Lucky You (15 page)

Roddy, trying to be helpful: “People come from everywhere to pray at his weeping Madonna.”

“There’s a visitation every morning,” Demencio added. “You oughta stop over.”

Sinclair made no response. He was still working frenetically on the first part of Demencio’s answer. He’d gotten as far as the word “Virgin” when Roddy’s interruption had thrown him off track, causing him to lose the rest of Demencio’s quote. Now Sinclair was forced to reconstruct.

“Did you say ‘It cries’ or ‘She cries’?”

“She
cries,” said Demencio, “like a drunken priest.”

Neither Roddy nor Joan could imagine seeing such a coarse remark printed in a family newspaper, but Sinclair transcribed it anyway.

“And twelve of my turtles,” Demencio said, “got the apostles on their backs. It’s the damnedest thing you ever saw—check out the moat!”

“Slow down,” said the frazzled Sinclair. His fingers had begun to cramp. “The man who was with Miss Lucks—they left together?”

“Yeah. In his car.”

While Sinclair scribbled, Roddy, Joan and the mayor maintained silence. Any distraction would only slow him down more. Demencio, though, had grown restive. He began to shuck the head of lettuce, arranging the leaves in piles, according to size, on the ottoman. He was worried the newspaperman would ask about his financial arrangement with JoLayne Lucks regarding the turtle-sitting. Demencio had no illusion that one thousand dollars was a customary or reasonable fee, or that the newspaperman would believe it was JoLayne’s idea.

But when Sinclair finally looked up from his notes, all he said was: “Did they mention where they were headed?”

“Miami,” Demencio answered, in relief.

Joan, her track record as a tipster at stake, piped in: “We heard Bermuda. They say anything about Bermuda?”

“Miami’s what they told me. JoLayne said she had some business down that way.”

“Slower,” Sinclair protested, bent over the pad like a rheumatic jeweler. “Please.”

Demencio had run out of hospitality. “It’s M-i-a—”

“I
know
how to spell it,” Sinclair snapped.

The mayor wedged a knuckle in his mouth, to keep from laughing.

They rode for miles on the farm roads without finding the other car. Bodean Gazzer was too drunk and tired to continue. Chub offered to take the wheel but Bode wouldn’t hear of it; nobody else was allowed to drive his new Dodge Ram. He parked on the edge of a tomato field and passed out to the strains of Chub and Shiner bickering about the shooting fiasco at the trailer. At first Bode thought Chub was being too rough on the kid, but his opinion changed at daybreak when he noticed the two ragged bullet holes in the truck’s quarter panel.

Bode said to Chub: “Shoot his damn nuts off.”

“I didn’t know it was you guys!” Shiner protested.

Bode angrily grabbed for the gun in Chub’s belt. “Here, gimme that thing.”

Chub knocked his hand away. “Somebody’ll hear.”

“But I thought you was NATO!” Shiner cried. “I said I was sorry, dint I?”

“Look what you done to my truck.”

“I’ll pay for it, I swear.”

“Fucking A you will,” snarled Bodean Gazzer.

Shiner was a jittery wreck. “Gimme another chance,” he begged.

“Another chance? Shit,” Chub said. He’d already concluded the boy was a hopeless fuckup—they had to cut him loose. He and Bode could toss a coin to see who’d break the news.

Chub got out to take a leak, and immediately came upon a rusty aerosol can of spray paint—in the middle of a tomato field! It seemed too wonderful to be true. Because Bode disapproved of sniffing, Chub kept his back to the truck. He knelt in the loamy sand and excitedly shook the can. The rattle soothed him, the beat of an old familiar song. He cupped his hands around the nozzle and pressed down with his chin, but no paint shot out. He held the nozzle beneath his nostrils and sniffed fruitlessly for a trace of fumes; not a whiff. He swore, stood up and hurled the empty can as far as possible.

When he unzipped his pants to pee, a horsefly landed on the tip of his pecker. Chub couldn’t imagine feeling less like a millionaire. Despondently he shooed the fly away and finished his business. Then he removed the Colt Python from his belt and tucked it in his left armpit. He groped carefully down his right pants leg until he found the bandage: At least the lottery ticket was safe. He wondered what his parents would say if they knew he had 14 million bucks taped to his thigh!

When he returned to the pickup truck, he saw that Bodean Gazzer had settled down. Shiner was earnestly inquiring about the pending NATO attack on the United States, wondering if there was something particular he should be watching for; a clear signal it was all right to go for the guns.

“Like helicopters. I heard about them secret black helicopters,” he was saying, “from the Internet.”

Bode said, “I wouldn’t go by the helicopters no more. Hell, they might switch to blimps. All depends.”

“Damn,” said Shiner.

“Tell you what, I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened the dead of night, real quiet. You wake up one morning and the fuckin’ mailman’s wearing a blue helmet.”

Shiner recoiled. “Then what—they kill all us white people, right?” Chub said, “Not the women. Them they rape. The men is who they’ll kill.”

“No,” Bode Gazzer said. “First thing they do is make us all so dirt poor we can’t afford food or medicine or clothes on our back.”

“How in the world?” Shiner asked.

“Easy. Suppose they decided all our money’s illegal. Everything you saved up, worthless as toilet paper. Meanwhile they print up all new dollars, which they give out by the millions to Negroes and Cubans and such.”

Chub sat on the bumper of the truck and tried to massage the hangover from his forehead. He’d already heard Bode’s conspiracy theory about U.S. currency replacement. The subject had come up the night before, at Hooters, when Chub again recommended that they get rid of the nigger woman’s credit card before it could be traced. Bode had said they ought to hang on to it, in case the New World Tribunal took over all the banks and issued new money. Then everybody’s hard-earned American cash would be no good.

What
cash? Chub had wondered. They were dead fucking broke.

“And the new money,” Bode was telling Shiner, “instead of George Washington and U. S. Grant, it’ll have pitchers of Jesse Jackson and Fy-del Castro.”

“No shit! Then what do we do?”

“Plastic,” Bode replied. “We use plastic. Ain’t that right, Chub?”

“For sure.” Chub got up, scratching at his crotch. It had been so long since he’d seen a fifty-dollar bill, he couldn’t remember whose face was on it. Might as well be James Brown, for all it mattered to Chub.

“Let’s get some goddamn food,” he said.

On the drive to Florida City, Shiner fell asleep with his teeth bared, like a mutt. Bode and Chub used the quiet time to discuss the events of the night before. Were they really followed, or was the car they’d heard simply lost in the farmlands?

Bode Gazzer voted for lost. He insisted he would have noticed somebody tailing them from the restaurant.

“Maybe if you was sober,” Chub said.

“It was nobody after us, I guarantee. We was just jumpy from all the boy’s shootin’.”

Chub said, “I ain’t so sure.”

He had a strong feeling that their luck was going rotten. He became certain after breakfast, at the diner, when the waitress failed to return promptly with the credit card. Chub spotted her consulting with the restaurant manager at the cash register. In one hand the manager was holding the stolen Visa. In his other hand was the telephone.

Chub whispered across the table, “Jig’s up.”

Bodean Gazzer went rigid. Working his toes back into his cowboy boots, he accidentally kicked Chub in the knee. Irritably Chub glanced under the table and said, “Watch it.”

Shiner, bug-eyed, twisting his paper napkin into a knot: “What the hell do we do now!”

“Run, boy. What else?” Chub playfully rapped his knuckles on Shiner’s bare marbled scalp. “Run like the fuckin’ wind.”

13

Bode Gazzer’s fondness for stolen credit cards was evident from the double-digit entry on his rap sheet, which also included nine convictions for check kiting, five for welfare fraud, four for stealing electricity, three for looting lobster traps and two for willful destruction of private property (a parking meter and an ATM machine).

All this was revealed to Moffitt soon after JoLayne Lucks called to report the license tag of the red pickup truck carrying the men who’d attacked her. The tag number was fed into one computer, which produced the name and birth date of Bodean James Gazzer, and that was fed into another computer, which produced Mr. Gazzer’s arrest record. Moffitt was surprised by nothing he found, least of all the fact that despite his many crimes, Bode Gazzer had cumulatively spent less than twenty-three months of his whole worthless life behind bars.

Although the information wasn’t available from the computers, it wouldn’t have shocked Moffitt to know that Bode Gazzer was an avowed white supremacist and founder of a fledgling right-wing militia. By contrast, Bode Gazzer would have been stunned and appalled to find out that he’d attracted the attention of an agent from the despised Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, and that the agent was a damn Negro.

For Moffitt, seeing JoLayne Lucks was simultaneously excruciating and heavenly. She never flirted or strung him along even slightly. It wasn’t necessary. All she had to do was laugh, or turn her face, or walk across a room. One
of those
deals.

Moffitt’s condition was had but not pathetic. Sometimes for months he wouldn’t think about her. When he did, there was no moon-eyed pining—just a stoic wistfulness he had fine-tuned over the years. He was a realist; he felt what he felt. Whenever she called, he called back. Whenever she needed something, he came through. It made him feel good in a way that nothing else could.

They met at a rib joint on Highway One in South Miami. JoLayne didn’t wait half a minute to ask about the man who owned the pickup truck.

“Who is he? Where does he live—out by the tomato farms?”

“No,” Moffitt said.

“What’s his address?”

“Forget about it.”

“Why? What’re you going to do?”

“Toss the place,” Moffitt said.

JoLayne wasn’t sure what he meant.

“Search it,” Tom Krome explained, “with extreme prejudice.”

Moffitt nodded. “Meantime, cancel your Visa. We got a name now, and that’s all we need.”

All three of them ordered combo platters and iced tea. JoLayne didn’t eat much. She was feeling left out of the hunt.

“When you ‘toss’ this guy’s house—”

“Apartment.” Moffitt dabbed a napkin at his mouth.

“OK, but when you do it,” said JoLayne, “I’d like to be there.”

Moffitt shook his head firmly. “I won’t even be there. Officially, that is.” He took out his ID and set it open on the table, in front of Tom Krome. “Explain to her,” Moffitt said, pointing with a sparerib.

When Krome saw the ATF badge, he understood. The agency had been pilloried after the Waco raid. Gun nuts clamored for its abolition and compared its agents to jackbooted Nazis. Congress investigated. Heads rolled at the top; the field staff was put on ultra-low profile.

“A real shitstorm,” Krome said to JoLayne.

“I get the papers, Tom. I can read.” She gave Moffitt a scalding look. “Don’t you be talkin’ to me like I’m a child.”

The agent said, “No more headlines, that’s our orders from Washington. And that’s why I’ll be doing this burglary alone.”

JoLayne Lucks picked at her coleslaw with a plastic fork. She was aching to know who these redneck bastards were, how they lived, and what had possessed them to come after her, of all the lucky people who’d ever won the lottery. Why drive up to Grange to steal a ticket instead of waiting until somebody in Miami or Lauderdale hit the jackpot, which happened all the time.

It made no sense. JoLayne wanted to go with Moffitt and break into the man’s home. Dig through his closets, peek under his bed, steam open his mail. JoLayne wanted some answers.

“All I can promise,” said Moffitt, “is the ticket. If it’s there, I’ll find it.”

“At least tell me his name.”

“Why, Jo—so you can look it up in the phone book and beat me there? No way.”

They finished the meal in silence. Krome followed Moffitt to the parking lot while JoLayne stayed to work on a slice of apple pie.

The agent said, “She won’t stop with the lottery ticket. You realize that, don’t you?”

“She might.”

Moffitt smiled. “That girl gets an idea, she’ll leave you in the dust. Believe me.” He got in his car, a standard government-issue behemoth, and plugged the cell phone into the lighter jack. “Why you doin’ this?” he asked Krome. “I hope your reason is better than mine.”

“Probably not.” Here Krome expected a warning that he’d better take excellent care of JoLayne Lucks, or else.

But instead Moffitt said: “Here’s as far as it got between us: Two dates. A movie and a Dolphins game. She hates football.”

“What was the movie?”

“Something with Nicholson. We’re going back ten, eleven years. The Dolphins got their asses kicked, that much I remember. Anyway, after that it was back to being friends. Her choice, not mine.”

Krome said, “I’m not after anything.”

Moffitt chuckled. “Man, you’re not listening. It’s
her
choice. Always.” He started the car.

Krome said, “Be careful at the apartment.”

“You’re the one who needs to be careful.” Moffitt winked.

When Krome returned to the restaurant, JoLayne reported that the pie was excellent. Then she asked what Moffitt had told him in the parking lot.

“We were talking about football.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“You realize,” Krome said, “he’s taking one helluva risk.”

“And I appreciate it. I do.”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

JoLayne shifted uneasily. “Look, I’ve got to be careful what I say with Moffitt. If I sound ungrateful, it’s probably because I don’t want to sound
too
grateful. I don’t want … Lord, you know. The man’s still got some strong feelings for me.”

“The hots is what we call it.”

JoLayne lowered her eyes. “Stop.” She felt bad about dragging Moffitt into the search. “I know he’s supposed to get a warrant, I know he could lose his job if he’s caught—”

“Try jail.”

“Tom, he wants to help.”

“In the worst way. He’d do anything to make you happy. That’s the curse of the hopelessly smitten. Here’s my question: Do you want your Lotto money, or do you want revenge?”

“Both.”

“If you had to choose.”

“The money, then.” JoLayne was thinking of Simmons Wood. “I’d want the money.”

“Good. Then leave it at that. You’ll be doing Agent Moffitt a big favor.”

And me, too, Krome thought.

Champ Powell was the best law clerk Judge Arthur Battenkill Jr. had ever hired; the most resourceful, the most hardworking, the most ambitious. Arthur Battenkill liked him very much. Champ Powell didn’t need to be taught the importance of loyalty, because he’d been a policeman for five years before entering law school: a Gadsden County sheriffs deputy. Champ understood the rules of the street. The good guys stuck together, helped each other, covered for one another in a jam. That’s how you got by, and got ahead.

So Champ Powell was flattered when Judge Battenkill sought his advice about a delicate personal problem—a fellow named Tom Krome, who’d come between the distinguished judge and his lovely wife, Katie. Champ Powell was working late in the law library, researching an obtuse appellate decision on condominium foreclosures, when he felt Arthur Battenkill’s hand on his shoulder. The judge sat down and gravely explained the situation with Krome. He asked Champ Powell what
he
would do if it was his wife fooling around with another man. Champ (who’d been on both ends of that nasty equation) said first he’d scare the living shit out of the guy, try to run him out of town. Judge Battenkill said that would be excellent, if only he knew how to do such a thing without getting himself in hot water. Champ Powell said don’t worry, I’ll handle it personally. The judge was so profusely grateful that Champ Powell could see his future in the law profession turning golden. With one phone call, Arthur Battenkill could get him a job with any firm in the Panhandle.

That very night, the law clerk drove to Tom Krome’s house and shot out the windows with a deer rifle. The judge rewarded him the next morning in chambers with a collegial wink and a thumbs-up. Two days later, though, Arthur Battenkill phoned Champ Powell to irately report that Krome was still communicating with Katie, sending her photographs of an occult nature: weeping statuary. Champ was outraged. With the judge’s blessing, he left work early so he could get to the hardware store before it closed. There he purchased twelve gallons of turpentine and a mop. Any experienced arsonist could have told Champ Powell that twelve gallons was excessive and that the fumes alone would knock an elephant on its ass.

But the law clerk had no time for expert consultations. With resolve in his heart and a bandanna over his nostrils, Champ Powell vigorously swabbed the turpentine throughout Tom Krome’s house, slicking the floors and walls of each room. He was in the kitchen when he finally passed out, collapsing against the gas stove, groping wildly as he keeled. Naturally his hands latched onto a burner knob and unconsciously twisted it to the “on” position. When the explosion came, it was heard half a mile away. The house burned to the foundation in ninety minutes.

Champ Powell’s remains were not discovered until many hours after the blaze had died, when firefighters overturned a half-melted refrigerator and found what appeared to be a charred human jaw. Larger bone fragments and clots of jellied tissue were collected from the debris and placed in a Hefty bag for the medical examiner, who determined that the victim was a white male about six feet tall, in his early thirties. Beyond that, positive identification would be nearly impossible without dental records.

Based on the victim’s race, height and approximate age, fire investigators conjectured that the dead body was probably Tom Krome and that he’d been murdered or knocked unconscious when he surprised the arsonist inside his house.

The grisly details of the discovery, and the suspicions surrounding it, were given the following morning to
The Register’s
police reporter, who promptly notified the managing editor. Somberly he assembled the newsroom staff and told them what the arson guys had found. The managing editor asked if anybody knew the name of Tom Krome’s dentist, but no one did (though a few staff members remarked upon Krome’s outstanding smile, cattily speculating that it had to be the handiwork of a specialist). An intern was assigned the task of phoning every dental clinic in town in search of Krome’s X-rays. In the meantime, a feature writer was assigned to work on Krome’s obituary, just in case. The managing editor said the newspaper should wait as long as possible before running a story but should prepare for the worst. After the meeting, he hurried back to his office and tried to reach Sinclair in Grange. A woman identifying herself as Sinclair’s sister reported he was “at the turtle shrine” but offered to take him a message. The managing editor gave her one: “Tell him to call the goddamn office by noon, or start looking for a new job.”

As it happened, Champ Powell and Tom Krome had, in addition to their race and physique, one other characteristic in common: a badly chipped occlusal cusp on the number 27 tooth, the right lower canine. Champ Powell had damaged his while drunkenly gnawing the cap off a bottle of Busch at the 1993 Gator Bowl. Tom Krome’s chip had been caused by a flying brick during a street riot he was covering in the Bronx.

One of Krome’s second cousins, trying to be helpful, mentioned the broken tooth (and its semiheroic origin) to a
Register
reporter, who mentioned it to the medical examiner, who dutifully inspected the charred jawbone retrieved from Krome’s house. The number 27 canine looked as if it had been busted with a chisel. With confidence, the medical examiner dictated a report that tentatively identified the corpse in the ruins as Tom Krome.

The Register
would run the news story and sidebar obituary on the front page, beneath a four-column color photograph of Tom Krome. It would be the picture from his press badge—an underexposed head shot, with Tom’s hair windblown and his eyes half closed—but Katie would still fall apart when she saw it, dashing to the bedroom in tears. Judge Arthur Battenkill Jr. would remain at the breakfast table and reread the articles several times. Try as he might, he would not be able to recall the condition of Champ Powell’s dentition.

Arriving at the courthouse, he would find that for the second consecutive day his eager law clerk hadn’t shown up for work. The secretaries would offer to go to Champ’s apartment and check on him, but the judge would say it wasn’t necessary. He would pretend to recall that Champ had mentioned driving to Cedar Key, to visit his parents. Later Arthur Battenkill Jr. would go alone into his chambers and shut the door. He would put on his black robe, untie his shoes and sit down to figure out what would be worse for him, from the standpoint of culpability—if the burned body belonged to Champ Powell or to Tom Krome.