Mr. Lucky

Ricky could not stop staring at Roland. It was the first time he’d seen the kid he used to babysit not look cool. Roland had called that morning, said the check had come overnight express for their lottery ticket, and that he’d deposit his half this afternoon and wanted to celebrate tonight over a few beers. He’d never sounded happier.

“You boys in the wrong place…wrong time,” the scarecrow informed them. “Shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning. Stayed home, watched Oprah.”

The scarecrow was trying to sound tough. Sweat poured down his face, and he wiped furiously at his brow with his free hand. Ricky’s mother, who’d died at an indecent age of ovarian cancer, had taught him that God sometimes took people to crossroads. The paths were always clearly marked: some good, some bad, the choice always a free one. The scarecrow’s path was obviously not what he’d expected.

The circular steel door that led to the vault banged open, and a second masked robber entered the room. He was shorter, heavier, his clothes spotted with blood, and he dragged a leather satchel stuffed to overflowing with the bank’s money across the tile floor.

“Who the fuck are these guys?” the shorter robber screamed. “You weren’t supposed to let anyone in!”

“They were banging on the door,” the scarecrow said.

“So?”

“I was afraid they’d call the cops. You know, on a cell phone.”

“What a goddamned handicap you are,” the shorter robber swore.

Ricky heard a funky noise. Roland’s stomach was making barnyard noises. First his stomach sounded like a pig, then a chicken, then a horse. Had Ricky known of this talent, he would have asked his friend to demonstrate years ago.

Ricky looked up. The bloodied robber had stopped in the middle of the floor and was staring murderously at Roland like he knew him. And Roland was staring back like he knew the robber.

“Hey, Beasley,” Roland said. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“My name’s not Beasley,” the shorter robber snapped. “Shut up!”

“How long’s it been? A couple of years?”

“I said shut the fuck up.”

Then Roland did the bravest thing Ricky had ever seen. His friend rose from the floor and took a step forward. “Come on…it’s me, your old pal Roland.”

Beasley pulled a sawed-off shotgun from the leather satchel and waved it in Roland’s face. “Get back on your knees, goddamn it.”

Roland took another step forward. “Let us walk,” he implored. “You and I been tight a long time.”

“Shut the fuck up, will you?”

“We’ll tell the police you had masks on—”

“I said shut up, Roland.”

“Claude will say the same thing,” Roland told him. “So will Ricky. And I’m sure we can get this other guy to go along. Won’t you, mister?”

“Sure,” Valentine said.

“You had masks on,” Roland said. “We didn’t recognize you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Roland,” Beasley shouted at him. “There ain’t no turning back now.”

Roland shook his head. “You can’t kill us.”

“I sure can,” Beasley said, somehow able to rationalize his own barbarism. His breath had turned foul and gave the air a pernicious stench. “Things happen because they’re supposed to, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Call it nature, or Fate, or God’s will. So get on your knees. Right fucking now.”

Roland wouldn’t do it. Instead, he held his palms out, begging for mercy. Ricky could see that Beasley was getting tied up in knots, and wondered what tied him to Roland. Maybe they’d shot hoops in high school, or gone deer hunting in the fall, or just hitched up every once in a while and chugged beer. Friendships in these parts ran as thick as blood, usually lasted a lifetime.

“My mind’s made up,” Beasley replied. “This is my one chance to climb out of life’s great shit hole. All I want is a little taste of paradise.” He glanced at the scarecrow for reinforcement. “Ain’t that right, Larry?”

The flame called hope lit up the scarecrow’s eyes, and he nodded enthusiastically. “We’re going to be eating cheeseburgers in paradise.”

“You got that right.”

“Come on, Bease,” Roland pleaded with him. “You and I broke the law before. This will be no different. I never ratted you out.”

“Get on your knees,” Beasley roared at him.

Ricky realized they were all about to die and fought the overwhelming urge to pee on himself. Roland held his ground, refusing to kneel.

“You’re a frigging coward,” Roland said, making his last stand. “No more hamburgers for me! No more sunsets, or drive-ins, or one-on-one behind the school. Never going to see my baby born because of you.”

Beasley couldn’t take any more. Stepping forward, he kicked Roland in the balls.

Roland bent in half, hugging himself. After a moment he straightened, tossed back his shoulders, and defiantly stuck out his tongue. “Fuck you, Bease,” he said.

Beasley stuck the barrel of his shotgun in the space between Roland’s eyes.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered Roland.

“No.”

“Do as I tell you!”

Roland wouldn’t do it, his eyes growing as large as saucers. Beasley stepped back, his eyes filled with murderous rage. “Take him out, Larry,” he told the scarecrow. “Put a bullet in his head, and we can get out of here.”

“Me?” his partner squeaked.

“Yeah, you. You let them in.”

“But—”

“No buts. Just do it.”

Clutching the .357 with both hands, the scarecrow shut his eyes tightly and tried to blow a hole in the side of Roland’s head.

“I…can’t…do…it.”

“I said shoot the stupid son of a bitch.”

“I can’t…”

“Do it!”

The scarecrow opened his eyes. “I’ve never shot nobody,” he whimpered.

“Don’t you want a new life?” Beasley screamed at him. “Cheeseburgers in paradise, remember?”

“Yeah…”

“Then for Christ’s sake, blow the motherfucker away!”

The scarecrow steadied his aim, the muzzle of the .357 a foot from Roland’s head. “Sorry, buddy,” he whispered.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Ricky thought. Everyone was supposed to end up happy and rich. That was the plan. But Beasley and the scarecrow were past reasoning with, their murderous minds made up. Ricky wanted to tell them that he had the cash and he’d be happy to share it with them, just leave his poor buddy alone; only, the sound of the bullet leaving the chamber stopped him cold.

Roland’s head snapped back. Ricky waited, expecting him to crumble. Only, Roland didn’t crumble. Instead it was the scarecrow who went down. A dime-size hole had appeared at the spot in his mask where his eyebrows met, and put everything behind it in a scramble. Framed by the black ski mask, his eyes registered great surprise.

The second gunshot was equally loud. It tore a hole in Beasley’s jaw and lifted him clean off the tiled floor. He stayed that way for an instant, legs splayed spastically in the air, his shotgun discharging and blowing out the fluorescent lights. When he landed, he bounced as if made of rubber. Then the toes of his work boots began to rattle, and the spirit left his body. The ceiling fire sprinkler let out a shrill whistle. Within moments the bank’s interior was drenched by a dull, steady rain.