The Irish Lottery Series Box Set (1-3)

by Gerald Hansen

  That session, after a brief spurt of hot machine after hot machine, Jed had slid into a cold patch. He had already wasted three spins—and put a dent in his winnings—on a wide array of slots he had abandoned in quick succession: the one with the nymphs and extending wild ferns, the one with the jackals, scarabs and Cleopatra scatters, the jumping lemmings one, the buxom female warrior one, the Wild West one, the one with the ladybugs, and the caterpillars that were supposed to turn into wild butterflies when he hit the bonus, but he never hit the bonus.

  He was now on a patriotic one, an American patriotic one, he was pleased to see, with George Washington scatters and bald eagles and some strange plant-like wilds he eventually figured were ‘amber waves of grain.’

  “There you go,” the waitress said.

  Jed smiled and grunted and took the Bailey’s. She took the two dollars with a grateful smile; maybe she was used to quarters. He stuck a $1.25 coupon in the slot, chose all lines times one, and pressed the button. The eagles and stalks of grain spun before his glassy eyes. The machine had a conniption, bells clanking, lights flashing, a disco-fied Star Spangled Banner ringing out. Jed felt the room growing larger, the screen of the machine receding from him. His eyes rounded. Seven George Washington scatters! One hundred and fifty free spins!

  His heart froze in excitement and fear. So many free spins was like the machine telling him, “Get set for riches!” He had never loved the national anthem or George Washington’s face more. He grabbed his cowboy hat, chucked down some Bailey’s and, fighting off the weakness in his heart and the sudden tears in his eyes, moved his trembling finger toward the Spin button. He had done it again! After the big lotto win in Ireland years ago, everyone told him he would never win big again. He was about to prove them wrong.

  Tensed on the seat, gripping the edge of the machine for support, Jed pressed Spin. He won nothing on the first spin. That was fine. He had 149 more. The second spin, nothing but a scattering of symbols in no order whatsoever. The third spin, the same. Jed stared in anger at the machine. Time passed.

  Spin 25. $4.08.

  The blaring of The Star Spangled Banner was beginning to grate. Jed tapped his pack of Marlboros against the machine and tugged out a smoke.

  Spin 27. $4.08.

  He lit up. He didn’t know what country this ship was registered to, but from the smoking and the children allowed on the gambling floor, it wasn’t the USA. In the Navy, he had spent his lifetime fighting for freedom in a variety of US military bases around the world, all the while hankering to return home to Wisconsin. But he had promised Ursula the night before their wedding in Derry that, when he retired, they would return to Northern Ireland and live there for the rest of their days.

  He had bided his time in Ireland to get back to the US, relieved when they finally moved back there due to the persecution Ursula’s family had put them through. But while he was gone, the country he had been serving, had been fighting for, had changed.

  Jed glared at the spinning wheels. George Washington’s wooden teeth seemed to be jeering at him. Back in the USA, he was greeted with a wide array of regulations he couldn’t understand, and many that didn’t make sense: health code regulations, safety code regulations, fire code regulations, mandatory car seats for children, bicycle helmets, carding adults in their forties and beyond, the term 'sexual harassment,' outlawing trans-fats (which he loved), excessive salt (ditto), sugary drinks in schools. Some schools had banned peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, for Christ's sake! The worst for him was no smoking in public places, and he had heard of entire towns in California where you couldn’t smoke anywhere. Even in your own dwelling. He suspected lawyers and fear of liability/lawsuits was somehow to blame.

  Jed was sickened at the sight of the machine by now. Those damn bald eagles! Coming from Ireland, where everything seemed to be allowed everywhere, he was startled at what the USA, the land of the free, had become. Everywhere he looked, there were signs posted with large red diagonal stripes: no, you can’t to this, no, you can’t do that. How was this freedom? The modern US he had returned to wasn’t one he would feel comfortable fighting for anymore. Everyone talked about Singapore, but was, for example, Cincinnati any more free? The nanny government of the USA was treating its citizens as imbeciles. He was no longer shocked when he read recently that Mayor Bloomberg in New York City wanted to limit alcohol drinking. Wasn’t this the nation that had learned its lesson from Prohibition, and was now fighting for civil rights so that people in Muslim countries had the choice to down a beer if they wanted, but was on the verge of denying its citizens the same ‘liberty?’

  He thought of all the hoops of red tape he had had to jump through for the sake of the store, the regulators that stormed in like demi-gods and barked out what things need to be changed, hand sanitizers that needed to be installed, the hot sauce and beef jerky attached to thermometers and kept at a precise degree of temperature that was basic room temperature...

  Spin 74. $8.12.

  He still remembered his and Ursula’s shock when the US government tried to take steps to outlaw the use of MSG in food. Ursula used to sprinkle it on everything she cooked to make it taste better, and considering her cooking skills this was a much-needed ingredient. And, worst of all, the year before, online gambling was forbidden to US citizens by the government. Jed had figured out a clever way to reroute the IP address of the store’s computer so that it seemed he was actually betting and playing in South Africa. Then, two weeks ago, the store had received a visit from some federal agents who demanded he erase his account, and they had given him a warning. He was forbidden from gambling online in the land of the free, while the rest of the world was on Youbetem.com playing craps to their delight. All this, when half the politicians on Capitol Hill wanted to legalize marijuana! Where had the country he loved gone?

  If Ursula had also broken one of the USA’s many many laws, and he suspected she had, he was secretly pleased. Good for her.

  His jaw ached, and Jed realized he had been grinding his teeth for the past twenty spins. He sat, disgusted at the Americana on the spinning wheels. The machine was actually dull, dead, barren, empty, cold.

  “Having fun?”

  Jed stifled a squeal. The British woman was peering at him over the top of the machine by the service button. Usually during bonus spins, Jed hated any type of interruption; he waved away cocktail waitresses even if his glass was empty. Though in the back of his mind he still held out hope of one surprise big millionaire spin this bonus, he welcomed the intrusion.

  “Oh, hi, again.”

  She struggled to pull a seat from the adjacent machine over to him. She perched her shapely legs on it and sat a Zero Halliburton aluminum briefcase beside them. Jed wondered what was inside. Her face was filled with vim and derring-do, and she was smiling, but he detected a glint in her kohl eyes which showed she didn’t suffer fools gladly.

  “I told you I would find you.”

  Her smile widened, he guessed to alleviate any threat he might feel.

  “By the way,” Jed said, “I meant to ask the other day, what’s your name?”

  She seemed to debate this in her mind, which he found damn odd.

  “You are Jed Barnett, yes?”

  Jed was shocked.

  “Yeah, but how do you know?”

  She looked around.

  “We have vast databases.”

  Jed looked around too, but couldn’t see the we. He looked at the machine instead, but it was still disappointing.

  “Who is we?”

  She leaned forward and perched her lips next to his earlobe.

  “MI-6.”

  She leaned back and waited for the look on his face. It was just confusion.

  “M...?” he asked.

  Her flicker of irritation was replaced at once with a smile.

  “The British secret intelligence service, similar to your CIA. And now I can introduce myself. Matcham. Agent Matcham.”

  The hairs on the back of
his neck tingled. He gripped the edge of the George Washington penny slot and threw the rest of the Bailey’s down his throat.

  “You mean...the people James Bond works with?”

  As his heartbeat increased, a bemused smile played on her lips.

  “If cable car fights and speedboat chases and being pushed out of airplanes without a parachute and ripping off your scuba diving gear to reveal a white tux underneath are what you have in mind, I’m afraid you could be rather disappointed. The reality is a bit more mundane. There’s a lot more paperwork involved than the movies would make you think. Most of the time I’m chained to a computer. And, well, I realize we’re meeting in one now, but there are fewer casinos involved, and a dearth of high-tech gadgets. Even MI-6 has been experiencing budget cuts in their research department. And I’m afraid, on this mission, I’m the closest thing to a Bond Girl you will encounter. A Bond Spinster, perhaps?”

  “Oh, don’t call yourself that,” Jed said, his head still reeling and, somehow, refusing to believe this classy woman’s job was as boring as she made it; his experience with Brits was that they tended to be a self-deprecating lot.

  “I hope I haven’t put you off, as the assignment I’m on now is proving to be a rather thrilling one. It reminds me of the reason I joined MI-6 in the first place. Which brings me to why I am speaking to you now. We’re finding ourselves at a bit of a loose end at the moment. Some of our operatives were waylaid in Cherbourg at the beginning of the cruise. My partner and I are now the only two on board, and we are in need of additional manpower.”

  “That helicopter on the island...?”

  “It was an EH-1 Merlin, transporting our backup, but I gave them a subtle sign as they flew overhead to let them know it wouldn’t be necessary to rappel further agents down to us. I had already discovered you on board I much prefer working with someone mature, someone with experience, better than some amateur culled from,” she gave a little snort of derision, “today’s thrusting young secret service force. But we do need someone’s help. I hope that someone will be you.”

  Jed sputtered. He took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses with the hem of his shirt. Agent Matcham avoided looking at the revealed flesh. He put them back on, glanced at the machine, then up at her.

  “I don’t understand. I think I know how the CIA works, and they would never just approach strangers to ask them to help them.”

  “Remember, Jed Aaron Barnett, born in Wisconsin, USA, Master Chief Petty Officer, proprietor of Sinkers, Scorchers, Shooters and Beef Jerky, you are not a stranger. We vet those we feel might be suitable as auxiliary agents. When we realized we were a bit short-staffed, we did extensive research on all the passengers aboard. Your record was the most exemplary and fitted out needs the most, all those medals from the US Navy, and also your store which sells arms, showing you’re no stranger to ammunition.”

  Jed was excited. He was also a bit scared.

  “Can you tell me what the...mission is?” He felt silly saying it like that in real life.

  She shook her head.

  “Not without you signing some,” she gave a little laugh and clasped her briefcase to her knees, “paperwork. You see, I told you? Although one of the pages is the Official Secrets Act, which I suppose you might find exciting. Already now, you mustn’t breathe a word of any of this to anyone, not even the fact that I approached you for recruitment. This includes your wife and your brother and sister-in-law. I’m sure you understand the sensitivity of it all.”

  “Sort of like, if I tell them, you have to kill them?”

  She trilled a little laugh, then grew deathly serious.

  “Just so.”

  They sat for a moment, looking at each other. Finally, Agent Matcham spoke again, and it seemed to be against her better judgment.

  “I suppose I won’t be giving too much away if I tell you the gist. We are after a group of individuals who boarded in France, a group of individuals who despise the West and all it stands for.”

  “A...cell, you mean? A terrorist cell?”

  Agent Matcham gave an eager smile.

  “I see you’ve been keeping yourself abreast of all the terrorist argot.”

  “I watch that show on BBC America about English spies. But...I thought it was called MI-5?”

  This seemed to worry Agent Matcham for some reason, but she pushed a smile back onto her face as she answered.

  “Yes, that’s our sister organization, Military Intelligence, responsible for internal strife. We deal with international matters. And, in the UK, we call that BBC program Spooks.”

  The horror of the un-PCness of the title shone through the streaks of Jed’s greasy lenses.

  “I see why they changed the name for Americans,”

  “Never mind that. This group of individuals have an insidious plot to—” She cut herself off and smoothed the lap of her dress. “I daren’t reveal too much without you officially agreeing and signing all the paperwork.”

  She motioned to her briefcase. If the Star Spangled Banner hadn’t been ringing out, and the children hadn’t been shrieking around them, and if the waves hadn't been roaring, silence would have surrounded them as Jed thought hard.

  “I suppose if you’re too scared, the cruiser is still waiting for us a few nautical miles behind. I can always get one of the other agents. But I hope it will be you.” She placed her hand on his and gave it a tender squeeze. Jed thought it strange she was wearing gloves. “So, what do you think? Are you on board?”

  The Donna Summer tune that had been blaring from the speakers cut out mid-shriek. The Americana machine lights and the chandeliers in the casino blinked, waned and died. A shuddering rocked the lead carcass of the ship. The Queen of Crabs moaned as if it were some monstrous lumbering creature in the final throes of mechanical death. Jed squawked along with all the others shrieking around them, and he clutched for Agent Matcham’s arm in the blackness. The chill of the air-conditioning sputtered and was gone. The whimpering of fear surrounded them.

  “What’s—?”

  Jed had no time to finish. There was a roaring deep within the bowels of the ship, a jolt that threw them sideways in the dark, heads clanking against slot machines and children thrown to the ground. The lights around them flickered from an eerie yellow to their usual blindingness, the AC blasted upon their goose-pimpled flesh, and the humming of the ship returned to normal. Around them, squeals and exclamations arose, along with those bodies flung to the floor. Jed was still clutching Agent Matcham’s arm in fear. If he had seen a glimmer of fear in her eyes, it was now replaced with steel.

  “The generators,” Agent Matcham said, “have kicked in. Perhaps this ship is in need of some basic upkeep. Or perhaps the cell has already begun its evil deeds. What’s it to be, Jed? Are you with us or not? Do you want to help in the fight for freedom or not? Deal or no deal?”

  Freedom! And he had just been cursing the lack of it. But everything was relative, he understood in a second, and some freedom was better than fundamentalist tyranny. God Bless America, he suddenly thought, and God Save The Queen he added as an afterthought. He was raring to go.

  “Sign me up!”

  She nodded as if she had expected nothing less. She clicked open the briefcase, slipped her hand inside and withdrew a sheet of paper and a pen. She clicked the top of the pen, Jed saw it was a Mark Cross. The clicking sounds were as efficient as she herself. Agent Matcham’s apparent efficiency comforted him.

  “As I said, we know all about your brave past, but before we swear you in as an agent, we need to put you through a few little tests to ensure, physically, you’re up to the task at hand. Testing your reflexes and what have you. You must sign a disclaimer disavowing MI-6 of any responsibility should you come to any harm during these tests. Do you feel comfortable signing?”

  Jed grabbed the pen. He had no time to consider if he should be alarmed at the disclaimer, the speed with which she snatched it out of his hand the moment his signature had ended.


  “Fine,” Agent Matcham said, slipping the paper back into her briefcase. “Now, please follow me. And after the physical tests, you may sign the Official Secrets Act.”

  She got up. Jed glanced at the slot machine. The 150 free spins had won him $11.32. Jed didn’t care, he realized as he tugged the sad coupon from the machine and followed Agent Matcham’s swinging shiny briefcase and her stiletto Louboutins as they clacked over the cigarette burns and strange stains on the carpet. He was now winning in different ways.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE PERSPIRATION WAS finally lifting from their spent bodies. In a grotty hotel room off a busy motorway, Anthea Planck, ticket agent for Econo-Lux, lay on the damp patch in the middle of the bed. She curled up against her lover's legs, unfulfilled. She ran a finger up his spine and wondered when his less-than-riveting performances in bed would be relegated to some horrible memory she would find herself hard pressed to believe she had actually been privy to. She wondered how desperate for a man she was. Let alone the fact that Richard Bright, southwest regional manager of the cruise line, was married, in the back of her mind, Anthea was realizing that Richard was really a bit of a dick.

  At a loss for something to talk about and wanting to quell the animal-like grunts coming from him—could her fingers on his spine really be causing such rapture?—she wracked her brain feverishly for anything, anything at all, to talk about.

  “Remember those rumors of MI-5 on the Queen of Crabs, Richard, dear? What ever happened? What were they doing there?”

  He threw back his head and hooted with laughter.

  “You’ve been reading too many Tom Clancy novels. And I didn’t even think women read them! Haw, haw, haw! MI-5? Haw, haw, haw! Where did you hear this?”