Jackpot

by David Bernstein

  The girl’s name was Angel, or that was part of her screenname—Booker never felt the need to call her anything else. She was mortally wounded—he’d used an ice pick to pop one of her lungs like a balloon—so except for a tiny weeping hole under her left tit, she didn’t have a scratch on her. The other two had died quicker, but more spectacularly.

  Back when this was an orgy, Booker had convinced the guy (David was it?) to fist the other girl’s ass. This clearly wasn’t her first rear-entry situation, because the old boy was lost up to his wrist when Booker lowered the cleaver. Dave lost his whole hand up there. There were more dignified ways to go, but Booker had seen and done worse.

  Even though Angel had been bleeding out, her two friends already dead beside her, she’d screamed when she’d caught sight of Elaine, Booker cradling her as he carried her from his bedroom.

  Elaine Walker was smaller than she had been in life, when she was raising Booker. Some of the loss of mass was due to Booker emptying her out and stuffing her. Some of it had been her advancing age and declining health when she’d finally gone.

  There were limitations to taxidermy, a loss of mobility for example, but Booker was pretty happy with how he’d posed Elaine. Her elbows touched her knees, her back with a slight arch. It was a convenient pose because she was free-standing, either you could place her on her back or have her with her forearms and knees against the floor, her arms and legs turning her into a rather fetching coffee table.

  Before the lawyer had knocked on the door, Booker had just finished cutting Angel’s eyelids off so she could take her mind off her liquid-filled lung and watch Booker place Elaine on the living room floor (spine up) and enter his mother again and again.

  The knock on the door would have stopped him from cumming if he hadn’t already been cresting.

  With all the money coming in, his new home would certainly have a taxidermy studio. Multi- millionaires needed hobbies to keep them occupied.

  Four

  They were meeting in one of the lounges of the downtown Four Seasons and Booker arrived twenty minutes late, gripping a sheaf of papers in his sweaty geek hands.

  Frank Lambrick was staying at the Marriot, not the Four Seasons, but it didn’t hurt to give Booker the impression that he’d signed top-tier legal counsel. Frank would be picking up the check on his American Express Platinum card. It was an account he tried not to use more than absolutely necessary.

  While he was waiting for Booker, Frank ordered a Manhattan and a water, leaving the ice to melt in the drink while he took three refills on the water. That was a seventeen dollar drink, he wasn’t taking a sip of it unless the little weirdo was there to see it. Before meetings like this, and there hadn’t been many, Frank would always fantasize what it would be like to be on the other side of the table. He didn’t play the lottery, and you had to be in it to win it, but you’d also have to be a mathematical moron to be in it.

  What he would do with even a third of Booker’s win, though. Even without incredible success, Frank was providing a comfortable life for his family, but comfortable wasn’t absurd luxury and he always felt that he deserved absurd luxury. He’d move from Cambridge to Newton— that would be his first trick. The public schools weren’t bad where they lived now, but in Newton the kids would have their choice of some of the greatest public and private schools in the nation. His wife could get that boob job that she always joked about—that joke that was never really a joke, to either of them. They’d buy a winter house in Western Mass and another in New Hampshire, so they had choices.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Booker said, startling Frank out of his big money daydreams. Even though he was dressed in a cheap suit, an attempt to look fancy, the kid was sweating through his shirt. Maybe Frank could hire a personal physician and a dietitian so they could address whatever glandular problem the poor pissant clearly had.

  Frank stood, took the kid’s moist hand for a quick shake and pointed to the seat across from him. “Not a problem at all, I was just taking in the ambiance.”

  There wasn’t much ambiance. Yes, they were in a Four Seasons, but there was still the head of a ten point buck hanging above the fireplace and cow hide covering the expensive chaise lounges. Fucking Texas. Even if he weren’t sitting across from a newly-minted millionaire, it would be hard to shake the Beverly Hillbillies-vibe of the bar.

  The waiter was bothering them before Frank got a chance to ask what the deal was with the papers Booker had brought. He hadn’t told him to bring anything—the less paperwork a client tried to do themselves, the bigger Frank’s paycheck was.

  “Can I get you something, sir?” the waiter asked. “And is everything okay with your Manhattan, sir?”

  “It’s great, thanks,” Frank said, and looked down at the drink, the ice almost gone. Wiseass mother fucker. I’m sure you’ll get a great tip now.

  “I’ll just have a coke, thanks.”Booker said, flipping over his drink menu.

  “You don’t drink? He’ll have a coke and a Tom Collins.” The waiter went away. “You ever had a Tom Collins?” Frank didn’t wait for a response. The kid had wide eyes between this swank hotel and the prices on the menu. “You’ll like it.”

  Shock and awe, baby.

  “How did you sleep? Your second night as a Rockerfeller, are you bored with it yet?”

  “I barely slept actually, I—” Booker started but Frank cut him off. This happened sometimes, the money making people anxious, it was important to push through that.

  “Don’t worry about that, you’re probably still coming down from all that adrenaline. So what’s that you’ve got there? Please don’t tell me it’s back taxes or Uncle Sam’s going to be looking at you extra close.”

  “Well, I know I shouldn’t start spending a lot of money at once, but I want to move into a new house and I had some ideas what I’d like. I just wanted to get your opinion.”

  Booker opened the papers and Frank could see that the sketches were time-yellowed and crude from across the table.

  “I’ve always been a fan of mystery novels and I want to build a mystery house of my own.”

  “May I?” Frank asked and took hold of the papers. Some of the lines had been drawn with the benefit of a straight-edge, some had not. There were eraser marks along most of the edges, where it looked like Booker had broken down walls and blotted out notes that he’d written to himself. “These are very intricate,” Frank said.

  “What do you think?” Booker asked. His voice was more excitable child now, less deer in the headlights. Frank flicked his eyes up to the dead deer presiding over their meeting, then back down at the pages.The blueprints looked like a cross between a Victorian mansion and a Chuck E Cheese, rendered in the delicate hand of a schizophrenic.

  Why the fuck is he showing these to me? I’m his lawyer not his contractor.

  He passed the plans back to Booker, who was smiling now. That was when Frank realized that the kid had nobody else to talk to about this stuff. Frank was his new friend, maybe even his only friend. He felt a bubble of anxiety form in his stomach, then pop in a painful burst of acid reflux. Sure, you can be this kid’s friend, but he’s going to end up paying by the hour. Frank had never felt a stronger mix of giddiness and self-loathing.

  “There’s no reason you can’t buy a house out in the suburbs and convert it to something like this. Hell, you could even buy some land and build it from scratch.”

  “Yeah. Scratch would be better, that way I have more control, right?”

  The waiter set down Booker’s coke and his Tom Collins.

  Frank raised up his Manhattan, the glass slick with condensation. “To continued good fortune!” he yelled, and the handful of other patrons in the lounge turned to look. Sometimes it was good to make a scene, it showed you were either brave or didn’t give a fuck.

  Booker clinked his glass against Frank’s, then took a sip of the Tom Collins.

  “Good, right?” Frank asked.

  “It’s like lemonade,” Booker said, p
uckering up.

  “Damn straight, drink up. Before you start building houses, Booker, there’s some things we need to do. What we need to do, because you’ve got such a big pile of money, is split it up and spread it out.” He could see Booker’s face darken, either because he was changing the subject to practical matters or because he was talking to him like a child.

  “Don’t worry,” Frank said, “you’ll still have the big pile, a lot bigger pile if we do it right, but what we need to do now is split things between tax shelters, safe tax- deferred investments, and offshore accounts.”

  “Investments? Look, I’m not greedy, I don’t want to gamble with this money, I just want to use it.”

  He’s not a gambler, Frank smiled.

  “You will be able to use it, some of it right away. We’ll set up an account so you can have all the spending money you could want. But these investments aren’t what, and you’ll excuse me, laymen think of when they think of investments. This isn’t ‘playing’ the stock market, it’s not a game like the media makes you think it is. Money is my business. I’ve got a team of accountants on call that can work magic with this much cash. Trust me, Booker.”

  “I do trust you,” Booker said, drinking his Tom Collins through the tiny stirrer, using it like a straw. “I guess you’re the expert, but I’d like to talk to one of those accountants before any investments are made. Now about this spending account, when do we set that up?”

  He did trust Frank. That was good. Now all Frank needed to do was hire a dummy accountant to talk to this guy.

  Frank waited until the Tom Collins had been reduced to ice and replaced before opening up his briefcase. He’d prepared the first transfer, not huge, but the start of something. Booker signed it with no protestation, barely able to muster up the composure to look like he was pretending to read it before signing.

  Are you my white whale, Booker? Frank wanted to ask. But instead he asked about what had gotten the kid interested in building a mystery mansion, then sat back as the kid talked about his plans.

  “It’s even going to have a fully-functional dungeon,” Booker said, but Frank didn’t care enough to ask what he meant by “fully-functional”, he just ordered a third Manhattan, asked for the check, and told Booker that a dungeon sounded fantastic.

  Five

  Frank felt like a god as he steered the BMW Gran Coupe, weaving in and out of traffic to bypass cars slowing him down. Bastards, move it! He wasn’t in any real big hurry, but for reasons beyond his control, he couldn’t ease his foot off the accelerator. Never in his life had he driven something so fast and so posh. The ponies were calling his name, so he tilted his foot, only slightly, but the car shot forward, horsepower roaring, as if fired from a canon.

  God, he wished this car was his: Dark blue sedan with a V8, 445-horsepower, turbo engine that could reach illegal speeds in a matter of seconds.

  If Booker’ll spend eighty grand on a car for a goddamn store clerk, he better hook me up with something twice as nice.

  The secret bank account beckoned him from overseas. Soon. As much as he wanted to start spending the money he’d secretly siphoned from Booker’s savings, he couldn’t. It would have to wait until he was absolutely sure Booker wouldn’t notice it was gone. So far, so good.

  Six months. Wait six more months.

  Seemed like a lifetime.

  Frank had tried to talk Booker out of spending so much fucking money on some immigrant asshole. He didn’t care if he’d been the one to sell Booker the winning ticket, didn’t care how nice the guy was, or the promise Booker had made. The guy didn’t deserve this much appreciation. But, Booker was determined to give Hamid What’s-his-name at least a little something in return for being so kind.

  A little something my ass! This is a fucking Gran Coupe!

  Mercifully, Frank had accompanied Booker to the dealership to help him pick out his thank you gift. He perished the thought of what the salesman would have tricked Booker into spending his cash on—cash that he’d carried onto the lot in a briefcase as if he were going to pay a ransom. The look on the salesman’s face was one of bewildered amazement when Booker dropped the suitcase on the man’s desk and told him he’d be paying in cash. Frank could see the dollar signs where his eyes should’ve been.

  The Gran Coupe plowed through a stoplight, causing a large Silverado to swerve. Frank left the screech of tires spinning on asphalt behind him as he headed toward the Quik Stop. He could see it two stoplights ahead on the right.

  Fizzy heat gurgled in his stomach. He could taste bile at the back of his throat knowing he was about to waste such an amazing piece of machinery on someone who didn’t deserve it. Someone other than him!

  ***

  “Welcome, my friend. Come to play the numbers?”

  “Uh—no…not exactly.”

  The dark skinned man’s eyes narrowed. His chocolate-colored irises scanned Frank, probably looking to see if he was hiding a weapon. From how suspicious Frank was acting, scanning the shop, approaching the counter empty-handed, he couldn’t really blame the guy for it.

  Not here to rob you, you bastard.

  “Booker sent me,” Frank said.

  Hamid glanced up at the ceiling as if who Booker was might be taped behind the cigarette rack. Doesn’t even know who Booker is! Putting his hand on the counter, Hamid looked back at Frank and shrugged.

  “Afraid I don’t know who that is, friend.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “Are you going to buy something? You’re holding up the line.”

  Frank turned around. Nobody stood behind him. Other than Frank, the only other customer in the store was an elderly woman way back at the ice cream cooler. Facing Hamid once again, Frank could see the same brand of annoyance on the clerk’s face that was probably on his own.“I don’t want to say who Booker is, in fact he told me not to make a big thing out of it. But, he said you would know who he is because the two of you had a deal.”

  “A deal? Hamid don’t make deals, friend.”

  “You did with Booker. Apparently he promised you a little something if his numbers were…”

  Hamid’s eyes shot wide as realization kicked in. He snapped his boney, pruned-knuckled fingers. “Ah! Tall man? Thin and lanky? Never smiles, awkward but a sweet person?”

  Sounded like Booker, though Frank would have added naïve. He nodded. “That’s him.”

  “Our deal was…” Hamid’s eyes widened even more. If his lids peeled back much further, two white orbs might drop onto the counter. “Did he…? Win?”

  Frank gave Hamid a single nod.

  “Holy shit!” Hamid spun around, clapped his hands, and started singing in a language Frank couldn’t understand.

  “What happened?” called the old woman from the back. She stood near the coolers, clutching a carton of Rocky Road ice cream to her large bosom.“Is he all right?”

  “I think so,” Frank said. “I think he’s celebrating.”

  “I am, I am! Bless his glorious heart! I knew it! I told him that night he would win!”

  “Win?” the woman said. “Win what?”

  “A car,” Frank said. He turned to Hamid, reached across the counter, and snatched his wrist. It felt like wrapping his fingers around a stalk of celery from how thin and frail it was. He jerked Hamid to the counter. When his stomach banged against the lip, Hamid dropped forward, his face close to Frank’s.“Stop that shit, now.” He kept his voice low but stern. “Booker told me to make sure you didn’t make a scene over this and that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

  “How can I not, friend? How can I not?”

  “I understand the excitement, but it needs to stop. You’re calling attention to it, which is not what Booker wanted. He trusts you, for some dumb fucking reason, so I’m forced to trust you, too.”

  “And, who are you?” Hamid jerked his arm back with unexpected strength for such a wispy physique. “You can’t come in my store, tell me how to behave when you deliver this wonderful news.”


  “Yes I can, or I will drive this right off the property.” He held up the key to the Gran Coupe. It looked like a microchip attached to the plastic tail of a key. The keychain dangled, slightly swaying as it showed Hamid those three celestial letters: B. M. W.

  Hamid gaped at the keychain, all his eagerness pulling back. He nodded. “I understand.”

  “Do you just work here? Or do you own this shitstand?”

  “I own it, friend.” He spoke with the pride of someone who might own an oil field.

  “Great. Then you can lock up and drive me back to my car. Correct?” He held out the key, hand twitching in a jealous furor. The keychain made soft clinking sounds as it trembled.

  “How do I know this is for real?”

  “I’m Booker’s lawyer. Trust me, we’ve taken all the necessary steps to ensure our ducks are in order.”

  Hamid licked his dark lips.

  “So, that ride?”

  Hamid reached for the key as if it were a snake that might bite. His boney fingers twisted around the trinket emblazed with the BMW’s logo. It took Hamid two tugs before Frank was able to force his hand to release its hold of the key.

  “Yes, my friend.” Staring at the key, his eyes were full of awe. “I can give you that ride.”