lexus dealership in the county and did good business. Ricky scoured the lot and quickly settled on a silver Lexus LS430 four-door sedan. It was exactly the statement he wanted to make. The car screamed that he had arrived.

Driving the car off Moody’s lot, Ricky gassed it, and the fuel-injected V8 monster beneath the hood emitted a muffled roar. He headed for the open road. Soon, Slippery Rock’s hilly farmland and wooded fields were racing by his