Lucky You

by Carl Hiassen

  No Lotto stub.

  He took a deep breath before opening the refrigerator, but it wasn't as rancid as he'd feared. The food section was practically empty except for Budweisers, marshmallow-filled cookies, ketchup and a fuzzy chunk of Gouda. Finding nothing hidden there, Moffitt hacked his way into the freezer compartment, a favorite stash of novice dopers and smugglers. A half-gallon container of ancient fudge-ripple ice cream went into a mixing bowl, which went into the stove. When the slop was melted, Moffitt strained it through a colander. Then he emptied the ice trays on the counter and examined each cube.

  No ticket.

  He grabbed a steak knife and headed for the bedroom, where he eviscerated the pillows, gutted the mattress and (box spring, pried up the musty corners of the carpet. Inside Bodean James Gazzer's dresser, Moffitt came across something he'd never before seen: camo-style underwear. There was also a World War II bayonet, a gummy-looking Penthouseand a pile of dunning notices from the National Rifle Association for unpaid dues. Moffitt was certain he had hit pay dirt in the bottom drawer, beneath a tangle of frayed socks, where he uncovered five crisp tickets from the Florida Lotto.

  But none of the sequences matched JoLayne's winning numbers, and the date of the drawing was wrong: December 2.

  That's tomorrow, thought Moffitt. Unbelievable – the $14 million they stole from her wasn't enough. The fuckers want more.

  He pocketed the tickets and, with some dread, moved to the bathroom. A colony of plump carpenter ants had taken over the sink, demonstrating a special fondness for Bodean James Gazzer's toothbrush. Moffitt dove into the medicine chest and emptied the pill bottles. Several had been prescribed to persons other than Mr. Gazzer, who'd undoubtedly stolen them or forged the scrips. Moffitt took his time with a dispenser of Crest and a tube of hemorrhoid cream, which he flattened under a shoe and then opened with a wire cutter.

  Nothing.

  The vanity held an empty box of Trojan nonlubricated condoms, which intrigued Moffitt. Bodean James Gazzer's apartment showed no signs of a woman's presence – certainly no woman who was worried about catching a disease. Maybe Gazzer was gay, the agent thought, although it seemed unlikely, given the homophobic tendencies of gun nuts. Also, the pornographic videos stacked near the TV set bore heterosexually oriented titles.

  Maybe the loon wore rubbers when he jacked off. Or maybe he used them with hookers. In any event, he'd been a busy boy.

  The answer to the riddle of the Trojans turned up in a plastic trash can: five foil condom wrappers and a razor blade. Moffitt aligned them on the toilet seat. The condoms were inside the packages, and Moffitt cautiously removed them with a tweezers. Each of them bore visible nicks or slices, which presumably was why they'd been discarded.

  Moffitt concentrated on the bright wrappers. Clearly they hadn't been torn open in the ordinary haste of lust. Instead they'd painstakingly been cut along one edge, undoubtedly with the razor blade. Even with such care, Bodean James Gazzer had damaged all five rubbers.

  The sixth must have been the winner. Moffitt was pretty sure he knew where it was and what was hidden inside it.

  "Fucker," he said aloud.

  Mr. Gazzer must be quite the optimist, the agent reflected. Why else would he care whether the condom in which he'd concealed the lottery ticket was usable?

  On his way out of the apartment, Moffitt encountered a stout rat gorging itself in the mounds of sugar and cereal on the dinette. His first impulse was to shoot it, but then he thought: Why do Gazzer any favors? With luck, the critter was rabid.

  By nature Moffitt was not a mischievous person, but he was inspired by the shabby trappings of hate. He had a nagging image of Bodean Gazzer and his sadistic partner – one would be stretched out in his underwear on the futon, the other might be slouched at the dinette. They'd be slugging down Budweisers, laughing about what they'd done to JoLayne Lucks, trying to remember who'd punched her where. The look in her eyes. The sounds she made.

  Moffitt simply could not slip away and allow such shitheads to go on with their warped lives, exactly as before. After all, how often did one get the opportunity to make a lasting impression upon paranoid sociopaths?

  Not often enough. Moffitt felt morally obligated to fuck with Bodean James Gazzer's head. It took only a few extra minutes, and afterwards even the rat seemed amused.

  Sinclair was overcome the instant he touched the cooters: a warm tingle that started preternaturally in his palms and raced up both arms to his spine.

  He was sitting cross-legged in Demencio's yard, on the lip of the moat. The daily visitation was over, the pilgrims were gone. Sinclair had never handled a turtle before. Demencio said go ahead, help yourself. They don't bite or nothin'.

  Sinclair picked up one of the painted cooters and set it delicately in his lap. The bearded face gazing up from the grooved carapace was purely beatific. And the turtle itself was no less exquisite – bright gemlike eyes, a velvety neck striped in greens, golds and yellows. Sinclair reached into the water and picked up another one, and then another. Before long, he was acrawl with baby turtles – rubbery legs pumping, tiny claws scratching harmlessly on the fabric of his pants. The sensation was hypnotic, almost spiritual. The cooters seemed to emanate a soft, soothing current.

  Demencio, who was refilling the moat with "holy" water, asked Sinclair if he felt all right. Sinclair spontaneously began to tremble and hum. Demencio couldn't make out the tune, but it was nothing he was dying to hear on the radio. Turning to Joan and Roddy: "I'd say it's time to take the boy home."

  Sinclair didn't want to go. He looked up at Roddy. "Isn't this amazing?" Thrusting both hands high, full of dripping turtles: "Did you see!"

  Demencio, sharply: "Be careful with them things. They ain't mine." That's all he'd need, some city dork accidentally smushing one of JoLayne's precious babies. Say adiosto a thousand bucks.

  Demencio was tempted to turn the hose on the guy – it had worked like a charm on Trish's tomcat. Sinclair's face pinched into a mask of concentration. His head began to flop back and forth, as if his neck had gone to rubber.

  "Nyyah nurrha nimmy doo-dey,"he said.

  Roddy glanced at his wife. "What is that – Spanish or somethin'?"

  "I don't believe so."

  Again Sinclair cried: "Nyyah nyyah doo-dey!"It was a mangled regurgitation of a newspaper headline he'd once written, a personal all-time favorite: nervous nureyev nimble in disney debut.

  The translation, had Demencio known it, would have failed to put him at ease. "That's it," he said curtly. "Closing time."

  At Roddy's urging, Sinclair returned the twelve painted turtles to the water. Roddy led him to the car, and Joan drove home. Roddy began stacking charcoal briquettes in the outdoor grill, but Sinclair said he wasn't hungry and went to bed. He was gone when Joan awoke the next morning. Under the sugar bowl was his journalist's notebook, opened to a fresh page:

  I've returned to the shrine.

  That's where she found him, rapt and round-eyed.

  Demencio took her aside and whispered, "No offense, but I got a business here."

  "I understand," said Joan. She walked to the moat and crouched next to her brother. "How we doing?"

  "See that?" Sinclair pointed. "She's crying."

  Demencio had repaired the Madonna's plumbing; teardrops sparkled on her fiberglass cheeks. Joan felt embarrassed that Sinclair was so affected.

  "Your boss called," she told him.

  "That's nice."

  "It sounded real important."

  Sinclair sighed. Cupped in each hand was a cooter. "This is Bartholomew, and I think this one's Simon."

  "Yes, they're very cute."

  "Joan, please. You're talking about the apostles."

  "Honey, you'd better call the newspaper."

  Demencio offered to let him use the telephone in the house. Anything to get the goofball away from the shrine before the first Christian tourists arrived.

  The managing editor's secretary put Sinclair through
immediately. In a monotone he apologized for not calling the day before, as promised.

  "Forget about it," said the managing editor. "I've got shitty news: Tom Krome's dead."

  "No."

  "Looks that way. The arson guys found a body in the house."

  "No!" Sinclair insisted. "It's not possible."

  "Burned beyond recognition."

  "But Tom went to Miami with the lottery woman!"

  "Who told you that?"

  "The man with the turtles."

  "I see," said the managing editor. "What about the man with the giraffes – what did he say? And the bearded lady with penguins – did you ask her?"

  Sinclair wobbled and spun, tangling himself in the telephone cord. Joan shoved a chair under his butt. Breathlessly he said: "Tom can't be dead."

  "They're working on the DNA," the managing editor said, "but they're ninety-nine percent sure it's him. We're getting a front-page package ready for tomorrow."

  "My God," said Sinclair. Was it possible he'd actually lost a reporter?

  He heard his boss say: "Don't come home."

  "What?"

  "Not just yet. Not till we figure out what to say."

  "To who?" Sinclair asked.

  "The wires. The networks. Reporters don't get murdered much these days," the managing editor explained, "especially feature writers. It's a pretty big deal."

  "I suppose, but – "

  "There'll be lots of sticky questions: Where'd you send him? What was he working on? Was it dangerous?" It's best if I handle it. That's why they pay me the big bucks, right?"

  Sinclair was gripped by a cold fog. "I can't believe this."

  "Maybe it had nothing to do with the job. Maybe it was a robbery, or a jealous boyfriend," said the managing editor. "Maybe a fucking casserole exploded – who knows? The point is, Tom's going to end up a hero, regardless. That's what happens when journalists get killed – look at Amelia Lloyd, for Christ's sake. She couldn't write a fucking grocery list, but they went ahead and named a big award after her."

  Sinclair said, "I feel sick."

  "We all do, believe me. We all do," the managing editor said. "You sit tight for a few days. Take it easy. Have a good visit with your sister. I'll be in touch."

  For a time Sinclair remained motionless. Joan took the receiver from his hand and carefully unwrapped the cord from his shoulders and neck. With a tissue she dabbed the perspiration from his forehead. Then she dampened another and wiped a spot of turtle poop from his arm.

  "What did he say?" she asked. "What's happened?"

  "It's Tom – he's not in Miami, he's dead."

  "Oh no. I'm so sorry."

  Sinclair stood up. "Now I understand," he said.

  Nervously his sister eyed him.

  "Finally I understand why I'm here. What brought me to this place," he said. "Before, I wasn't sure. Something fantastic took hold of me when I touched the turtles, but I didn't know what or why. Now I do. Now I know."

  Joan said, "Hey, how about a soda?"

  Sinclair slapped a hand across his breast. "I was sent here," he said, "to be reborn."

  "Reborn."

  "There's no other explanation," Sinclair said, and trotted out the door toward the shrine. There he stripped off his clothes and lay down in the silty water among the cooters.

  "Nimmy doo-dey, nimmy nyyah!"

  Trish, who was setting up the T-shirt display, dropped to one knee. "I believe he's speaking in tongues!"

  "Like hell," said Demencio. "Coo-ca-loo-ca-choo."

  Balefully he stomped to the garage in search of the tuna gaff.

  Krome looked preoccupied. Happy, JoLayne thought, but preoccupied.

  She said, "You passed the test."

  "The white-guy test?"

  "Yep. With flying colors."

  Krome broke out laughing. It was nice to hear. JoLayne wished he'd laugh like that more often, and not only when she made a joke.

  He said, "When did you decide this would happen?"

  They were under the bedcovers, holding each other. As if it were freezing outdoors, JoLayne thought, instead of seventy-two degrees.

  "Pre-kiss or post-kiss?" Krome asked.

  "Post," she answered.

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope. Strictly a spur-of-the-moment deal."

  "The sex?"

  "Sure," JoLayne said.

  Which wasn't exactly true, but why tell him everything? He didn't need to know the precise moment when she'd made up her mind, or why. It amused JoLayne that men were forever trying to figure out how they'd managed to get laid – what devastatingly clever line they'd come up with, what timely expression of sincerity or sensitivity they'd affected. As if the power of seduction were theirs whenever they wanted, if only they knew how to unlock it.

  For JoLayne Lucks, there was no deep mystery to what had happened. Krome was a decent guy. He cared about her. He was strong, reliable and not too knuckleheaded. These things counted. He had no earthly clue how much they counted.

  Not to mention that she was scared. No denying it. Chasing two vicious robbers through the state – insane is what it was. No wonder they were stressed out, she and Tom. That certainly had something to do with it, too; one reason they were hugging each other like teenagers.

  JoLayne retreated to standard pillow talk.

  "What are you thinking about?"

  "Moffitt," he said.

  "Oh, very romantic."

  "I was hoping he takes his time searching that guy's place. A week or so would be OK. In the meantime we could stay just like this, the two of us."

  "Nice comeback," JoLayne said, pinching his leg. "You think he'll find the ticket?"

  "If it's there, yeah. He gives the impression of total competence."

  "And what if it's not there?"

  "Then I suppose we'll need a plan, and some luck," Krome said.

  "Moffitt thinks I'll do something crazy."

  "Imagine that."

  "Seriously, Tom. He won't even tell me the guy's name."

  "I'vegot the name," Krome said, "and an address."

  JoLayne sat upright, bursting out of the covers. "What did you say?"

  "With all due respect to your friend, it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to run a license-tag check. All you need is a friend at the highway patrol." Krome shrugged in mock innocence. "The creep with the pickup truck, his name is Bodean James Gazzer. And we can find him with or without intrepid Agent Moffitt."

  "Damn," said JoLayne. The boy was slicker than she'd thought.

  "I'd have told you sooner," he said, "but we were preoccupied."

  "Don't give me that."

  They both jumped when the phone rang. Krome reached for it. JoLayne scooted closer and silently mouthed: "Moffitt?"

  Krome shook his head. JoLayne hopped out of bed and headed for the shower. When she came out, he was standing at the window, taking in a grand view of the Metrorail tracks. He didn't seem to notice that she'd repainted her nails a neon green or that she was wearing only the towel on her head.

  "So who was it?" she asked.

  "My lawyer again."

  Uh-oh, she thought, reaching for her robe. "Bad news?"

  "Sort of," Tom Krome said. "Apparently I'm dead." When he turned around, he appeared more bemused than upset. "It's going to be on the front page of The Registertomorrow."

  "Dead." JoLayne pursed her lips. "You sure fooled me."

  "Fried to a cinder in my own home. Must be true, if it's in the newspaper."

  JoLayne felt entitled to wonder if she really knew enough about this Tom fellow, nice and steady as he might seem. A burning house was something to consider.

  She said, "Lord, what are you going to do?"

  "Stay dead for a while," Krome replied. "That's what my lawyer says."

  15

  Bodean Gazzer instructed Chub to cease shooting from the truck.

  "But it's him."

  "It ain't," Bode said. "Now quit."

  "Not jest yet."<
br />
  Shiner cried, "My eardrums!"

  "Pussy." Chub continued to fire until the black Mustang skidded off the highway on bare rims. Fuming, Bode braked the pickup and coasted to the shoulder. He was losing his grip on Chub and Shiner; semiautomatics seemed to bring out the worst in them.

  Chub hopped from the truck and loped with homicidal intent through the darkness, toward the disabled car. Bode marked his partner's progress by the bobbing orange glow of the cigaret. The man was setting a damn poor example for Shiner – there was nothing well-regulated about sniping at motorists on the Florida Turnpike.

  Shiner said, "Hell we do now?"

  "Get out, son." Bode Gazzer grabbed a flashlight from the glove box and hurried after Chub. They found him holding at gunpoint a young Latin man whose misfortune was to vaguely resemble the obnoxious boyfriend of a Hooters waitress, who even more vaguely resembled the actress Kim Basinger.

  Bode said: "Nice work, ace."

  Chub spat his cigaret butt. It wasn't Tony in the Mustang.

  Shiner asked, "Is it the same guy or not?"

  "Hell, no, it ain't him. What's your name?" Bode demanded.

  "Bob." The young man clutched the meaty part of his right shoulder, where a rifle slug had grazed it.

  Chub jabbed at him with the muzzle of the Cobray. "Bob, huh? You don't look like no Bob."

  The driver willingly surrendered his license. The name on it made Chub grin: Roberto Lopez.

  "Jest like I thought. Goddamn lyin' sumbitch Cuban!" Chub crowed.

  The young man was terrified. "No, I am from Colombia."

  "Nice try."

  "Bob and Roberto, it is the same thing!"

  Chub said, "Yeah? On what planet?"

  Bodean Gazzer switched off the flashlight. The heavy traffic on the highway made him jumpy; even in Dade County a bullet-riddled automobile could attract notice.

  "Gimme some light here." Chub was pawing through the young man's wallet. "I mean, long as we gone to all the trouble and ammo."

  Jauntily he held up four one-hundred-dollar bills for Bode to see. Shiner gave a war whoop.