by Carl Hiassen
The attraction was instant, though more physical than either of them cared to admit. At the time, Tom Krome was working on a newspaper investigation of Medicaid mills. He was on the trail of a crooked radiologist who spent his Tuesday mornings playing squash at the Downtown Athletic Club instead of reading myelograms, as he'd claimed while billing the government thousands of dollars. Mary Andrea Finley was auditioning for the role of the restless farm wife in a Sam Shepard play.
She and Tom dated for five weeks and then got married at a Catholic church in Park Slope. After that they didn't see each other much, which meant it took longer to discover they had nothing in common. Tom's reporting job kept him busy all day, while Mary Andrea's stage work took care of the nights and weekends. When they managed to arrange time together, they had sex as often as possible. It was one activity in which they were synchronized in all aspects. Overdoing it spared them from having to listen to each other chatter on about their respective careers, in which neither partner honestly held much interest.
Mary Andrea had barely noticed things coming apart. The way she remembered it, one day Tom just walked in with a sad face and asked for a divorce.
Her reply: "Don't be ridiculous. In five hundred years there's never been a divorce in the Finley family."
"That," Tom had said, "explains all the psychos."
Mary Andrea related this conversation to her counselor at the Mona Pacifica Mineral Spa and Residential Treatment Center in Maui, a facility highly recommended by several of her bicoastal actor friends. When the counselor asked Mary Andrea if she and her husband had ever been wildly happy, she said yes, for about six months.
"Maybe seven," she added. "Then we reached a plateau. That's normal, isn't it, for young couples? The problem is, Tom's not a 'plateau' type of personality. He's got to be either going up, or going down. Climbing, or falling."
The counselor said, "I get the picture."
"Now he has lawyers and process servers chasing me. It's very inconsiderate." Mary Andrea was a proud person.
"Do you have reason to believe he'd change his mind about the marriage?"
"Who's trying to change his mind? I just want him to forget this absurd idea of a divorce."
The counselor looked bemused. Mary Andrea went on to offer the view that divorce as an institution was becoming obsolete. "Superfluous. Unnecessary," she added.
"It's getting late," said the counselor. "Would you like something to help you sleep?"
"Look at Shirley MacLaine. She didn't live with her husband for, what, thirty years? Most people didn't even know she was married. That's the way to handle it."
Mary Andrea's theory was that divorce left a person exposed and vulnerable, while remaining married – even if you didn't stay with your spouse – provided a cone of protection.
"Nobody else can get their meat hooks in you," she elaborated. "Legally speaking."
The counselor said, "I'd never thought of it that way."
"OK, it's just a silly piece of paper. But don't think of it as a trap, think of it as a bulletproof shield," said Mary Andrea Finley Krome. "Shirley's got the right idea. Could you ask them to bring me a cup of Earl Grey?"
"You're feeling better?"
"Much. I'll be out of your hair in a day or two."
"No hurry. You're here to rest."
"With a wedge of lemon," Mary Andrea said. "Please."
Sinclair scalded his tongue on the coffee, a gulp being his reflex to the sight of Tom Krome crossing the newsroom. Pressing a creased handkerchief to his mouth, Sinclair rose to greet his star reporter with a spurious heartiness that was transparent to all who witnessed it.
"Long time no see!" Sinclair gushed. "You're lookin' good, big guy."
Krome motioned toward the editor's private office. "We should talk," he said.
"Yes, yes, I heard."
When they were alone behind the glass, Sinclair said, "Joan and Roddy called this morning. I guess the news is all over Grange."
Krome figured as much. He said, "I'll need a week or so."
Sinclair frowned. "For what, Tom?"
"For the reporting." Krome eyed him coldly. He'd anticipated this reaction, knowing too well Sinclair's unspoken credo: Big stories, big problems.
The editor rocked back in a contrived pose of rumination. "I don't think we're looking at a feature takeout anymore, do you?"
Krome was amused at the collective "we." The newspaper sent its midlevel editors to a management school that taught them, among other insipid tricks, to employ the "we" during disagreements with staff. The theory was that a plural pronoun subliminally brought corporate muscle to an argument.
Sinclair went on: "I think we're looking at a ten-inch daily, max, for the city side. robbers steal lotto ticket, unlucky lady laments."
Krome leaned forward. "If that headline ever appears in The Register,I will personally come to your home and cut out your lungs with a trenching knife."
Sinclair wondered if it would be smart to leave the door open, in case he had to make a run for it.
"No daily story," Krome said. "The woman isn't making any public statements. She hasn't even filed a police report."
"But you've talked to her?"
"Yes, but not on the record."
Sinclair, fortifying himself with another swig of coffee: "Then I really don't see a story. Without quotes from her or the cops, I don't see it."
"You will. Give me some time."
"Know what Roddy and Joan said? The rumor is, the Lucks girl somehow lost her Lotto ticket and then made up this bit about the robbers. You know, for sympathy."
Krome said, "With all due respect to Roddy and Joan, they're positively full of shit."
Sinclair felt a foolish impulse to defend his sister and her husband, but it passed quickly. "Tom, you know how short-staffed we are. A week sounds more like an investigation than a simple feature, wouldn't you say?"
"It's a story, period. A good story, if weare patient."
Sinclair's policy on sarcasm was to ignore it. He said, "Until this lady wants to talk to the cops, there's not much we can do. Maybe the lottery ticket got stolen, maybe it didn't. Maybe she never had it to begin with – these big jackpots tend to bring out the kooks."
"Tell me about it."
"We've got other stories for you, Tom."
Krome rubbed his eyes. He thought about Alaska, about bears batting rainbows in the river.
And he heard Sinclair saying, "They're teaching a course on bachelorhood out at the community college. 'Bachelorhood in the Nineties.' I think it could be a winner."
Krome, numb with disdain: "I'm not a bachelor yet. And I won't be for some time, according to my lawyer."
"A minor detail. Write around it, Tom. You're living a single life, that's the point."
"Yes. A single life."
"Why don't you sit in on the classes? This week they're doing sewing – it could be very cute, Tom. First person, of course."
"Sewing for bachelors."
"Sure," said Sinclair.
Krome sighed to himself. "Cute" again.
Sinclair knew how Krome felt about cute. He'd rather write obits. He'd rather cover the fucking weather. He'd rather have railroad spikes hammered into his nostrils.
With unwarranted hopefulness, Sinclair awaited Krome's answer. Which was:
"I'll call you from the road."
Sinclair sagged. "No, Tom, I'm sorry."
"You're saying I'm off the story?"
"I'm saying there isno story right now. Until we get a police report or a statement from this Lucks woman, there's nothing to put in the paper but gossip."
Spoken like a true newshound, Krome thought. A regular Ben Bradlee.
He said, "Give me a week."
"I can't." Sinclair was fidgeting, tidying the stack of pink phone messages on his desk. "I wish I could do it but I can't."
Tom Krome yawned. "Then I suppose I'll have to quit."
Sinclair stiffened. "That isn't funny."
> "Finally, we agree." Krome saluted informally, then strolled out the door.
When he got home, he saw that somebody had shot all the windows out of his house with a large-caliber weapon. Tacked to the door was a note from Katie:
"I'm sorry, Tom, it's all my fault."
By the time she got there, an hour later, he had most of the glass swept up. She came up the steps and handed him a check for $500. She said, "Honestly, I'm so ashamed."
"All this because I didn't call?"
"Sort of."
Krome expected to be angrier about the broken windows, but upon reflection he considered it a personal milestone of sorts: the first time that a sexual relationship had resulted in a major insurance claim. Krome wondered if he'd finally entered the netherworld of white-trash romance.
He said to Katie: "Come on in."
"No, Tommy, we can't stay here. It's not safe."
"But the breeze is nice, no?"
"Follow me." She turned and trotted toward her car – darn good speed, for a person in sandals. On the interstate she twice nearly lost him in traffic. They ended up at a Mexican restaurant near the dog track. Katie settled covertly in a corner booth. Krome ordered beers and fajitasfor both of them.
She said, "I owe you an explanation."
"Wild guess: You told Art."
"Yes, Tom."
"May I ask why?"
"I was sad because you didn't call like you promised. And then the sadness turned to guilt – lying in bed next to this man, my husband, and me keeping this awful secret."
"But Art's been banging his secretaries for years."
Katie said, "It's not the same thing."
"Apparently not."
"Plus two wrongs don't make a right."
Krome backed off; he was a pro when it came to guilt. He asked Katie: "What kind of gun did Art use?"
"Oh, he didn't do it himself. He got his law clerk to do it."
"To shoot out my windows?"
"I'm so sorry," Katie said again.
The beers arrived. Krome drank while Katie explained that her husband, the judge, had turned out to be quite the jealous maniac.
"Much to my surprise," she added.
"I can't believe he paid his clerk to do a drive-by on my house."
"Oh, he didn't pay him. That would be a crime – Art is very, very careful when it comes to the law. The young man did it as a favor, more or less. To make points with the boss, that's my impression."
"Want to know mine?"
"Tom, I couldn't sleep Sunday night. I had to come clean with Art."
"And I'm sure he promptly came clean with you."
"He will," Katie said. "In the meantime, you might want to lay low. I believe he intends to have you killed."
The fajitasarrived and Tom Krome dug in. Katie remarked upon how well he was taking the news. Krome agreed; he was exceptionally calm. The act of quitting the newspaper had infused him with a strange and reckless serenity. Krome said: "What exactly did you tell Art? I'm just curious."
"Everything," Katie replied. "Every detail. That's the nature of a true confession."
"I see."
"What I did, I got up about three in the morning and made a complete list, starting with the first time. In your car."
Krome reached for a tortilla chip. "You mean ... "
"The blow job, yes. And every time afterwards. Even when I didn't come."
"And you put that on your list? All the details?" He picked up another chip and scooped a trench in the salsa.
Katie said, "I gave it to him first thing yesterday morning, before he went to work. And, Tom, I felt better right away."
"I'm so glad." Krome, trying to recall how many times he and Katie had made love in the two weeks they'd known each other; imagining how the tally would look on paper. He envisioned it as a line score in tiny agate type, the same as on the sports page.
She said, "I almost forgot, did you take that picture for me? Of the weeping Mother Mary?"
"Not yet, but I will."
"No rush," Katie said.
"It's OK. I'm going back tonight."
"Must be some story."
"It's all relative, Katie. Not to change the subject, but you mentioned something about Art intending to kill me."
"No, to haveyou killed."
"Right. Of course. You're sure he wasn't just talking?"
"Possibly. But he's pretty mad."
"Did he hurt you?" Krome asked. "Would he?"
"Never." Katie seemed amused by the question. "If you want to know the truth, I think it turned him on."
"The confession."
"Yes. Like suddenly he realized what he was missing."
Krome said, "How about that."
He paid the check. Outside in the parking lot, Katie touched his arm and asked him to let her know, please, if the $500 wasn't enough to replace the busted windows. Krome told her not to worry about it.
Then she said, "Tommy, we can't see each other anymore."
"I agree. It's wrong."
The concept seemed to cheer her. "I'm glad to hear you say that."
Judging from the note of triumph in her voice, Katie believed that by sleeping with Tom Krome and then confessing to her low-life cheating husband, she'd helped all three of them become better human beings. Their consciences had been stirred and elevated. They'd all learned a lesson. They'd all grown spiritually.
Krome graciously chose not to deflate this preposterous notion. He kissed Katie on the cheek and told her goodbye.
Demencio took the stool next to Dominick Amador at the counter at Hardee's. Dominick was going through his morning ritual of spooning Crisco into a pair of gray gym socks. The socks went over Dominick's hands, to cover his phony stigmata. The Crisco served to keep the wounds moist and to prevent scabbing – Dominick's livelihood depended on the holes in his palms appearing raw and fresh, as if recently nailed to a cross. Should the wounds ever heal, he'd be ruined.
He said to Demencio: "I got a big favor to ask."
"So what else is new."
Dominick said, "Geez, whatsa matter with you today?"
"That dippy woman lost the Lotto ticket. I guess you didn't hear."
Demencio held the gym socks open while Dominick inserted his hands. One of the socks had a fray in the toe, through which oozed a white dollop of shortening.
Dominick flexed his ringers and said, "That's much better. Thanks."
"Fourteen million dollars down the shitter," Demencio grumbled.
"I heard it was a robbery."
"Gimme a break."
"Hey, everybody in town knew she had the ticket."
"But who's got the balls," Demencio said, "to do something like that? Seriously, Dom."
"You got a point." The only robberies to occur in Grange were the holdups committed by itinerant crooks on their way to or from Miami.
Demencio said: "My guess? She lost the ticket some stupid way, then cooked up the robbery story so people wouldn't make fun of her." "They say she's a strange one." " 'Scattered' is the word."
"Scattered," said Dominick. He was eating a jelly doughnut, the sugar dust sticking to the socks on his hands.
Demencio told him about JoLayne's turtles. "Must be a hundred of the damn things inside her house. Tell me that's normal."
Dominick's eyebrows crinkled in concentration. He said, "Is there turtles in the Old Testament?"
"How the hell should I know." Just because Demencio owned a weeping Virgin didn't mean he'd memorized the whole Bible, or even finished it. Some of those Corinthians were rough sledding.
Dominick said, "What I'm thinking, maybe she's putting some type of exhibit together. You know, for the tourists. Except I can't remember no turtles in the Good Book. There's lambs and fishes – and a big serpent, of course."
Demencio's pancakes arrived. Drenching the plate in syrup, he said, "Just forget it."
"But didn't Noah have turtles? He had two of everything."
"Right. JoLayne, she's bu
ilding a fuckin' ark. That explains it." Demencio irritably attacked his breakfast. The only reason he'd mentioned the damn turtles was to show how flaky JoLayne Lucks could be; the sort of space cadet who could misplace a $14 million lottery ticket.
Of all the people to win! Demencio fumed. It might be a thousand years before anyone in Grange hit the jackpot again.
Dominick Amador said, "Why you so pissed – it wasn't your money." Dominick didn't know JoLayne very well, but she'd always been nice to his cat, Rex. The cat suffered from an unsavory gum disorder that required biweekly visits to the veterinarian. JoLayne was the only person besides Dominick's daughter who could manage Rex without the custom-tailored kitty straitjacket.
"Don't you see," Demencio said. "All of us woulda cashed in big – you, me, the whole town. The story we'd put out, think about this: JoLayne won the Lotto because she lived in a holy place. Maybe she prayed at my weeping Mary, or maybe she got touched by your crucified hands. Word got around, everybody who played the numbers would come to Grange for a blessing."
Dominick hadn't thought of that: a boom for the blessing trade.
"The best part," Demencio went on, "it wouldn't be only Christians coming, it'd be anybody who does the Lotto. Jewish people, Buddhists, Hawaiians ... it wouldn't matter. A gambler's a gambler – all they care about is luck."
"A gold mine," Dominick agreed. With a sleeve he wiped a smear of jelly from his chin.
"And now it's all turned to shit," said Demencio. In disgust he tossed his fork on the plate. How could anybody lose a $14 million lottery ticket? Lucy Fucking Ricardo couldn't lose a $14 million lottery ticket.
Dominick said, "There's more to what happened than we been told, I guarantee."
"Yeah, yeah. Maybe it was Martians. Maybe a UFO flew down in the middle of the night – "
"No, but I heard she was all beat up."
"I'm not surprised," Demencio said. "My theory? She's so mad at herself for losing the ticket, she takes a baseball bat and clobbers herself in the goddamn head. That's what I'ddo if I fucked up that bad."
Dominick Amador said, "I don't know," and went back to eviscerating doughnuts. After a few minutes, when it seemed Demencio had cooled off, Dominick asked another favor.
"It's regarding my feet," he said.
