Free Mr. Lucky by James Swain

Looking his host in the eye, he said, “Based upon what you just told me, I’d say it’s an inside job.”
    Lamar glared at him while mixing his coffee with the eraser end of a pencil. “Give me a break. How can you draw that conclusion based upon what I just told you?”
    “You’re short the same two times a month?”
    “Correct.”
    “Every month?”
    “Yeah, so?”
    “Is it right before payday?”
    Lamar leaned back in his chair and gave Gerry the same thoughtful look he’d shown out in the parking lot. “You know something? I think I could learn to like you.”

9
    V alentine sat in a rocking chair on the screened porch of his new house and stared at the forest that was his backyard. The night was chilly, and he wore his overcoat buttoned to his neck. He’d downed a gallon of Diet Coke during the drive, and didn’t think he could fall asleep if his life depended on it.
    Stevie Ray Vaughan’s music continued to blast out of Ricky Smith’s house. Valentine had decided that he liked it; the music had an earthy quality that struck him as real. And he liked the man’s singing voice. It was raw and powerful.
    A few minutes past midnight, Ricky Smith’s stereo stopped playing. Valentine watched the windows in Ricky’s house go dark. He tried to imagine what it had been like for Polly to be married to such a clown. His own marriage had lasted more than forty years. The secret had been compromise and more compromise. Ricky sounded like he didn’t know the meaning of the word.
    The forest came alive with hoots and cries that he never heard down in Florida. Back home, it was mostly frogs and crickets and an occasional dog. The sounds he was hearing now were wilder. He leaned forward in his chair, trying to place them.
    Then he heard the footsteps and sat up straight in his chair. They were in the forest and coming toward the house. He decided it was kids returning from the woods and felt himself calm down. It was a perfect place to drink beer.
    The backyard was a hundred feet wide. Then the forest began. The footsteps were close, and he imagined the kids were directly behind the first stand of trees. He strained his eyes to see them. It was too dark to make out anything but vague shadows.
    “This the house?” one of them asked.
    “That’s the one,” another replied.
    “You positive? I don’t want to hit the wrong one.”
    “That’s the one. Fucker’s in there.”
    The voices weren’t coming out of kids’ mouths. They were adults, male, and had hints of Spanish accents. They also spoke like tough guys, each syllable laced with a threat. Valentine started to push himself out of his chair and heard it loudly creak.
    “What the hell was that?” a third voice said.
    “We’ve been made,” a fourth voice said.
    “You think so?”
    “Shut up,” the first one said.
    Valentine felt his heart doing the funny thing it always did when he got scared out of his wits. His gun was in his suitcase on the other side of the house. He could call the police on his cell phone; only, he hadn’t gotten the house’s address from Polly. His earlier conversation with Mabel suddenly hit home.
Stop thinking about Ricky jumping out of the burning hotel
. In other words, look at it like any other crime. Only, he hadn’t, and now he was screwed.
    His other option was to run out the front door. It would buy him some time, and right now, he needed as much of that as he could get. He pushed himself out of his rocker and heard his cell phone ring. It was sitting on the side table, and he stared at the illuminated caller ID. Gerry, calling from Gulfport. He cursed silently.
    From the woods came whispering. It was in Spanish, and he tried to pick up a few words that he knew. They were debating what to do. They outnumbered him, but no one wanted to go first. He’d never met a tough guy with an ounce of courage, and these jokers were no different.
    He looked around the porch for something to defend himself with in case they rushed