by Tim Dorsey
Covering 92 percent of the board is a lot of tickets, but you wouldn’t believe how much actual physical space they take up until you saw it. Almost twenty briefcases sat in neat rows in Pelota’s closet. Considering whose suite they were in, security was no issue. The cases weren’t going to get as much as a fingerprint.
The sky gave its initial hint that the black of night was beginning to fade, and the last of the lieutenants adjourned to their own rooms.
Ocho Pelota was left alone on his balcony in a personal orb of cigar smoke and accomplishment. Tiny lights blinked on the western sky as the first of the red-eyes began their landing approaches from Los Angeles and San Diego. Pelota stubbed out his cigar and went to bed.
Chapter 32
Jackpot
Jack-pot (noun) 1. The top prize in a game of stakes, such as bingo, poker, slots, lottery. 2. A significant fortune. 3. Large, unexpected success. Syn: pool, kitty, bonanza. Hitting the jackpot.
Idiom: (chiefly western, southern) Suddenly and without warning entering into a position of extreme distress or peril. Syn: jam, pickle, crisis. Find oneself in a jackpot.
Monday Morning
Ziggy Blade was fresh off a two-joint breakfast as he tapped his steering wheel to the not-so-ageless tunes of Iron Butterfly. There was a reason for his jaunty outlook besides chemicals. A recent uptick in his lottery resale business. He attempted to do the math in his head, but the pot made it like trying to spray molasses from an aerosol can. Let’s see, those tickets and the other ones, multiplied by this and divided by that and, well, it’s a lot. The twelve-year-old Toyota turned in the parking lot at his office, and Ziggy saw a sign that the new week was indeed going to be special.
A new customer was already waiting outside his door.
“Peace,” said Ziggy, trotting up the steps with keys in hand. “Been waiting long?”
A head whipped this way and that, and back again. “Can we just get inside?”
“Chill,” said Ziggy, leading him through the office. “Most defendants are nervous like you when they first arrive, but your troubles are over now that you’re with the Z-ster—as long as you haven’t signed any confessions.” An eyebrow raised.
“No confession,” said the client.
“Great!” Ziggy took a seat behind his desk. “How can I help you today?”
The man’s hands trembled as he reached inside his jacket for a large envelope, which contained a medium envelope, that held a small envelope, protecting an even smaller one . . . It was like all the secret doors at the beginning of Get Smart. Ziggy blinked hard.
The new client finally reached the end of his low-tech security system. He stood and placed a small rectangle of thick paper in front of the lawyer.
“Oh, another winning ticket,” said Ziggy. “How many numbers did you hit? Four? Please tell me it’s five . . .” A widening smile.
The man continued twitching as he placed a folded-over page from the Miami Herald on the desk. Ziggy held it side by side with the ticket, eyes moving back and forth, number after number. The smile disappeared. Ziggy didn’t trust his cannabis eyes. He checked all six numbers again, then backward, then slowly set the ticket down like a Fabergé egg. “You won?”
“I know.”
Emotions rocketed in opposite directions. First Ziggy was elated at his cut of the take. Hooray! . . . Immediately followed by: I could be holding hundreds of millions in my hands, in this neighborhood. “I need another joint.” Rapid-fire toking. “Now I’m paranoid.”
And now they were both twitching and jerking around. “We have to get this to a safer place pronto!” said Ziggy. “My wheels aren’t reliable enough for this kind of gig. What are you driving?”
“New Chrysler 300.”
“You’re driving.”
They repackaged the ticket in all the envelopes and stuck it in Ziggy’s soft-sided hemp briefcase. They crept to the front of the office and peeked out the window. “All clear!”
“Run!”
A Chrysler slung a cloud of dust as they sped away.
Miami Women’s Legal Aid Clinic
Brook sat behind her desk. The client on the other side wore a camo baseball cap.
They were quiet for the moment, the attorney trying to decipher new data.
“Let me see if I understand this correctly,” said Brook. “You took a small alligator in a cardboard box to the convenience store to trade for beer and lottery tickets.”
“That’s right. I was all over the TV.”
“But . . . why?”
Shrug. “The other guy was getting the better deal.”
Brook paused again. “You do understand that stores don’t make trades.”
“I do now.”
A sigh. “Okay, then what happened?”
“State wildlife officials arrested me and took the gator.”
“If they took the gator,” said Brook, “then what’s in the cardboard box in your lap?”
“I had others,” said the client. “I wanted to see if we could work out a trade concerning your fee.”
The phone rang.
“Hold that thought.” She picked up the receiver. “Brook Campanella, how may I— . . . Oh, hi . . . Wait, slow down. What’s wrong? . . . You’re not serious . . . You are serious? . . . Okay, I have to think this through. Meanwhile, you need to come here right now and don’t stop anywhere . . . You’re already driving over as fast as you can? Good, but not too fast . . . Oh, and one more thing: Whatever you do, don’t talk to anyone else.”
She set the receiver down and looked at her client. “Sorry, but something’s come up. Can you wait in the waiting room?”
Her client left and Brook picked up the phone again . . .
A Chrysler 300 raced east across greater Miami. Ziggy got off the phone.
Pablo turned in the driver’s seat. “The other attorney?”
Ziggy nodded. “One of the best. Everything will be fine.” He began dialing again.
“I could overhear,” said Pablo. “I thought you weren’t supposed to talk to anyone else.”
“I know what I’m doing.” He put the phone to his head. “Hello, it’s me, the Blade-man . . .”
A young reporter stood bedside in a recovery room at Miami General Hospital. A cameraman filmed a patient whose head had swollen up like a basketball.
“But why were you sleeping with a cottonmouth water moccasin?” asked Reevis.
“Mgfhjadsd . . .”
“There are reports that you regularly kissed it.”
“Mgjireifdek . . .”
“Is that when it bit you on the face?”
“Midfkgkls . . .”
A cell phone rang, and Reevis checked the caller ID. “Hold on, I have to take this . . . Hello, Brook, what’s going on? . . . What! . . . Okay, don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right over . . .”
“Mjjjfggsys . . .”
“Sorry, but something’s come up,” said the reporter. “I have to go.”
“Another big story?” asked Brisbane.
“No, a personal matter,” said Reevis. “I need to get over to the legal clinic.” He began dialing again as he rushed out of the room.
Brisbane and Dundee glanced at each other and nodded. They ran out the door.
A couple of satisfied customers had returned and occupied a pair of chairs in a nail salon.
An Asian woman smiled at a cheetah. “But you don’t need the laser treatment.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Serge. “I’m all about lasers. Bring it on.”
She smiled again and went to work, giving him extra pampering because of his massive tip from the last visit. She was starting to get a crush.
A cell phone rang, and rang. It took extra time to take off the paw and fish inside the costume. “Serge here . . . What! . . . Slow down, what’s wrong? . . . Don’t move. I’ll take care of everything . . .”
“Is something the matter?” asked the woman walking over with a narrow beam of light.
“Sorry, but
something’s come up.” He jumped out of the chair and peeled off twenties. “Come on, Coleman! . . .”
It was a frantic search that became so desperate it ventured into irrational territory. In the top floor of an extended-stay hotel near the airport, all the briefcases lay open on the beds as men ripped apart pillows and pulled paintings off the walls.
Ocho Pelota stood in the middle of the room with a crimson face.
Reports came back from various parts of the suite: “I can’t find it.” “It’s not anywhere.” “What could have happened to that ticket?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Pelota took a deep, violent breath. “Who’s not here?”
They looked around. “Pablo.”
“Pablo!” repeated Pelota. “He’s the last person I would have— Goddammit!” He pulled out his cell phone and dialed. And dialed.
“He’s not answering?”
“What about ‘shut up’ do you not get?” Then he began pressing other buttons, pulling up a map in the screen. “All the cell phones I gave you guys are GPS enabled . . . There’s Pablo, and he’s on the move. Everyone, strap up!”
They grabbed all the weapons they could lay their hands on and ran for the door.
In a Fort Lauderdale condo, a man with dreadlocks and a bathrobe stared out at the ocean with a phone in his hand. “. . . I understand . . . Yes, you did the right thing . . . Your word is your bond . . . We’ll meet you there.”
He hung up.
“Who was that?” asked a trusted assistant.
“Our new lawyer,” said Rogan. “Get everyone together as fast as you can, and pack heavy.”
A Chrysler 300 screeched into the strip-mall parking lot. Ziggy and Pablo ran up the stairs to the law clinic as another vehicle jumped the curb. Reevis leaped out.
Brook was waiting at the top. “To my office!”
They piled inside. Then the tedious process of going through the layers of protective envelopes until the ticket lay in the middle of her desk. Everyone stood around staring silently like it was a piece of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
Brook flipped to a page in the Miami Herald and compared numbers one by one. Over and over. She began hyperventilating. “It’s for real.”
A cell phone rang. Pablo jumped. He checked the caller ID and started shaking uncontrollably. He hurriedly completed a forgotten task: turning off his GPS.
“You better have a seat,” said Brook. “And you better tell me right now why you can’t come forward with this ticket. Most of my clients are jittery, but something’s more than not right here. And it isn’t just the size of the jackpot.”
Pablo just continued vibrating as the color drained from his face.
“The whole story,” said Brook. “Or we don’t go any further.”
Pablo stuttered through most of it, but he eventually finished the wild tale.
Brook and Reevis locked eyes. “Dear God!”
The reporter pulled out his cell phone.
“Reevis, who are you calling? . . .”
A silver Corvette skidded into the parking lot. The pals jumped out and dashed inside.
“Serge, thank heavens you’re here! I didn’t know what else to do!”
“You can calm down now,” said Serge. “I’ve got this under control.”
“I couldn’t believe he came back,” said Marilyn. “He’s been sitting in his car across the street all morning.”
Serge glanced out the curtains at a brown-haired man in an old convertible black Lincoln. “The mask is in my car. This won’t take long.”
Marilyn didn’t want Serge to leave her side, and she tiptoed behind him. Serge popped the trunk and grabbed the disguise. A cell phone rang. “Serge here . . . Reevis, slow down, you’re talking too fast . . . What! . . . Don’t move. I’ll be right over.” Then to Marilyn: “Something’s come up . . .”
“Wait!” said a terrified drag queen. “You can’t leave me!”
“Wouldn’t think of it.” Serge slammed the trunk. “You’ll be safe with us. Come on!”
The trio ran to the Corvette. The sky began to darken, wind picked up. Coleman sat in Marilyn’s lap as Serge tossed the Oswald mask on the dashboard. He gave it the gas and took off down the street, followed by a black Lincoln. They both took the on-ramp to the Palmetto Expressway.
The full-scale freak-out was contagious. Everyone in Brook’s office felt hearts pounding through their chests. They kept checking out the window as purple thunderheads rolled in.
Then other pounding, feet coming up the stairs. Serge burst into the office with Coleman and Marilyn in tow.
“Thanks for coming,” said a shaken Reevis. “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to reach you.”
“Everyone can relax now,” said Serge. “But we have to move fast. If events are already in motion like I think, we’re not safe here. Who has the ticket?”
Ziggy grabbed it off the desk. “Me.” No time for the envelopes; he tucked it in his wallet.
“Whose Chrysler out front?”
“Mine,” said Pablo.
“Coleman rides with me,” said Serge. “Everyone else in the other car. If we can reach the Palmetto, we should be in the clear.”
They all scampered down the stairs. Serge stopped at the door for a quick recon before the final sprint to the cars. The sky cut loose in a downpour, but the coast was clear.
“Now!”
The gang ran for their vehicles as a pair of Mercedes flew into the parking lot. Pelota and his boys jumped out, forming a line and pointing Uzis. “Nobody’s going anywhere!”
They froze where they stood, rain dripping down their faces.
“Now, who has the ticket?” demanded Pelota.
A cheetah stepped forward. “I do,” lied Serge.
“Just hand it over and nobody will get hurt,” said Pelota. “Except Pablo. He’s coming with us.”
“You look like a reasonable person,” said Serge. “Don’t you think a finder’s fee is in order?”
“Serge!” snapped Brook.
“Shhh, I’m negotiating here.”
Pelota smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “You’ve got some nerve. That I respect. So I’ll make an exception and ask a second time, and only a second time. Give me the ticket.”
Tires squealed. A Jaguar and a Cadillac braked to a stop on the other side of the parking lot. Rogan’s dreadlock gang got out and formed another row, pointing MAC-10s.
Silence.
As fast as the rain had started, it ceased. Only the sound of water quickly draining off the parking lot into the storm drains and rushing through concrete pipes to the sea.
“I believe someone has my ticket,” said Rogan.
“Your ticket?” Pelota laughed with derision. “I believe you are seriously mistaken.”
“You’re the one who’s making a mistake.” Rogan tilted his head slightly, and all his men raised their weapons. Instantly, Pelota’s crew raised theirs. Fingers twitched on triggers.
Standoff.
The O.K. Corral comes to Miami.
Nobody moved. Two parallel firing lines faced each other twenty yards apart, with Serge and his hapless friends caught in the middle.
All the women from the salons were at the windows. It was a simple equation of timing now. Whoever got the drop and shot first at the perfect moment. But no sooner or it would be an uncoordinated spray.
The innocent people glanced one way and the other at the death squads. The looks in the gunmen’s eyes told them exactly what they were considered to be: collateral damage.
Goons in each camp slowly began squeezing triggers.
Suddenly another squeal of tires. A black Lincoln convertible raced into the parking lot. “Marilyn, I love you!”
“Oh no,” said Serge.
An SUV sped in from another direction. Dundee jumped out with his camera, and Brisbane made a fist. “Action!”
“Oh no,” said Reevis.
“Who the fuck are all these people?” said Pelota.
“The ticket,”
said Rogan.
The squeezing fingers were a hair from dropping the firing pins.
The door of the law office opened, and an oblivious man with a camo hat and a cardboard box wandered into the fire zone.
All guns swung toward him.
He looked up. “Ahhhhhhh!” And dropped the box. A reptile scampered.
“Alligator!”
Every trigger pulled.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang . . .
The crowd in the middle flattened themselves to the ground as chunks of parking lot exploded around the gator. But all the shots were wildly off target because the gunmen had learned how to shoot from TV. The reptile emerged unscathed.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang . . .
But bullets do have a habit of ricocheting. Lead flew up from the pavement.
A scream as one of Pelota’s men went down, then one of Rogan’s.
Bang, bang, bang . . .
More screams.
“Cease fire!” Pelota waved both arms in the air. “Everyone knock it off! It’s just a stupid little alligator! We don’t have the ticket yet!”
When the smoke cleared, bodies lay still, and each of the gangs was down to three.
A bicycle rolled by on the sidewalk with reptiles dangling from the handlebars.
“Iguanas!”
Bang, bang, bang.
“Stop shooting at everything!” yelled Pelota.
Sirens, police cars, dozens. The heavy artillery told them to hang back a block and form a perimeter until the tactical armored trucks arrived. Officers drew weapons and squatted behind open squad-car doors.
The warring factions grabbed clips to reload, and Serge used the opportunity to inch closer to the Corvette. He glanced toward the window of the nail salon and furtively formed his thumb and forefinger into a letter of the alphabet. One of the nail women nodded.
The guns were racked and raised. Squinting, quiet, itchy fingers.
Serge slowly reached for the dashboard and put on the Oswald mask.
