Lucky You (17 page)

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
adios
to 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’ve
got 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 Register
tomorrow.”

“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.”

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.

“And lookie here—’Merican Express,” Chub said, waggling a gold-colored credit card. “Fuck is the likes a you doin’ with
anything
‘Merican?”

Roberto Lopez said, “Take whatever you want. Please don’t kill me.”

Chub commanded Shiner to search the trunk. Bode Gazzer was a basket case; any second he expected the blue flash of police lights. He knew there would be little chance of satisfactorily explaining a shot Colombian to the Florida Highway Patrol.

“Hurry it up! Goddamn you guys,” he growled.

They found a briefcase, a holstered Model 84 Beretta .380 and a new pair of two-tone golf shoes. Shiner said, “Size tens. Same as me.”

“Keep ‘em!” Roberto Lopez, calling from the front seat.

Bode aimed the flashlight inside the briefcase: bar charts, computer printouts and financial statements. A business card identified Roberto Lopez as a stockbroker with Smith Barney.

Here Chub saw a chance to salvage merit from the crime. Even though the guy had turned out not to be Amber’s asshole boyfriend, he was still a damn foreigner with fancy clothes and too much money. Surely Bode would agree that the rifle attack wasn’t a total waste of time.

In a tone of solemn indignation, Chub accosted the fearful young Colombian: “You fuckers sneak into this country, steal our jobs and then take over our golf courses. If I might ast, Mister Roberto Stockbroker, what’s next? You gone run for President?”

Shiner was so stirred that he patriotically kicked the car, the golf cleats leaving a flawless perforation. Bode Gazzer, however, showed no sign of indignation.

Chub set aside the rifle and seized Roberto Lopez by the collar. “OK, smart-ass,” Chub said, recalling Bode’s piercing roadside interrogation of the migrant workers, “gimme the fourteenth President of the U.S.A.”

Tightly the young Colombian answered, “Franklin Pierce.”

“Ha! Frankie who?”

“Pierce.”
Bode’s voice dripped bitterness. “President Franklin Pierce is right. The man got it right.”

Deflated, Chub stepped back. “Jesus Willy Christ.”

“I’m outta here,” Bodean Gazzer said, and headed toward the pickup truck. Chub vented his disappointment by punching the luckless stockbroker in the nose, while Shiner concentrated his energies on the exterior of the Mustang.

To elude the process servers hired by her estranged husband, Mary Andrea Finley Krome began calling herself “Julie Channing,” a weakly veiled homage to her two all-time-favorite Broadway performers. So determined was Mary Andrea to resist divorce court that she went a step further: At a highway rest stop outside Jackson Hole, Wyoming, she cut her bounteous red hair and penciled in new full eyebrows. That same afternoon she drove into town and unsuccessfully auditioned for a ragged but rousing production
of Oliver Twist.

Back in Brooklyn, the resourceful Dick Turnquist had compiled from the World Wide Web a list of theater promoters in the rural western states. He faxed to each one a recent publicity shot of Mary Andrea Finley Krome, accompanied by a brief inquiry hinting at a family emergency back East—had anyone seen her? The director in Jackson Hole was concerned enough to reply, by telephone. He said the woman in the photograph bore a keen resemblance to an actress who had, only yesterday, read for the parts of both Fagin and the Artful Dodger. And while Miss Julia Channing’s singing voice was perfectly adequate, the director said, her Cockney accent needed work. “She could’ve handled Richard the Second,” the director explained, “but what I needed was a pickpocket.”

By the time Dick Turnquist retained and dispatched a local private investigator, Mary Andrea Finley Krome was already gone from the mountain town.

What impressed Turnquist was her perseverance for the stage life. Knowing she was being pursued, Mary Andrea continued to make herself visible. And although changing one’s professional name might tax the ego, as subterfuge it was pretty feeble. Mary Andrea could have melted into any city and taken any anonymous job—waitress, receptionist, bartender—with only a negligible decline of income. Yet she chose to keep acting despite the risk of discovery and subpoena. Perhaps she was indomitably committed to her craft, but Turnquist believed there was another explanation: Mary Andrea needed the attention. She craved the limelight, no matter how remote or fleeting.

Well, Turnquist reflected, who didn’t.

She could call herself whatever she wanted—Julie Channing, Liza Bacall, it didn’t matter. The lawyer knew he would eventually catch up to the future ex—Mrs. Krome and compel her presence in the halls of justice.

He therefore was not at all distressed when
The Register
called to inform him that Tom Krome had died in a suspicious house fire. Having only an hour earlier chatted with his client, alive and uncharred in a Coral Gables motel, Turnquist realized the newspaper was about to make a humongous mistake. It was about to devote its entire front page to a dead man who wasn’t.

Yet the lawyer chose not to edify the young reporter on the end of the line. Turnquist was careful not to lie outright; it wasn’t required. Conveniently the young reporter failed to ask Turnquist if he’d spoken to Tom Krome that day, or if he had any reason to believe Tom Krome was not deceased.

Instead the reporter said: “How long had you known each other? What are your fondest memories? How do you think he’d like to be remembered?”

All questions that Dick Turnquist found it easy to answer. He didn’t say so, but he was grateful to
The Register
for saving him further aggravation in tracking Mary Andrea Finley Krome. Once she heard the news, she’d naturally assume she could stop running, Tom’s dying would get her off the hook, litigation-wise, and she’d have no reason to continue the dodge. Mary Andrea had always been less concerned with saving the marriage than with avoiding the stigma of divorce. The last true Catholic, in her estranged husband’s words.

She was also a ham. Dick Turnquist expected Mary Andrea would get the first plane for Florida, to play the irresistible role of grief-stricken widow—sitting for poignant TV interviews, attending weepy candlelight memorials, stoically announcing journalism scholarships in her martyred spouse’s name.

And we’ll be waiting for her, thought Dick Turnquist.

On the phone, the reporter from
The Register
was winding up the interview. “Thanks for talking with me at such a difficult time. Just one more question: As Tom’s close friend, how do you feel about what’s happened?”

The lawyer answered, quite truthfully: “Well, it doesn’t seem real.”

On the morning of December 2, Bernard Squires telephoned Clara Markham in Grange to inquire if his generous purchase offer had been conveyed to the sellers of Simmons Wood.

“But it’s only been three days,” the broker said.

“You haven’t even spoken to them?”

“I’ve put in a call,” Clara fudged. “They said Mr. Simmons is in Las Vegas. His sister is on holiday down in the islands.”

Bernard Squires said, “They have telephones in Las Vegas, I know for a fact.”

Normally Bernard was not so impatient, but Richard “The Icepick” Tarbone urgently needed to make a covert withdrawal from the union pension accounts. The nature of the family emergency was not confided to Bernard Squires, and he pointedly exhibited a lack of curiosity on the matter. But since the Florida real estate purchase was crucial to the money laundering, The Icepick had taken a personal interest in expediting the deal. None of this could be frankly communicated by Bernard Squires to Clara Markham, who was saying:

“I’ll try to reach them again this morning. I promise.”

“And there are no other offers?” Bernard asked.

“Nothing on the table,” said Clara, which was strictly the truth.

As soon as the man from Chicago hung up, she dialed the number in Coral Gables that JoLayne had given her. A desk clerk at the motel said Miss Lucks and her friend had checked out.

With heavy reluctance Clara Markham then phoned the attorney handling the estate of the late Lighthorse Simmons. She described the pension fund’s offer for the forty-four acres on the outskirts of Grange. The attorney said three million sounded like a fair price. He seemed sure the heirs would leap at it.

Clara was sure, too. She felt bad for her friend, but business was business. Unless JoLayne Lucks found a miracle, Simmons Wood was lost.

An hour later, when Bernard Squires’ telephone rang, he thought it must be Clara Markham calling with the good news. It wasn’t. It was Richard Tarbone.

“I’m sicka this shit,” he told Squires. “You get your ass down to Florida.”

And Squires went.

They’d checked out of the Comfort Inn shortly after Moffitt’s visit. The agent had come straight from the redneck’s apartment. His tight-lipped expression told the story: no Lotto ticket.

“Damn,” JoLayne had said.

“I think I know where it is.”

“Where?”

“He hid it in a rubber. The camo guy.”

“A rubber.” JoLayne, pressing her knuckles to her forehead, trying not to get grossed out.

“A Trojan,” Moffitt had added.

“Thanks. I’ve got the picture.”

“He’s carrying it on him somewhere, I’m willing to bet.”

“His wallet,” Tom Krome had suggested.

“Yeah, probably.” Moffitt matter-of-factly told them about the search of Bodean James Gazzer’s place—the anti-government posters and bumper stickers, the gun magazines, the vermin, the condoms in the wastebasket.

“What now? How do we find the ticket?” Krome had asked.

“Gimme a week.”

“No.” JoLayne, shaking her head. “I can’t. Time’s running out.”

Moffitt had promised he’d take care of it as soon as he returned from San Juan. He had to go testify in a seizure case—illegal Chinese machine guns, routed through Haiti.

“When I get back, I’ll deal with these guys. Do a traffic stop, pat ‘em down real hard. Search the pickup, too.”

“But what if—”

“If it’s not there, then … hell, I don’t know.” Moffitt, working his jaw, stared out the window.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Three days. Four at the most.”

Moffitt had handed JoLayne Lucks the lottery tickets from Bodean Gazzer’s sock drawer. “For Saturday night,” he’d said. “Just in case.”

“Very funny.”

“Hey, weirder things’ve happened.”

JoLayne had tucked the tickets in her handbag. “By the way, Tom’s dead. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow.”

Moffitt had glanced quizzically at Krome, who’d shrugged and said, “Long story.”

“Murdered?”

“Supposedly. I’d prefer to keep it that way for now. You mind?”