Lucky You

  Lucky You

  Carl Hiassen

  Carl Hiassen

  Lucky You

  1

  On the afternoon of November 25, a woman named JoLayne Lucks drove to the Grab N'Go minimart in Grange, Florida, and purchased spearmint Certs, unwaxed dental floss and one ticket for the state Lotto.

  JoLayne Lucks played the same numbers she'd played every Saturday for five years: 17-19-22-24-27-30.

  The significance of her Lotto numbers was this: each represented an age at which she had jettisoned a burdensome man. At 17 it was Rick the Pontiac mechanic. At 19 it was Rick's brother, Robert. At 22 it was a stockbroker named Colavito, twice JoLayne's age, who'd delivered on none of his promises. At 24 it was a policeman, another Robert, who got in trouble for fixing traffic tickets in exchange for sex. At 27 it was Neal the chiropractor, a well-meaning but unbearable codependent.

  And at 30 JoLayne dumped Lawrence, a lawyer, her one and only husband. Lawrence had been notified of his disbarment exactly one week after he and JoLayne were married, but she stuck with him for almost a year. JoLayne was fond of Lawrence and wanted to believe his earnest denials regarding the multiple fraud convictions that precipitated his trouble with the Florida Bar. While appealing his case, Lawrence took a job as a toll taker on the Beeline Expressway, a plucky career realignment that nearly won JoLayne's heart. Then one night he was caught making off with a thirty-pound sack of loose change, mostly quarters and dimes. Before he could post bail, JoLayne packed up most of his belongings, including his expensive Hermes neckties, and gave them to the Salvation Army. Then she filed for divorce.

  Five years later she was still single and unattached when, to her vast amusement, she won the Florida Lotto. She happened to be sitting with a plate of turkey leftovers in front of the television at 11 p.m., when the winning numbers were announced.

  JoLayne Lucks didn't faint, shriek or dance wildly around the house. She smiled, though, thinking of the six discarded men from her past life; thinking how, in spite of themselves, they'd finally amounted to something.

  Twenty-eight million dollars, to be precise.

  One hour earlier and almost three hundred miles away, a candy-red Dodge Ram pulled into a convenience store in Florida City. Two men got out of the truck: Bodean Gazzer, known locally as Bode, and his companion Chub, who claimed to have no last name. Although they parked in a handicapped-only zone, neither man was physically disabled in any way.

  Bode Gazzer was five feet six and had never forgiven his parents for it. He wore three-inch snakeskin shitkickers and walked with a swagger that suggested not brawn so much as hemorrhoidal tribulation. Chub was a beer-gutted six two, moist-eyed, ponytailed and unshaven. He carried a loaded gun at all times and was Bode Gazzer's best and only friend.

  They had known each other two months. Bode Gazzer had gone to Chub to buy a counterfeit handicapped sticker that would get him the choicest parking spot at Probation & Parole, or any of the other state offices where his attendance was occasionally required.

  Like its mangy tenant, Chub's house trailer emitted a damp fungal reek. Chub had just printed a new batch of the fake emblems, which he laconically fanned like a poker deck on the kitchen counter. The workmanship (in sharp contrast to the surroundings) was impeccable – the universal wheelchair symbol set crisply against a navy-blue background. No traffic cop in the world would question it.

  Chub had asked Bode Gazzer what type he wanted – a bumper insignia, a tag for the rearview or a dashboard placard. Bode said a simple window tag would be fine.

  "Two hunnert bucks," said Chub, scratching his scalp with a salad fork.

  "I'm a little short on cash. You like lobster?"

  "Who don't."

  So they'd worked out a trade – the bogus disabled-parking permit in exchange for pounds of fresh Florida lobster, which Bode Gazzer had stolen from a trapline off Key Largo. It was inevitable that the poacher and the counterfeiter would bond, sharing as they did a blanket contempt for government, taxes, homosexuals, immigrants, minorities, gun laws, assertive women and honest work.

  Chub never thought of himself as having a political agenda until he met Bode Gazzer, who helped organize Chub's multitude of hatreds into a single venomous philosophy. Chub believed Bode Gazzer was the smartest person he'd ever met, and was flattered when his new pal suggested they form a militia.

  "You mean like what blowed up that courthouse in Nebraska?"

  "Oklahoma," Bode Gazzer said sharply, "and that was the government did it, to frame those two white boys. No, I'm talking 'bout a militia.Armed, disciplined and well-regulated. Like it says in the Second Amendment."

  Chub scratched a chigger bite on his neck. "Reg'lated by who, if I might ast?"

  "By you, me, Smith and Wesson."

  "And that's allowed?"

  "Says right in the motherfuckin' Constitution."

  "OK then," said Chub.

  Bode Gazzer had gone on to explain how the United States of America was about to be taken over by a New World Tribunal, armed by foreign-speaking NATO troops who were massing across the Mexican border and also at secret locations in the Bahamas.

  Chub glanced warily toward the horizon. "The Bahamas?" He and Bode were in Bode's cousin's nineteen-foot outboard, robbing traps off Rodriguez Key.

  Bode Gazzer said: "There's seven hundred islands in the Bahamas, my friend, and most are uninhabited."

  Chub got the message. "Jesus Willy Christ," he said, and began pulling the lobster pots with heightened urgency.

  To run a proper militia would be expensive, and neither Chub nor Bode Gazzer had any money; Bode's net worth was tied up in the new Dodge truck, Chub's in his illegal printshop and arsenal. So they began playing the state lottery, which Bode asserted was the only decent generous thing the government of Florida had ever done for its people.

  Every Saturday night, wherever they happened to be, the two men would pull into the nearest convenience store, park brazenly in the blue handicapped zone, march inside and purchase five Lotto tickets. They played no special numbers; often they were drinking, so it was easier to use the Quick Pick, letting the computer do the brainwork.

  On the night of November 25, Bode Gazzer and Chub bought their five lottery tickets and three six-packs of beer at the Florida City 7-Eleven. They were nowhere near a television an hour later, when the winning numbers were announced.

  Instead they were parked along a dirt road on a tree farm, a few miles from the Turkey Point nuclear reactor. Bode Gazzer was sitting on the hood of the Dodge pickup, aiming one of Chub's Ruger assault rifles at a U.S. government mailbox they'd stolen from a street corner in Homestead. An act of revolutionary protest, Bode had said, like the Boston Tea Party.

  The mailbox was centered in the headlight beams of the truck. Bode and Chub took turns with the Ruger until they were out of ammo and Budweisers. Then they sorted through the mail, hoping for loose cash or personal checks, but all they found was junk. Afterwards they fell asleep in the flatbed. Shortly after dawn they were rousted by two large Hispanics, undoubtedly the foremen of the tree farm, who swiped the Ruger and chased them off the property.

  It was some time later, after returning to Chub's trailer, that they learned of their extraordinary good fortune. Bode Gazzer was on the toilet, Chub was stretched on the convertible sofa in front of the TV. A pretty blond newscaster gave out the previous night's winning Lotto numbers, which Chub scribbled on the back of his latest eviction notice.

  Moments later, when Bode heard the shouting, he came lurching from the bathroom with his jeans and boxer shorts bunched at his knees. Chub was waving the ticket, hopping and whooping like he was on fire.

  Bodean Gazzer said: "You're shittin' me."

  "We won it, man! We won!"

  Bode lung
ed for the ticket, but Chub held it out of reach.

  "Give it here!" Bode demanded, swiping at air, his genitals flopping ludicrously.

  Chub laughed. "Pull up your pants, for Christ's sake." He handed the ticket to Bode, who recited the numbers out loud.

  "You're sure?" he kept asking.

  "I wrote 'em down, Bode. Yeah, I'm sure."

  "My God. My God.Twenty-eight million dollars."

  "But here's what else: They's two winning tickets is what the news said."

  Bode Gazzer's eyes puckered into a hard squint. "The hell you say!"

  "Two tickets won. Which is still, what, fourteen million 'tween us. You believe it?"

  Bode's tongue, lumpy and blotched as a toad, probed at the corners of his mouth. He looked to be working up a spit. "Who's got the other one? The other goddamn ticket."

  "TV didn't say."

  "How can we find out?"

  Chub said, "Christ, who gives a shit. Long as we get fourteen million, I don't care if Jesse Fucking Jackson's got the other ticket."

  Now Bode Gazzer's stubbled cheeks began to twitch. He fingered the Lotto coupon and said: "There must be a way to find out. Don't you think? Find out who's this shitweasel with the other ticket. There's gotta be a way."

  "Why?" Chub asked, but it was awhile before he got an answer.

  Sunday morning, Tom Krome refused to go to church. The woman who'd slept with him the night before – Katie was her name; strawberry blond, freckles on her shoulders – said they should go and seek forgiveness for what they had done.

  "Which part?" asked Tom Krome.

  "You know darn well."

  Krome covered his face with a pillow. Katie kept talking, putting on her panty hose.

  She said, "I'm sorry, Tommy, it's the way I'm made. It's time you should know."

  "You think it's wrong?"

  "What?"

  He peeped out from beneath the pillow. "You think we did something wrong?"

  "No. But God might not agree."

  "So it's precautionary, this church visit."

  Now Katie was at the mirror, fixing her hair in a bun. "Are you coming or not? How do I look?"

  "Chaste," said Tom Krome.

  The phone rang.

  "Chased? No, sweetheart, that was last night. Get the telephone, please."

  Katie put on her high heels, balancing storklike on elegant slender legs. "You honestly won't go? To church, Tom, I can't believe it."

  "Yeah, I'm one heathen bastard." Krome picked up the phone.

  She waited, arms folded, at the bedroom door.

  Krome covered the receiver and said, "Sinclair."

  "On a Sunday morning?"

  "I'm afraid so." Krome tried to sound disappointed but he was thinking: There isa God.

  Sinclair's title at The Registerwas Assistant Deputy Managing Editor of Features and Style. He relied on the fact that nobody outside the newspaper business understood the insignificance of his position. At smaller papers it was one of the least nerve-racking and lowest-profile jobs. Sinclair couldn't have been happier. Most of his reporters and editors were young and unabashedly grateful to be employed, and they did whatever Sinclair told them.

  His biggest problem was Tom Krome, who also happened to be his best writer. Krome's background was hard news, which had made him impossibly cynical and suspicious of all authority. Sinclair was scared of Krome; he'd heard stories. Also, at thirty-five Krome was older by two years, so he held the advantage of age as well as experience. Sinclair realized there was no possibility, none whatsoever, that Krome would ever respect him.

  His fear – in fact, Sinclair's most serious concern as the ADME of Features and Style – was that Krome might someday humiliate him in front of the staff. Figuratively cut off his nuts in front of Marie or Jacquelyn, or one of the clerks. Sinclair felt he could not psychologically endure such an episode, so he had resolved to keep Krome away from the newspaper office as much as possible. To that end, Sinclair committed ninety-five percent of his meager travel budget to assignments that kept Krome safely out of town. It worked out fine: Tom seemed content to be gone, and Sinclair was able to relax at the office.

  The most challenging of Sinclair's responsibilities was handing out lame story assignments. Calling Tom Krome at home was particularly trying; usually Sinclair had to shout to make himself heard above the loud rock music or women's voices in the background. He could only imagine how Krome lived.

  Sinclair had never before phoned on a Sunday. He apologized numerous times.

  Tom Krome said: "Don't worry about it."

  Sinclair was encouraged. He said, "I didn't think this one could wait."

  Krome had no trouble containing his excitement. Whatever Sinclair was calling about, it wasn't breaking news. Breaking fluff, maybe, but not news. He blew a kiss to Katie and waved her off to church.

  "I got a tip," Sinclair said.

  "Yougot a tip."

  "My brother-in-law phoned this morning. He lives over in Grange."

  Krome thought: Uh-oh. Crafts show. I will murder this fucker if he makes me cover another crafts show.

  But Sinclair said: "You play the lottery, Tom?"

  "Only when it's up to forty million bucks or so. Anything less is chump change."

  No reaction from Sinclair, who was deep into his pitch: "There were two winners last night. One in Dade County, the other in Grange. My brother-in-law knows the woman. Her name is – are you ready for this? – Lucks."

  Inwardly Tom Krome groaned. It was the quintessential Sinclair headline: lady lucks wins the lotto!

  You had your irony. You had your alliteration.

  And you had your frothy, utterly forgettable feature story. Sinclair called them Feel Goods. He believed it was the mission of his department to make readers forget all the nastiness they were getting in other sections of the newspaper. He wanted them to feel good about their lives, their religion, their families, their neighbors, their world.

  Once he'd posted a memo setting forth his philosophy of feature writing. Somebody – Sinclair suspected Tom Krome – had nailed a dead rat to it.

  "How much she win?" Krome asked.

  "The pot was twenty-eight million, so she'll get half. What do you think, Tom?"

  "Depends."

  "She works for a veterinarian. Loves animals, Roddy says."

  "That's nice."

  "Plus she's black."

  "Ah," said Krome. The white editors who ran the newspaper loved positive stories about minorities; Sinclair obviously smelled a year-end bonus.

  "Roddy says she's a trip."

  Krome said, "Roddy would be your brother-in-law?" The tipster.

  "Right. He says she's a character, this JoLayne Lucks." The headline dancing in Sinclair's brain actually was: lucks be a lady!

  Tom Krome said: "This Roddy person is married to your sister?"

  "Joan. Yes, that's right," Sinclair answered, edgily.

  "What the hell's your sister doing in Grange?"

  Grange was a truck-stop town known mainly for its miracles, stigmata, visitations and weeping Madonnas. It was a must-see on the Christian tourist circuit.

  Sinclair said, "Joan's a teacher. Roddy works for the state." Sinclair wanted to make clear they weren't nutcases but were responsible citizens. He noticed his palms had gotten damp from talking to Tom Krome for too long.

  "This Lady Lucks," Krome said, in a tone designed to cast scorn on the inevitable headline, "is she a Jesus freak? Because I'm in no mood to be preached at."

  "Tom, I really wouldn't know."

  "She says Jesus gave her those lucky numbers, end of story. I'm coming home. You understand?"

  Sinclair said, "Roddy didn't mention anything like that."

  Solemnly Krome played his ace. "Think of the letters we'll get."

  "What do you mean?" Sinclair hated letters almost as much as he hated telephone calls. The best stories were those that produced no reaction, one way or another, from readers. "What kind of mail?" he a
sked.

  "Tons," Krome replied, "if we do a piece saying Jesus is a gambling toot. Can you imagine? Hell, you'll probably hear from Ralph Reed himself. Next they'll be boycotting our advertisers."

  Firmly Sinclair said: "So let's stay away from that angle. By all means." After a pause: "Maybe this isn't such a hot idea."

  On the other end, Tom Krome smiled. "I'll drive up to Grange this afternoon. Check it out and let you know."

  "OK," Sinclair said. "Go check it out. You want my sister's phone number?"

  "That's not necessary," said Krome.

  Sinclair experienced a small shudder of relief.

  Demencio was refilling the fiberglass Madonna when his wife, Trish, hurried outside to say that somebody in town won the lottery.

  "I don't suppose it's us," said Demencio.

  "Rumor is JoLayne Lucks."

  "Figures."

  Demencio removed the top of the Madonna's head and reached inside the statue to retrieve a plastic bottle that had once held the wiper fluid in a 1989 Civic hatchback. These days the jug held tap water, lightly scented with perfume.

  Trish said, "You're almost out of Charlie."

  Demencio nodded irritably. That would be a problem. It was important to use a fragrance the righteous faithful wouldn't recognize; otherwise suspicions would be stirred. Once he'd experimented with Lady Stetson and there was nearly an uprising. The third pilgrim in line, a buzzardly bank teller from Huntsville, had sniffed it out instantly: "Hey, Mother Mary's crying Coty tears!"

  The woman was discreetly whisked away from the shrine before trouble started. Demencio had vowed to be more careful. Scenting the Madonna's tears was a fine touch, he thought. The devout souls who waited so long in the hot Florida sun deserved more than a drop of salty water on their fingertips – this was supposed to be Jesus' mother, for heaven's sake. Her tears oughtto smell special.

  Trish held the plastic bottle while Demencio poured the last of the Charlie perfume. Again she marveled at how small and childlike his brown hands were. And steady. He would've made a wonderful surgeon, her husband, if only he'd had the chance. If only he'd been born in, say, Boston, Massachusetts, instead of Hialeah, Florida.