Lucky You (22 page)

Emil LaGort’s attorney figured that Judge Arthur Battenkill Jr., like everyone else familiar with the case, knew that Emil had purposely knocked the tube of goop off the shelf, stomped it with both feet and then laid himself very gingerly on the floor of the health-care-and-hygiene aisle. The attorney certainly was not expecting the judge to call him at home on a Sunday morning and say:

“Lenny, it would be in your client’s interest to hang tough.”

“But, Your Honor, we were preparing to settle.”

“That would be precipitous.”

“A hundred even was the offer.”

“You can do better, Lenny. Trust me.”

The attorney tried to stay cool. “But I’m not ready for a trial!”

“Put on a little show,” Arthur Battenkill said, needling. “That snotty bone guy you always use as an expert witness, the one with the ratty toupee. Or that lying dipshit of a so-called neurologist from Lauderdale. Surely you can manage.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” The attorney was beginning to get the picture.

The judge said, “Let me ask you something. Do you think Mr. LaGort would be satisfied with, say, $250,000?”

“Your Honor, Mr. LaGort would be fucking jubilant.” And I would, too, the attorney thought. Me and my thirty-five percent.

“All right, Lenny, then I’ll tell you what. Let’s see if we can save the taxpayers some dough. First thing tomorrow we’ll all meet in chambers, after which I anticipate the defendants will be motivated to settle.”

“For two fifty.”

“No, for half a million. Are you following me?” said Arthur Bat-tenkill.

There was an uncomfortable pause on the other end. The attorney said, “Maybe we should have this conversation in person.”

“The phones are clean, Lenny.”

“If you say so.”

“Five hundred is a smart number,” the judge continued, “because Save King’s insurance company can live with it. A trial is too risky, especially if you get a couple old geezers on the jury. Then you’re looking at seven figures, automatic.”

The attorney said, “Amen.”

“Next question: Can Mr. LaGort be persuaded that the court’s costs are unusually high in this case?”

“For the kind of money he’s getting, Your Honor, Mr. LaGort can be persuaded that cows shit gumdrops.”

“Good,” said Arthur Battenkill. “Then you know what to do with the other two fifty.”

“Do I?”

“Escrow, Lenny. You do have an escrow account?”

“Of course.”

“That’s the first place it goes. Then it’s wired overseas. I’ll give you the account number when I get one.”

“Oh.”

“What’s the matter now?”

The attorney said, “It’s just … I’ve never done it this way before.” Lenny, do I strike you as a brown-bag-in-the-alley sort of fellow? Do you see me as some kind of low-class bumpkin?”

“No, Your
Honor.”

“I hope not,” Arthur Battenkill said. “By the way, next week there will be an announcement of my pending retirement, for unspecified health reasons. Tell Mr. LaGort not to he alarmed.”

The attorney endeavored to sound genuinely concerned. “I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know you’d been ill.”

The judge laughed acidulously. “Lenny, you’re not too swift, are you?”

“I guess not, Your Honor.”

Not for a moment did it occur to Mary Andrea Finley Krome that the newspapers might be wrong and that her husband was still alive. She departed Missoula on an upswelling of sympathy from Loretta (or was it Lorie?) and her other new acquaintances among the
Menagerie
cast, and with the director’s personal assurance that the role of Laura Wingfield would be waiting when she returned.

Which, of course, Mary Andrea had no intention of doing. She believed that being a famous widow would open new doors, careerwise.

The long flight to Florida gave Mary Andrea time to prepare for the bustle of attention that awaited. Knowing she’d be asked by interviewers, she tried to reconstruct the last time she’d seen Tom. Incredibly, she could not. Probably it was at the apartment in Brooklyn, probably in the kitchen over breakfast. That was usually when he’d tried to initiate the so-called serious discussions about their marriage. And probably she’d gotten up from the table and moseyed into the bathroom to pluck her eyebrows, her customary response to the subject of divorce.

All Mary Andrea could remember with certainty was that one morning, four years ago, he hadn’t been there. Poof.

The previous night, she’d come home from rehearsals very late and fallen asleep on the sofa. She expected to be awakened, as she had so many days, by the sound of Tom munching on his cereal. He was partial to Grape-Nuts, which had the consistency of blasted granite.

What Mary Andrea recalled most distinctly from that morning was the silence in the apartment. And of course the brief note, which (because it had been Scotch-taped to the cereal box) had been impossible to take seriously:

If you won’t leave me, I’ll find somebody who will.

Only later did Mary Andrea discover that Tom had lifted the line from a Warren Zevon song, an irritating detail that merely fortified her resolve to stay married.

As for the last time she’d actually laid eyes on her husband, what he’d said to her, his mood, the clothes he’d been wearing—none of this could Mary Andrea remember.

She did recall what she’d been doing on the afternoon the lawyer phoned, that asshole Turnquist. She’d been reading
Daily Variety
and running through her vocal exercises; octaves and whatnot. She remembered Turnquist saying Tom wanted to give her one more chance to sit down and work out the details, before he filed the papers. She remembered manufacturing a giggle and telling the lawyer he’d been the victim of an elaborate practical joke her husband arranged every year, on their anniversary. And she remembered hanging up the telephone and breaking into tears and wolfing three Dove bars.

Compared to other newsworthy breakups it seemed mundane, and Mary Andrea saw no benefit in launching her public widowhood by boring the media. So, gazing from the window of the plane at the scooped-out cliffs of the Rocky Mountains, she invented a suitable parting scene that she could share with the press. It had happened, say, six months ago. Tom had surprised her in, say, Lansing, where she’d landed a small part in a road tour of
Sunset Boulevard.
He’d slipped in late and sat in the rear of the theater, and surprised her with pink roses backstage after the show. He’d said he missed her and was having second thoughts about the separation. They’d even made plans to get together for dinner, say, next month, when she was scheduled to come back east with the production of
Lambs.

Sounds pretty good, Mary Andrea thought. And who’s to say it didn’t happen? Or wouldn’t have happened, if Tom hadn’t died.

As the flight attendant freshened her Diet Coke, Mary Andrea thought: Crying won’t be a problem. When the cameras show up, I’ll have gallons of tears. Heck, I could cry right now.

Because it
was
terribly sad, the senseless death of a young and moderately talented and basically goodhearted man.

So what if she didn’t lie awake at nights, missing him. She’d really never known him well enough to miss him. That was sort of sad, too. Imagining the intimacy and caring that might have been; the kind of closeness only years of separation could bring.

Mary Andrea Finley Krome dug through her handbag until she located the rosary heads she’d found at a Catholic thrift shop in Missoula. She would clutch them in her left hand as she got off the plane in Orlando, and mention in a choked voice that they’d been a gift from Tom.

Which they might have been, someday, if the poor guy hadn’t been murdered.

20

JoLayne Lucks sat up so abruptly she made the boat rock. “Lord, what an awful dream.”

Krome put a finger to his lips. He’d killed the engine, and they were drifting in the dark toward the island. “Get this,” she said. “We’re in the hot-air balloon, the yellow one from before, and all of a sudden you ask for half the lottery money.”

“Only half?”

“This is after we get the stolen ticket back. Out of nowhere you’re demanding a fifty-fifty split!”

Krome said: “Thank you, Agent Moffitt, wherever you are.”

“What?”

“He put that idea in your head.”

“No, Tom. As a matter of fact, he said you didn’t strike him as a typical moneygrubbing scumbag.”

“Stop. I’m blushing.”

It was a windy night, wispy clouds skating overhead. A cold front was moving in from the north. The starlight came and went in patches. They’d approached the island on a wide arc. The tree-lined shore looked black and lifeless—the robbers were nowhere in sight, having disappeared up a creek on the lee side. Krome surmised it was too soon for the group to send a lookout; the men would be busy unloading their gear.

JoLayne said, “You’re sure they didn’t see us following them?”

“I’m not sure of anything.”

She thought: That makes two of us.

Evidently Tom was sticking with her, shotgun and all. She couldn’t help but wonder why, a riddle she’d been avoiding since the first day. Why was he doing this? What was in it for him? Krome had said nothing in particular to trigger these doubts in JoLayne; it was only the backwash from a lifetime of being let down by men she trusted.

As the skiff floated closer to the mangroves, she heard Tom say: “Hang on.” Then they were tilting, and she saw he was over the side and wading for shore. He held the bow rope in one fist, pulling the Whaler quietly across the flat toward the tree line.

JoLayne sat forward. “You be careful,” she whispered.

“Water’s nice.”

“Skeeters?”

Krome, keeping his voice low: “Not too bad.”

It’s the breeze, JoLayne thought. Mosquitoes like hot still nights. If this were August, they’d be devouring us.

“See any place to tie off?” she asked. “What about over there?”

“That’s where I’m headed.”

The opening wasn’t much wider than the skiff itself. Krome advised JoLayne to lie flat and cover her face as he led them through a latticework of mangroves. The branches raked at her bare arms, and a gossamer fragment of a spider’s web caught in her hair. She was more alarmed by the sound of the roots screaking along the hull, but Tom seemed unconcerned. He hauled the skiff to the bank and helped her step out.

In fifteen minutes they had the gear unpacked and sorted. By flashlight they wiped down the Remington and loaded two shells. It was the first time since sunset that JoLayne had been able to see Tom’s face, and it made her feel better.

She said, “How about a fire?”

“Not just yet.” He stood the gun against a tree and clicked off the light. “Let’s just sit and listen.”

The vibrant quiet was a comfort; nothing but the hum of insects and the whisk of wavelets against the shore. The peacefulness reminded JoLayne of the evening at Simmons Wood when she and Tom had stopped to watch the deer.

Except this time he was squeezing her hand. He was tense.

She told him: “This is a good place you found. We’ll be safe here.”

“I keep hearing noises.”

“It’s just the wind in the trees.”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s the wind, Tom.” She could tell he hadn’t spent much time in the outdoors. “Let’s have a fire.” “They’ll smell the smoke.”

“Not if they’ve got one burning, too,” she said, “and I’ll bet you five bucks they do. I’ll bet that cute little waitress is freezing her buns in those shorts.”

Tom broke up some driftwood while JoLayne dug out a small pit in the sand. For tinder they used handfuls of the crispy, dried-out seaweed that ringed the shore. It didn’t take long for a spark to catch. JoLayne stood close, enjoying the heat on her bare arms. Tom unsnapped the faded blue canvas from the skiffs Bimini top and spread it on the ground. JoLayne tactfully suggested he should move it to the upwind side of the fire, so the smoke wouldn’t blow in their eyes.

“Good thinking,” he said tightly.

They sat close to the flames—Tom with a Coke and a granola bar; JoLayne with a Canada Dry, a box of Goldfish crackers and the Remington.

She said, “All the comforts of home.”

“Yeah.”

“Except a radio. Wouldn’t Whitney hit the spot right now?” JoLayne, trying to loosen him up, singing in a tinny voice: “
Aaahheeeayyyyy will all-ways love you-aaaooooo …
“

A small laugh; not much. “Something wrong?” she asked.

“I guess I’m just tired.”

“Well, it’s about time.”

“We should do some scouting at dawn, while they’re still asleep.”

“They might be up early.”

“I doubt it. They bought a shitload of beer,” Tom said.

“Dawn it is. Then what?”

“We get as close as possible to their camp—close enough to see and hear what’s going on. That way we’ll know when things go sour.”

JoLayne said, “I sure hope you’re right about that. OK, then what happens?”

“We get them one by one.”

“You serious?”

“Not with the shotgun, JoLayne. Not unless they leave us no choice.”

“I see.”

Tom opened a can of tuna fish and forked it onto a paper plate. JoLayne waved it off before he could offer.

“I was thinking about your dream,” he said. “Uh-oh.”

“I don’t blame you for being suspicious of me. Only a fool wouldn’t be—”

“That’s not the right word—”

“Look,” he said, “if I were reporting this story instead of participating, that’s the first thing I’d ask: ‘How do you know that guy isn’t after your Lotto money, too?’ And all I can say is, I’m not. The idea never crossed my mind, that’s the truth. Which raises the obvious question: What in the hell’s wrong with me? Why risk my neck for a woman I’ve only known a week ?”

“Because I’m extra-special?” JoLayne, through a mouthful of Goldfish crackers.

“Hey. I’m trying to be serious.”

“Wild,” she said. “You really can’t explain why you’re here. You, who are in the profession of putting words together. An intelligent, successful guy who doesn’t hesitate to drop everything, to walk away from a whole other life.”

“Unbelievable, I know. I
do
know.” He stared beyond the flames. “It just seemed … necessary.”

JoLayne took a slug of ginger ale. “All right, Mister Krome. Since neither of us can figure out your motives, let’s look at the possibilities.”

“The fire’s dying.”

“Sit your ass down,” JoLayne said. “Let’s start with sex.”

“Sex.”

“Yes. That thing we were doing last night in the motel. Remember? We take off all our clothes and one of us climbs on top—”

“You’re suggesting that I’d risk being massacred by vicious psychopaths just to charm you into the sack?”

“Some men’ll do anything.”

“No offense,” Tom said, “but I’m not quite that starved for affection.”

“Oh really? Before last night, when was the last time you made love to a woman.”

“A week ago.”

“Yipes,” said JoLayne, with a blink.

“The wife of a judge.” Krome got up to toss more driftwood on the embers. “Apparently she kept a scorecard. I could probably get a copy, if you want.”

JoLayne recovered admirably. “So we’ve ruled out money and nooky. What about valor?”

Tom chuckled mirthlessly. “Oh, how I wish.”

“White man’s guilt?”

“That’s possible.”

“Or how about this: You’re just trying to prove something to yourself.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He lay back, entwining his hands behind his head. In the firelight JoLayne could see he was exhausted.

He said, “Hey, we missed the lottery.”

“Lord, that’s right—it was last night, wasn’t it? I believe we were distracted.” In her handbag she found the Lotto coupons Moffitt had confiscated from Bodean Gazzer’s apartment. She fanned them, like a royal flush, for Tom to see.

“You feeling lucky?”

“Very,” he said.

“Me, too.” She leaned forward and dropped the tickets, one by one, into the flames.

By the time they reached Pearl Key, Bodean Gazzer and Chub were hardly speaking. At issue was the newly purchased marine chart of Florida Bay, which neither of them was able to decipher. Chub blamed Bode, and Bode blamed the mapmakers from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, who (he insisted) had purposely mislabeled the backcountry channels to thwart the flight of survivalists such as the White Clarion Aryans. This time Chub wasn’t buying it.

The inability of either man to make sense of the navigational markers resulted in a succession of high-speed groundings that seriously eroded the aluminum propellers. The ski boat was shaking like a blender long before the militiamen got to the island.

Chub seethed—he had so hoped to impress Amber with his nautical skills. Yet, during their third mishap after departing Jewfish Creek, he’d heard her say: “This is a joke, right?”

At the time he was waist-deep in water, fighting the tide, pushing against the transom with all his strength. Bode Gazzer sloshed next to him in the shallows, working on the starboard side. Amber was in the boat with Shiner.

This is a joke, right?

And Chub had heard Shiner say, “If only.”

The snotty fuck.

Panting in the marl, Chub found his worries turning to the lottery tickets. Both were hidden in the steering console—the stolen one still damp from the previous near disaster; the one in Bode’s wallet relocated when Chub made him go overboard to push.

The console had cheap plastic doors that didn’t lock. Chub resolved to shoot Shiner in the kneecaps if he went anywhere near it.

Night had fallen before they beached at Pearl Key. Bode Gazzer used liquid charcoal lighter to get a fire going. Chub stripped down and hung his sopping clothes in the mangroves. Shiner was ordered to unload the boat. He couldn’t believe Chub was sauntering around camp in his underwear, right in front of Amber.

“Want some bug spray?” Chub asked her.

“I’m cold,” she said.

In an instant Shiner was there with an army blanket. Chub snatched it and wrapped Amber’s shoulders. He handed her an aerosol can of insect repellent and said: “Squirt a lil on my legs, wouldya?”

She did as she was told, her expression concealed by Chub’s lanky shadow. Bode Gazzer glanced up from the campfire—it was foolishness; such a girl had no place in a paramilitary unit. Shiner was equally dismayed, but for different reasons.

He piped, “They’s some dry camos in the duffel.”

Chub ignored him. He seemed entirely relaxed in mud-splattered Jockey shorts.

“So, Amber,” he said, “where’d y’all sleep last night?”

“The car.”

Chub cut a hard look at Shiner, who said: “By the side of the road.”

“Is that right.”

“Whatsa big damn deal?” Shiner didn’t appreciate how Chub was putting him on the spot: giving him the eye, acting like Shiner was holding something back.

Amber came to his defense. “It’s a Crown Victoria. You can fit a football team in there,” she said. “I slept in the back seat, Shiner slept in front. Anything else you want to know?”

Chub got red and flustered. The last thing he’d wanted to do was piss her off—hell, some girls were flattered when you got jealous. He offered Amber a Budweiser.

“No, thanks.”

“Some jerky?”

“I think I’ll pass.”

Bodean Gazzer said, “We got to have a meeting. Sugar, can you leave us men alone for ‘bout thirty minutes.”

Amber looked out toward the gray woods, then turned back to Bode. “Where exactly am I supposed to go?”

Shiner cut in, saying it was all right for her to stay. “She knows who we are, and she’s a hundred percent with the program.”

Now it was the colonel’s turn to shoot him the evil eye. Shiner didn’t cave. “She’s even gonna fix my tattoo!”

“Too bad she can’t fix your fuckin’ brain.” Chub, picking at his eye patch as if it were a scab.

Bodean Gazzer sensed that his hold on the newborn militia was slipping. Amber would have to shut up and behave, that’s all. Her presence was disrupting the group; the scent of her in particular. While Bode was grateful for any fragrance potent enough to neutralize the stink of Chub’s perspiration, he felt throttled by Amber’s perfume. It fogged his brain with impure thoughts, some of them jarringly explicit. Bode was angry at himself for entertaining base fantasies when he should be concentrating totally on survival.

He spread an oilskin tarpaulin and called the meeting to order. Amber sat cross-legged in the center of the tarp, with Shiner and Chub on each side.