Lucifer's Lottery (28 page)

“Thanks, but I came here to rent a rowboat and drop a crayfish trap, that’s all.”

“Oh, dandy!” She slapped a frozen bag of shrimp on the counter, then rang up Gerold’s other purchases: a small wire crayfish trap, a Sterno cooker and stand, and a metal pot. “Crawdads in Lake Misquamicus are the best in the state, some of ’em almost big as lobsters.”

“That’s what I’m looking for.”

“How long you wanna rent the boat till, sweetie?”

“Um, well, probably till late if that’s all right.”

“Sure is. Some folks rent a boat and fish all night and through to sunup.”

“Ring me up for that, please,” Gerold said.

“Oh, you don’t gotta pay for the rental till ya come back in.”

Gerold felt a twinge of deceit. He wanted to pay in advance,
now, so he wouldn’t be gypping her. After all, he
wouldn’t
be coming back, would he? Not in the rental boat at any rate.

It would probably be the county sheriff’s department that brought his body back in . . .
if
they ever found it.

“Aw, just let me pay it all up front, keeps things easier. Oh, and some bottled water and a cooler.”

The woman winked. “Comin’ right up, handsome.” She hitched up her overly burgeoned top and retrieved the items; then he paid up and wheeled himself outside.

A long wooden dock reached out into the silver ripples. At the end, several rowboats rocked in the water; the white-haired woman jumped down into the last one and snapped in a special seat with a back on it.

“What’s that?” Gerold asked.

“A seat for folks so afflicted. Ya can’t row if ya can’t sit up straight, and you can strap yourself in. Makes it safer.”

“Cool,” Gerold approved, not that safety was an issue now.

“Now lemme help ya get in, hon—”

“I got it,” he said and expertly flipped himself out of the chair. His arm muscles bulged when he lunged forward once on his hands, then shimmied himself into the handicapped chair.

“You’re one strong fella!” the lady exclaimed.

Yeah, but only from the waist up
.

The woman stowed his cooler and other items, her zero-body-fat physique exemplified each time she bent over. When one of her implants slid up, Gerold marveled at the briefly betrayed tan line: a patch of lambent white blocked off against the iced-tea-colored tan. Within the white patch, the tiniest pink sliver of nipple could be seen.
Wow
, Gerold mused. Suddenly he found the vision of the lissome older woman densely erotic, and it occurred to him that such a sight—one of his last among the living—was a wonderful thing.

Had she caught him looking? At once her grin seemed sultry, and when she noticed that a wedge of breast had slipped out from the bra, she seemed to take her time correcting it.

“I guess I’m all set,” Gerold said.

“Not
just
yet,” she corrected, then startled him when she walked right over to him and leaned over. Suddenly her top-straining implants were nearly in his face. “Just lean forward a bit, sweetie.”

Now her barely covered
crotch
was nearly in his face, but he understood when she put his arms through a life vest and tightened the straps. “Misquamicus ain’t a very
big
lake, hon, but a good wind can cause a mighty rough chop.”

The ironic fact amused Gerold:
She’s putting a life vest on a guy who’s going to commit suicide
.

She placed a small object in a side bin. “And here’s an emergency radio just in case. I’ll check in with ya so often, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“You’ll find the best crawdaddin’ right dead center of the lake. It’s deeper and there’s lots of crannies down there where they like to hide.”

“Dead center. Gotcha.”

Her tanned legs flexed when she climbed back on the dock. She put on sunglasses, grinning up to the sky, her perfectly flat stomach beginning to shine with sweat. “Nice slow, sunny day like this? I think I’ll lay out here a while and catch some rays—”

Gerold gulped.

—and then she took off her top, just like that.

Holy moly
. . .

She stretched out in a lounge chair facing Gerold’s position in the seat. All at once, the flawless snow-white breasts
centered by dark nipples blared at him within the demarcation of tanned skin.

She grinned, Gerold’s own astonished face reflecting in her glasses.

“Uh, oh, sorry,” he murmured after another moment of staring.

“Hon? A gal my age’s got
no problem
bein’ looked at by a nice fella . . .”

Gerold raised his oars, tried not to continue staring, then just thought,
To hell with it
, and kept looking. “Um, I have a question, though—”

She giggled. “Yes. They’re implants, I gotta admit.”

Gerold laughed. “That wasn’t the question but . . .” He tried to focus his thought. “A minute ago, you said Lake Misquamicus wasn’t a big lake.” He shrugged and glanced behind. “Looks big to me.
Real
big.”

“Aw, there’s at least a dozen lakes in Florida bigger’n this. The biggest, a’course, is Lake Okeechobee, second biggest in the whole country. You never been there?”

It was impossible not to keep stealing glances. “No, but I’ve heard of it.”

“Over a trillion gallons of water in Okeechobee—”

The statement snapped Gerold’s stare. “A
trillion?
That’s . . . unimaginable.”

“Lotta water, sure. Hard to even reckon that much water.”

I better start rowing
, Gerold told himself.
This woman’s hooters are wringing me out
. But the sudden question snapped to mind. “Any idea how many gallons in
this
lake?”

In painstaking slowness, the woman began to rub suntan oil over her belly. “Oh, yeah. Department’a Natural Resources says that Lake Misquamicus contains just about six billion gallons . . .”

Howard walks you back onto the parapet facing the inner wards and courtyard. Soft, fragrant breezes blow. You take in the scape of the fortress and beyond, more and more awed.
This place makes Bill Gates’s house look like an outhouse . . . and it could all be mine
. . .

But—

“Wait a minute. What good’s all this money and luxury when I don’t have friends to share it with?”

“Ah, there goes your good side shining through once more,” Howard replies. “But I’ll remind you that you had no abundance of friends in the Living World, and were quite content with that.”

You think about that. You’ve always been a friendly person but you never really
needed
a lot of friends. Your
faith
was your ultimate friend, and the opportunity to serve God. “Well, that’s true but looking at this whole thing now, I’d need
some
friends . . .”

Howard shrugs. “I’d like to think that
I’m
your friend, Mr. Hudson. I’ve
delighted
in your company, and I truly admire your earthy resoluteness and magnificently refined goodwill.”

The comment makes you look at him. “You’re right, Howard. You are my friend. You’re actually a pretty cool guy.”

“I’m grateful and touched.” And then Howard leans closer. “And not to portray myself too
terribly
mercenary . . . were you to accept the Senary, you’d easily have the power to relieve me of my laborious onuses at the Hall of Automatic Writers and have me reassigned as, say, your personal archivist and biographer? And during any free time you saw fit to afford me . . .” Howard sighed dreamily. “I could forge on with my
serious
work.”

“If I accept the Senary, Howard, then I’d do that—”

“Great Pegana!”

“But,” you add with an odd stammer. Something abstract seems to tilt in your psyche.
If I accept the Senary
, you repeat to yourself in thought.

Would you really do that?

“I-I-I . . . I don’t think I’m going to accept . . .” Yet even as the words leave your lips, you can’t stop thinking about all this luxury, all this money, and of course all these
women
at your disposal.

“Alas, our time is nearly done,” Howard tells you. He turns his pallid face back to the courtyards. “But I seem to have digressed yet again, with regard to your previous concerns. Besides myself, you
would
have some direct friends and acquaintances.”

“What?”

“Behold, sir.”

Suddenly you smell a simple, yet delectable aroma:

Burgers on the grill?

And once again your unnatural eyes follow Howard’s gesture where a small congregation mingles. Several men and women chat happily about a barbecue, and sure enough, they are cooking hamburgers and hot dogs.

“Wait a minute,” you object. “How can there be hamburgers and hot dogs in Hell? They must be fucked up, like dick-burgers or some shit, right?”

Howard puts his face in his hands. “Mr. Hudson,
please
. The profanity. I regret this peculiar acclimation you’re experiencing. Hell’s influences can indeed be quite negative. But ruffian talk bespeaks only ruffians. Men such as ourselves are hardly that.”

“Sorry, I can’t help it for some reason,” you say, still mystified by the instantaneousness with which you cussed.

“But to render an answer, Mr. Hudson, I’ll assure you of the contrary. It’s true, there are no cattle nor swine in
Hell, at least none that would taste the same as what you’re accustomed to, yet through the marvel of Hexegenic Engineering, our Archlocks can produce foodstuffs that taste identical to any food on Earth.” Howard’s brow rises. “
If
one is so privileged.”

“Privileged as in a Privilato, you mean.”

“Quite. But, please. Be more attentive.”

Next, you take closer note of the actual
people
at the barbecue, and the recognition jolts you.

You
know
everyone there.

“My father and mother!” you rejoice. “My sister, too!” They had all died years ago but now you deduce the direction of their Afterlife. Manning the grill itself is Randal, who glances upward and waves.

“And Randal! My best friend where I live, but . . . wait. He couldn’t be here. He’s not dead.”

“Regrettably, he is, Mr. Hudson,” Howard tells you. “As I’ve been properly informed by the so-called powers that be. He was killed just hours ago by an unstable intruder at his convenience store, apparently a quite obese homeless loafer.”

Homeless. Obese
. The image pops into your gaseous brain.
The schizo in the stained sweatpants who threw up in the Qwik-Mart!
You consider the situation and nearly chuckle, though there’s nothing funny about it.
He must’ve gotten sick of Randal throwing him out of the store, so he
. . .

“Evidently this inauspicious derelict got hold of a ball bat and, well, introduced it with some vim and vigor to your friend Randal’s knees, groin, and skull.”

It’s ironic at least. Your monstrous eyes squint harder . . .

There’s a third man there as well.

No
, you think dully.

The man’s attire is shocking enough—black shoes, black slacks, and black shirt, and a Roman collar—but when you recognize his face?

“Not Monsignor Halford!” you exclaim.

Howard seems surprised. “Your reaction sounds troubled, Mr. Hudson. I’d think you’d be pleased to find your mentor here.”

“What’s he doing in Hell?” you yell. “He’s a fucking
monsignor!
”

Howard winces at your next implementation of foul language. “It is with great regret that I must inform you of Monsignor Halford’s recent demise—some manner of coronary attack. As for being here, I hardly need to explain.”

“He’s a priest, for shit’s sake. Why didn’t he go to Heaven?”

Howard’s brows rise in a scolding attitude. “I should think the answer would be clear. Priest or not, he didn’t
live
his faith as you do. He didn’t practice as he preached, so to speak.”

That’s bullshit
, you fume, but then . . .
Well, at least he’s here. He’s someone I like and know
.

“And the two more . . . provocatively dressed young ladies I’m sure you’ll recognize as well. They were killed last night, in an aspect of mishap I’m told is known as a ‘drive-by.’ ”

You blink, and see them.

The two trashily attractive women turn and wave as well. Tight T-shirts cling to impressive bosoms, and they read:
DO ME TILL I PUKE
and
NO GAG REFLEX
.

“The hookers from the bar!” you exclaim.

“Indeed, and, look, here comes one more.”

Across the yard a beautiful girl-next-door type strides toward the congregation, pushing a wheelbarrow full of iced-down bottles of beer.

“Marcie! My very first girlfriend!” you instantly recognize. “We never had sex but . . .”

“Accept the Senary, Mr. Hudson, and you shall be presented with that opportunity forthwith.”

You stare. You’d forgotten all about Marcie. Your first kiss, and in fact the only girl you’d ever made out with. The combination of her beauty, intellect, and demeanor had made her the only person to tempt you not to become a priest.

“We both loved each other but . . . decided we loved God more,” you drone, remembering through a fog of heartbreak. “So we parted. I went to college to prepare for the seminary and she went to a convent . . .”

“Well, the lady’s convent days were short-lived. Convent
day
, I should rephrase.”

“She quit after only
one day?
”

“I’m afraid so, whereupon she immediately pursued avenues of life quite sexual. Whenever she was with another man, however, she always pretended he was you . . .”

First you gulp, but then frown. “You’re just saying that, Howard. To get me to accept!”

Howard’s pallid finger rises. “I’ll remind you, Mr. Hudson, that as the Trustee, I am not allowed to lie or to exaggerate. It must be your
untainted
free will that prompts your ultimate decision.”

You shake your gourd-head and sigh. “So . . . how did Marcie die?”

“I’m told she suffered a calamitous misadventure involving a steamroller, but that’s neither here nor there. What matters is that she’s here, now, in the flesh. She as well as the other Human Damned who mean the most to you.” Howard offers you a stern look. “And you’d be doing them all an
immeasurable
service by accepting the Senary, Mr. Hudson.”