Mr. Lucky Read Online Free Page A

card and snapped it over: a five. The retired bookkeeper gritted her teeth and swore.
    “Always the big ones,” she said as Max took away her chips.
    “Seems that way, doesn’t it?” Max said.
    Busted, Helen got up to leave. An overweight man had walked into the casino and stood behind her, holding her chair. Helen thanked him, then made a funny sound. Max followed her gaze. The overweight man was soaking wet, his shoulders and balding head sprinkled with shiny slivers of glass.
    “Where are your shoes?” Helen asked.
    “Lost them,” the man said.
    He took Helen’s chair and pulled his body close to the table. Helen hung close to his side, waiting to see what he was about to do. Riffling his pockets, the man scowled; no wallet. Removing his watch, he dropped it on the felt table and pushed it toward Max. “How much will you give me for this?”
    “I’m sorry, sir,” Max said, “but house rules prohibit me from pawning chips.”
    “Anyone ever tell you that you sound like a robot?” the man asked. Turning to the retired bookkeeper, he said, “How about you? It cost me eight hundred.”
    Helen appraised the timepiece. Placing it on the table, she said, “It’s broken, mister. You just come from across the street?”
    The man stared at the shattered face of his Movado. “That’s right.”
    “You jump into the pool or something?”
    The man pointed at the watch. The hands were frozen at 12:05. The retired bookkeeper nodded, understanding immediately. The man said, “I jumped through the skylight in the spa’s roof and landed on some mattresses lying in the pool. They broke my fall. When I pulled myself out of the water, I discovered my shoes were gone.”
    Helen took the seat next to him. “What’s your name, mister?”
    “Ricky Smith.”
    “This is your lucky day, isn’t it, Ricky?”
    “It sure is. I won twenty grand earlier.”
    “Twenty grand! What were you playing?”
    “Blackjack.”
    Helen looked into the young man’s eyes. A silent understanding passed between them. Taking her purse from her pocketbook, she extracted a twenty tucked behind a picture of her cat. “When I was growing up, my mother made me carry a hidden twenty whenever I went out. I thought it was stupid until a boy tried to rape me on a date. I ran and ended up calling a cab. Guess what?”
    “What?” Ricky said.
    “The fare came to exactly twenty dollars.” She dropped the grainy bill on the table and slid it toward Max. “Chips, please.”
    Max took the twenty, called out “Changing twenty,” and shoved the money into the drop box in the table with a plunger. Then he took four red five-dollar chips from his rack and slid them toward Ricky.
    “Good luck, sir,” the dealer said.
    Ricky fingered the small stack of chips while looking at Helen. She blinked three times, as if unable to control a nervous tic. Ricky smiled at her, then slid his chips into the betting circle on the table. He fixed his eyes on the dealer.
    “Let’s dance,” he said.

4
    T wo days after the tragic fire at the Riverboat, Bill Higgins, the director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board and one of Valentine’s closest friends, called from Tampa International Airport. He had just flown in from Las Vegas and needed to talk.
    “You here on business?” Valentine asked him.
    “Afraid so,” Bill replied.
    A yellow cab deposited Bill on Valentine’s doorstep thirty minutes later. He was dressed in a somber black suit and walking without his cane, the color of good health having returned to his cheeks. Four months before, a gangster had shot him in the leg, and his rehab had been slow but steady. He was a Navajo by birth, and wore his emotions several layers below the surface.
    Valentine pumped his hand, then showed him into the living room and got two Diet Cokes from the kitchen. Serving his guest, he said, “So how’s life treating you?”
    “Crummy,” Bill said, loosening his tie. He took a long swallow of soda, then said, “You know,