“She’s got you climbing up the walls,” his son said. “She’s a stalker, Pop. You need to get your cell number changed. Maybe she’ll get the hint and leave you alone.”
The front doorbell rang. It was a cheap sound, as if someone had replaced the bell with a joy buzzer. He told his son good-bye and got off the line.
Valentine recognized Ricky Smith the moment he opened the front door. Ricky’s picture had been splashed across every TV news show in the country: a sloppy, boyish grin offset by eyes always looking somewhere else. He was a self-professed geek who liked to eat junk food and as Valentine stepped onto the front stoop, Ricky stuck out a big paw of a hand and said, “Welcome to the neighborhood. My name’s Richard Smith, but everyone calls me Ricky. I live two houses away.”
“The guy with the loud music,” Valentine said.
Ricky flashed a sheepish smile. “Yeah. Hope it didn’t keep you up.”
“Only half the night. You like the blues?”
“I like Stevie Ray Vaughan,” Ricky confessed. “Lucky for me, Stevie Ray recorded just about everything—rock, blues, rockabilly, surfer music, acoustic—so it never gets tiring.”
“Except for your neighbors,” Valentine said.
Ricky let out a laugh that caused his whole body to shake. On the surveillance tape from the Mint, he had acted like a zombie, and no emotion had registered on his face as he’d beaten the casino silly. In real life he was playful and animated, with the face of a kid who’s just gotten caught stealing a cookie out of a jar.
“So, listen,” Ricky said, “I wanted to invite you to the May Day Annual Fair. It’s being held down at the local high school. There’s lots of good food, and exhibits from the school, and it’s a great way to meet your neighbors.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah. It goes on all day. I’d be happy to drive you.”
Valentine considered the offer. He needed to meet people in town, and establish who he was, and put them at ease when he came around later and started poking his nose where it didn’t belong. Only, something was wrong with Ricky’s offer. Guys didn’t drive the welcome wagons in most neighborhoods. Women did. Ricky was up to something. Valentine saw him look at his watch.
“They’re having a drawing at the fair at eleven,” Ricky explained. “You can’t claim the grand prize if you’re not there.”
“What is it?”
“An all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii.”
“Think you’re going to win?”
Ricky took out his wallet and removed a brown ticket with five numbers printed on it. “I bought this ticket before I went out to Las Vegas and won a million bucks. I figure if I’m going to win that trip, now’s the time.”
Valentine looked at the numbers on the ticket, then into Ricky’s pale blue eyes. Ricky made it sound like a given. Valentine realized his neighbor was challenging him. That was why he’d come to the house and rang the bell. He’d found out who Valentine was and why he was visiting Slippery Rock. He wanted Valentine to see it himself and decide.
“Let me get my jacket,” Valentine said.
12
Slippery Rock High School was a rambling one-story structure nestled behind a stand of poplars and pines. A colorful banner announced that today was the May Day Annual Fair, Come One, Come All. The parking lot was nearly full, and as Ricky parked his Lexus in the last available space, he explained how different buildings had been added on as local townspeople had passed away and willed their money to their favorite departments.
“It’s sort of a tradition,” he said, killing the engine.
For a long moment they sat silently. In the nearby woods, a deer with two fawns lifted its head to stare at them. Its mouth was full of leaves, and it munched away, convinced they posed no threat.
“Which department are you going to will yours to?” Valentine asked.
“The art department. It was the only class I ever really liked. I wanted to be a commercial artist, but my parents drummed it into my head that it was a bad career choice.” He looked at his watch, then popped open his door. “Better hurry. The drawing is in five minutes. Don’t want to miss winning the big prize.”
As Valentine followed him across the lot, he remembered Mabel’s remark about Ricky running from one game to another at the Mint, like he was on some kind of timetable. It had sounded suspicious as hell; only, what if he really was on some kind of lucky streak? Wouldn’t there be some type of urgency behind it?
Going inside, they walked down a long hallway scuffed by years of running kids and into a gymnasium with a raised stage at one end of the room. It was filled with hundreds of people huddled around exhibit tables that had been pushed against the walls. On the other end of the room, volunteers sold hot dogs and hamburgers at the cafeteria’s food stations, with all the proceeds benefitting the school. Ricky tapped the face of his watch.
“Made it with a minute to spare. You want something to eat?”
“A drink would be fine,” Valentine said, following him over to the food stations. A stern-faced woman wearing a hairnet smiled at Ricky as they approached. Without having to be told, she took an Orange Crush soda from a chest and said, “What will your friend have?”
“Diet Coke,” Ricky said.
Valentine felt his face burn and watched the woman take out a sixteen-ounce bottle of his favorite drink and unscrew it with a twist. How had Ricky found that out? He’d been in the newspapers a lot the month before; probably one of them had mentioned it after they’d run out of interesting things to say. Ricky had really done his homework.
“Thanks,” Valentine said to the woman.
The sound of someone tapping a finger on a microphone shushed the room, and everyone turned to face the stage. In its center stood a guy in his mid-thirties wearing a carnival barker’s outfit: porkpie hat, paisley bow tie, and a red sports jacket that looked a size too small for his lean, angular body. He spoke with a loose smile on his lips.
“Good morning, folks, my name’s Vernon Hudsinger,” the barker said.
“We know what your name is,” someone in the crowd called out.
“I bet you do! It’s my privilege to officially welcome you to the annual Slippery Rock May Day Fair. Sorry for the cloudy day, especially after this rotten winter. Which is why the grand prize of this year’s festival drawing is most appropriate. A week’s paid vacation at the fabulous Mauna Kai resort on the beautiful island of Oahu. Let’s give a big Slippery Rock thank-you for the folks at Tripp Travel for donating this fabulous prize.”
Half the people in the cafeteria clapped their hands. The other half stomped their feet. The sound reminded Valentine of a hockey game. It lasted for about three seconds, and then everyone stopped on cue. Then there was a hush and everyone started laughing.
“What did I miss?” Valentine said.
“It’s an old tradition,” Ricky said.
“Now,” the barker continued, “let’s get this show on the road. I’m sure all of you know how this works. Our own town librarian, Mary Alice Stoker, is going to come out with a paper bag filled with Ping-Pong balls. I’m going to roll up my sleeve, and stick my hand down inside that bag, and pull out five Ping-Pong balls. Each Ping-Pong ball has a number printed on it. If the five numbers I pull out match the five numbers on your ticket—and remember, they can be in any order—you win the grand prize. If no one hits five, the person who has four numbers wins, or three, or two, or I just do it over. Although I don’t think that’s ever happened before.” He stepped back, and through the backdrop said, “Hey, Ms. Stoker, we ever have a do-over before?”
“Not that I can recall,” a voice behind the stage called out.
“So there you go,” the barker said. Walking to center stage, he pulled off his jacket as Mary Alice Stoker made her appearance to a smattering of applause. The librarian was white-haired, smartly dressed in a floor-length dress, and had perfect posture. Holding a brown paper bag between her hands, she was the picture of small-town grace.
Vernon dropped his jacket on a nearby chair, then rolled back his sleeve. For effect he wiggled his fingers,
