Mr. Lucky

dashboard. He was flying at one hundred miles per hour. Arlen clapped his hands like a seal.

Up the road a few miles was a suspension bridge that Huck thought was the prettiest man-made thing he’d ever seen. It hung over a steep valley of trees and rushing water. Passing over it, they would go from the Central time zone into the Eastern. No police would be on it—too risky for a roadblock. The roadblock would be on the other side. Flashing lights appeared in his mirror. In the distance, but gaining.

“You see the bridge that’s coming up ahead?” he said.

Arlen nodded enthusiastically.

“There’s going to be a roadblock on the other side. Cops. I’m going to have to ditch the car. You remember what to do if that happens?”

“Cops?”

“Yeah. You want me to tell you again?”

“No, I remember.”

“You sure?”

Arlen’s head bobbed up and down. Huck steered with one hand and dug out his wallet. He tossed it to Arlen and saw him dig for the money and his credit cards.

“Leave me some,” Huck screamed at him.

“How much you want?”

Damn little shit, already acting like everything in the wallet was his.

“Enough to get by,” Huck said.

The suspension bridge loomed in his windshield. It looked eerie at night. During one of his moonshine runs years ago, he remembered thinking that by crossing it, he was actually going back in time. A lot of crazy thoughts had gone through his head. Like all the things he’d do differently with his life, if he had the chance.

He hit the bridge doing one ten. Halfway across he put his brights on. There was no roadblock on the other side. He felt a momentary sigh of relief and relaxed his foot on the accelerator. Then he saw the faint outline of four cruisers parked sideways on the highway. They were a half mile up the road. He wondered why they’d picked that spot. Maybe they’d been fearful that some redneck would come burning over the bridge and plow right into them. In his mirror the cruisers behind him were gaining. He looked at his brother. “Hold on to something.”

Arlen wrapped his arms around his chest.

“Not yourself, you idiot. Hold on to the car!”

Arlen grabbed the door handle. Up ahead, the cruisers simultaneously turned on their headlights and their bubbles, the highway awash in light. Huck flashed his brights at them. When he was close enough to see their faces, Huck spun the wheel to his left and jumped onto the grass median. It was risky: Parts of the median had deep culverts, but it was a chance he had to take.

He heard the tires grind on the dirt. He flew past the roadblock and saw the flash of a shotgun blast. It missed them. Sons of bitches couldn’t hit an elephant.

His right rear tire exploded, and the car sagged to one side. He jerked the wheel to his right and got back on the highway. In his mirror he could see the cops jumping into their cruisers and giving chase. He guessed he had a minute on them.

“I’m going to ditch the car,” he said. “I’m going to run one way, you run the other. Don’t run after me.”

“I won’t,” Arlen said.

“Do you remember what to say if the cops nab you?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Arlen tapped his finger on his skull. “I got it burned in my brain.”

Two thousand miles away, Helen Ledbetter climbed out of bed and threw her bathrobe on. For thirty years, she’d risen every morning at six-thirty and gone to work. Being retired, she’d expected her inner clock to start letting her sleep in. So far, it wasn’t cooperating.

She ate a bowl of sugar-coated cereal. A couple of times she glanced at the phone on the counter. The little red light was blinking, indicating she had a message. She muted the ringer when she slept, and sometimes forgot to turn it back on. She’d put her name on the National Do Not Call Registry, but sneaky telemarketers found clever ways to call her. “We’re conducting a survey,” was the usual opening line. Or the company was one she “did business with” and wanted to let her know about a “special offer.”

When she was finished eating, she put her dishes in the sink, then punched the play button on the phone.

“Aunt Helen, this is Ricky calling,” her nephew said. “I’ve got some bad news. A detective the casinos hired is onto us. He’s here in Slippery Rock. It’s only a matter of time before he figures out the blackjack scam.”

Her rump hit her chair hard. “No,” she said aloud.

“You have to run,” her nephew went on.

“No,” she shouted at the phone.

“I’m going to wire you five thousand dollars. It’s the last of my money. You need to get out of Las Vegas. I’m sorry to be telling you this.”

Helen Ledbetter’s vision went blurry. Five thousand dollars? Ricky had promised her more than two hundred thousand dollars. She’d gotten brochures for everything she wanted to buy and spread them across the living-room floor. One night, she’d even danced in front of them.

“Call me when you get this. Please.”

She felt paralyzed and stared at the answering machine. Ricky had said it couldn’t go wrong. And what was the harm of taking money from a casino? They swindled their patrons all the time with false promotions.

Finally she found her legs and walked into the living room. The brochures were stacked in a neat pile on the coffee table. She’d put Post-its on the pages that contained the things she wanted to buy. Taking the brochures into the kitchen, she threw them into the trash compactor while cursing silently to herself.

She was packing a suitcase when she heard a car’s wheels on the driveway. She went to the window and parted the curtains with her fingers. Light streamed out, and she saw two middle-aged men in a black Impala. The one behind the wheel was familiar-looking. As he got out, she realized it was Bill Higgins, the director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board who’d interviewed her.

She ran to the hall closet and pulled out the purse with the miniature camera she’d used to scam the Mint. The camera was sewn into the purse, so it couldn’t accidentally fall out if dropped. Ricky had told her to throw the purse off the Hoover Dam. Helen had agreed but hadn’t done it.

She ran into the kitchen and shoved the purse into the trash compactor. The front doorbell chimed. She hit the button and went to the back door. The second man was standing on the stoop.

“No, no, no,” she shouted at him.

His cold eyes met hers. He put his silver badge to the glass. “Please let us in,” he said politely.

Helen ran back into her bedroom and locked the door behind her. Ran around the room with her hands on her head. She knew what they did to cheaters in Nevada; she’d seen it countless times in the casinos she’d worked in. They dragged them into court in handcuffs, convicted them, and put them in prisons like Ely, which were living hell. Cheating a casino was a felony because you were also stealing from the state. The average sentence was four and a half years.

She heard her back door being kicked in. Sat on her bed and cried.

“Ms. Ledbetter,” Bill Higgins said through the door.

“Go away!”

“Ms. Ledbetter, please open the door.”

She was going to federal penitentiary. She would live in a cell and do what other people told her to. She was seventy-three years old and was going to lose her freedom. She could not imagine a more horrible fate.

She went to the room’s rear window. It faced west and looked out onto the desert. Every day she took a long walk in the desert, even when it was hot as an oven. It cleared her head and gave her thoughts a special clarity. And now she was going to lose that.

“Please, Ms. Ledbetter,” Bill Higgins said.

There was a shelf above the window. She took the revolver from it and pressed the barrel to her temple.