Free Mr. Lucky by James Swain Page A

the house. In the corner sat a mop in a bucket. He’d found other cleaning utensils around the house and guessed the last cleaning person had just up and left. He went and picked up the mop. It had an adjustable handle that allowed the user to squeeze the water out without having to bend over. He had an idea.
    He waited until his cell phone stopped ringing, then took the mop and jerked the handle down the throat of the mop two times. He did it hard. It sounded similar to a shotgun being pumped. He walked to the edge of the screen and stared at the spot in the darkened forest where he believed the four Spanish men stood.
    “I hear you sons-a-bitches out there,” he called out in his best hillbilly accent. “I’ll shoot the first one of yah that steps foot on my property. You hear me?”
    The words almost sounded comical; only, he had a feeling that these guys didn’t know the difference. The question was, would they call his bluff, or would they run? More whispering came out of the trees. He thought about easing backward off the porch and making his way toward the front door, when he heard the men start to walk away. They’d bought the act, hook, line, and sinker. He smiled to himself. He couldn’t wait to tell Mabel about this one.
    In the forest he heard a small animal running through the brush. One of the guys said something excitedly in Spanish. His words were followed by the
bang, bang
of a small-caliber firearm. Valentine dropped to the floor.
    “Cut that shit out,” the first voice said.
    One of the men laughed wickedly.
    When they were gone, Valentine ducked inside the house and got his gun from his suitcase. It was a Glock pocket rocket. People who purchased them did so with the intent of carrying them around. He needed to start doing that, or go home and enter the shuffleboard league near his house. He ventured outside the front door and got the flashlight from the trunk of his Honda. It was the kind favored by foot cops, and big enough to double as a weapon.
    He walked around the house and into the backyard. It was peaceful again, and he walked to the forest with the gun’s barrel aimed at the shadows. Entering the darkness, he flicked the flashlight on and saw its yellow beam cut a wide swath in the brush. He found the footpath and walked down it, trying to make as little noise as possible.
    He found the dead rabbit in the middle of the path. Its body was still warm, and he examined the entry point of the bullet. It had gone through the back of the neck and was small enough to be a .22. Tough guys didn’t carry. 22s. Kids did.
    He felt the air trapped in his lungs escape. Had they been planning to rob the house? That was the logical explanation, and he decided to go with it. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be careful. Arming himself was a good start.
             
    The next morning, he awoke at dawn, just like he had every day of his adult life. Splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth, then threw on last night’s clothes and went outside.
    It was always coldest before dawn and there was frost on the grass. He went into the garage and found a shovel propped against the wall. Going into the forest, he found the rabbit just as he’d left it. He lifted its limp body with the shovel.
    He found a shady spot in the backyard and laid the rabbit down. Then he dug a hole a few feet down. The ground was hard and unforgiving, and sweat dotted his brow. The older he’d gotten, the more he’d come to appreciate the sanctity of life, even that of dumb animals.
Stupid damn kids,
he thought.
    He laid the rabbit in the hole and covered it with dirt. With the toes of his shoes, he patted the mound down, then found a stick in the forest that resembled a cross. He plunged the stick into the mound, crossed himself, and went back inside the house.

10
    R ising before dawn, Ricky Smith threw on a track suit and headed out the door, his trusty Doberman by his side, the dog enjoying this new habit his