“They’re not going to hurt us.”

“They roughed you up pretty good.”

“I deserved it,” he whispered.

“That rifle could do some damage.”

“He’ll probably shoot his foot off with it.”

Valentine watched Juan and his friend argue back and forth. If Juan hadn’t been holding a rifle, it would have been comical. They had the physical mannerisms that gangsters had been using in movies for years. What was missing was the guts to pull it off.

“These guys related?” Valentine whispered.

Ricky nodded in the dark.

“Cousins?”

“Yeah,” Ricky said, “how did you know?”

Valentine had grown up with a slew of cousins and thought he recognized what was going on. Juan was acting tough to impress his cousin. If he didn’t, his cousin would later give him shit for it. Valentine lowered his Glock. Ricky was right; the only people they were probably going to hurt were themselves.

The Doberman pinned to Ricky’s side curled its upper lip and emitted a fierce snarl. Ricky put his hand on the dog’s snout and clamped it shut.

“You hear that?” Juan said.

“It was just an animal,” his cousin said. “Come on, let’s beat it before the cops get here.”

“They’re right out there. Come out here, you fuckers!”

His cousin tugged at his sleeve. “Come on.”

Juan shoved him aside. Taking a step forward, he raised the rifle to shoulder height and began shooting. Valentine pulled his head behind the tree while cursing his missed opportunity. Bullets tore through the trees on either side of them. It sounded like a heavy rain and was punctuated by a dozen sleeping animals waking up and darting for cover. After a few moments the shooting subsided. Valentine glanced up at Ricky and saw him hugging the tree and sobbing.

34

Valentine reached up and pulled Ricky down beside him. “No more advice,” he said.

Then he stuck his head around the tree and stared at the house. Juan was hitting the rifle with the heel of his palm like it was jammed. The two Cubans he’d sucker punched were on their feet and encouraging Juan to give it up. Juan was having none of it.

“I’m going to get him if it’s the last thing I do,” Juan said.

Again Valentine aimed at Juan. He aimed directly at his heart and started to squeeze the trigger, then hesitated. Killing Juan didn’t change the situation. They had a rifle, and he had a handgun. Any of the other three could pick up the rifle and come after them. Then he had an idea and aimed at the light above the back door. It was illuminating the entire backyard. He fired twice and hit the bulb with the second shot. The backyard turned dark.

He jumped to his feet. “You first.”

With the Doberman nipping at their heels, they ran down a well-worn path. Valentine stopped after a few hundred yards to see if anyone was following them. The only sounds he heard were animals chattering nervously in the forest. With his hand he found Ricky’s arm.

“You okay?”

Ricky swallowed hard. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Who lives nearby?”

“Hank Ridley.”

“Think he’ll let us use his car?”

“If I ask him, sure. Where are we going?”

“To the police.”

Valentine dropped his hand, expecting Ricky to lead the way. But the big lug just stood there and wrestled with something he wanted to say. The words refused to come out, and finally he spun around and took off through the woods.

A minute later they emerged onto a large backyard with a bamboo tiki hut sitting in its center. Hank Ridley’s house sat on the other end of the property, a shingle farmhouse with a brick chimney and large weather vane. An American flag with the stars replaced by a peace symbol hung across the front porch. They crossed the lawn, and a motion-sensitive floodlight momentarily blinded them. Ricky started to climb the steps to the porch, then stopped.

“Hank’s pretty heavy into the reefer, okay?”

Valentine said okay. Potheads didn’t bother him the way drunks did. He guessed it was because he’d had little interaction with them as a cop. Potheads didn’t batter their spouses or fight in bars; they just hung out at home, ate sweets, and melted into the furniture.

Ricky rapped loudly on the front door. From within came the strains of rock ’n’ roll music. Ricky put his ear to the door. “Dick’s Picks. Grateful Dead, Tampa, Florida, December 1973. The ‘Here Comes Sunshine’ track on this set was really awesome.”

“What’s Dick’s Picks?”

Ricky’s foot was tapping the beat on the porch as if he’d forgotten what had brought them here. “A guy named Dick Latvala collected bootleg Grateful Dead recordings and released the good ones with the band’s permission. There were thirty-one CDs in all.”

“Does Hank have every one?”

“You bet.”

The front door opened, and a marijuana fog enveloped the front porch. A heavyset, bearded man in his late fifties emerged. He was dressed like the last of the Beat Generation and wore ratty shorts and a tie-dyed T-shirt. He seemed oblivious to the chilly weather, and offered the burning joint in his hand to Ricky. Ricky shook his head, and Hank offered Valentine the joint like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“He’s an ex-cop,” Ricky said.

Hank’s bloodshot eyes went wide, and he tossed the joint into his mouth and snapped his lips shut. Then he started to gag like the joint was burning his head off.

“I said ex!” Ricky exclaimed.

Hank swallowed the joint anyway. He smiled loosely at his visitors.

“You into poetry?”

Valentine realized the question was directed at him. “I just started reading Billy Collins.”

“Man after my own heart. I’d invite you in and show you my collection, but there are illegal pharmaceuticals lying around. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.”

“We need to borrow your car,” Ricky said.

Hank dug the keys out of his shorts and tossed them in the air. Valentine grabbed them before Ricky could. He watched Hank spin around and walk straight into the doorjamb with his face. He bounced like he was made of rubber and went inside.

“He always so messed up?” Valentine asked as they walked around back.

“That’s pretty straight for Hank,” Ricky replied.

Hank’s car reeked of reefer. It was an ancient Checker Cab that Hank had bought from a dealer in Chicago over the Internet. The seats reminded Valentine of an old school bus, and he got behind the wheel and fired up the engine. Taking the Glock from his pocket, he laid it on his lap. Ricky made the dog sit on the floor in back, then strapped himself in.

“Tell me how to get out of here.”

Ricky pointed at the gravel driveway. “Go out that way. At the top of the hill, hang a left. We’re going to have to pass my place to go to town.”

“Is that the only way out?”

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