Free Mr. Lucky by James Swain Page B

master had acquired. His name was Thor, and although he technically belonged to Ricky’s ex-wife, Thor had run away from her and back to Ricky so many times that she’d given up trying to make any claims on him. “Keep him!” she’d screamed into the phone the last time they’d spoken. Ricky had hung up, laughing his head off.
    His feet quickly found the familiar trail through the woods, the matted leaves glistening from yesterday’s rain. Right after he’d come back from Las Vegas he’d started jogging, determined to shed the extra fifty pounds he’d been lugging around since high school. He’d started out slow, huffing and puffing, but after a few days tiny wings had sprung from his heels, allowing him to keep up with Thor’s medium-paced trot.
    Hank Ridley’s woods backed up onto Ricky’s two acres, and as Ricky jogged down the path, Ridley’s falling-down barn became visible through the trees. A chemical in the shingles made them glow under the sunlight, and Ricky saw his rotund neighbor coming around the path, a joint palmed in his hand. Hank’s dog, a shaggy mutt named Buster, exploded through the trees and stopped dead upon seeing Thor. The two dogs sniffed tails, checking out what the other had for dinner, then started wagging.
    “Morning, Hank,” Ricky said. Wherever Hank went, an aromatic fog of marijuana followed. He’d never been arrested, nor asked to curb his egregious behavior, and Ricky was one of the few in town who knew why: Hank’s family still held the lease on the land on which the police department was built.
    “Morning, Ricky,” Hank said, exhaling a blue cloud. “How’s the rat race?”
    Hank did not read the paper or watch TV and, like Roland, knew nothing of Ricky’s recent good fortune. It had kept their relationship normal, and Ricky said, “Not so bad. Yourself?”
    “Can’t complain. Ever read any Walt Whitman?”
    “Just
Leaves of Grass
back in junior high.”
    “Didn’t make much of an impression, huh?” The joint dropped from Hank’s hand, and he ground it into the wet path. In Hank’s world there were people who read poetry and those who didn’t. “Didn’t know if you’d heard the latest, but we’ve got a new neighbor.”
    “Someone rented the Muller place?”
    “Yeah. Guy named Tony Valentine. Rumor is, he’s a retired cop writing his memoirs.”
    The wind was blowing easterly, carrying the pungent smell of Hank’s breath away. Slippery Rock’s grapevine had many drums, and strangers didn’t stay that way very long.
    “You talk to him?”
    “Naw, but your ex has. She rented him the house.”
    Ricky was getting cold standing still, the sun hanging like an ornament in the crisp blue sky. Talking about Polly always put him in a funk, and he shrugged. Hank snapped his fingers, and Buster exploded out of a bush, all out of breath.
    “I’ll keep you posted once I find out what he’s up to.”
    “You think he’s up to something?” Ricky asked.
    “Why the hell else would someone come to Slippery Rock?”
    “Thanks, Hank.”
             
    Ricky took a long cut home, his legs having grown stiff from standing too long. He ran down a seldom used path, the steep descent made treacherous by the wet leaves. Clumps of mud flew up from his heels, and he found himself surfing down the hill with Thor by his side. At its bottom, he hung a sharp left and got onto a paved road.
    A minute later he passed the old Muller place. A beat-up Honda Accord with Florida plates was parked in the drive. It was early May, and from what he’d seen on the Weather Channel, the weather in Florida was letter perfect. Slippery Rock was anything but perfect, with lots of rain and leftover cold winter air. Hank was right. It was a strange time of year for someone from Florida to be visiting.
    Only after he had showered and was drinking coffee at the nook in his kitchen did Ricky give it any more thought. Polly had obviously checked the guy out. She checked out all her