by David Kazzie
"You cannot afford this," he said. "Can you?"
"Yes, we can," Pasquale said suddenly. "I'm bankrolling your daughter, Omar."
Omar took another sip of his coffee. From the corner of her eye, Samantha saw Pasquale wink at her.
"I love the store," Samantha said. "I know how important it is to you. It's important to all of us. I want to keep it alive."
"Ya Allah," her mother said. Technically, it meant, "Oh, my God," but a looser translation was "Holy shit!"
Omar took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his chest deflating like a balloon. Samantha could almost see the stress and worry sluicing off his body like water rushing through a downspout.
"Yes," he said. "I want to hear more about this."
He did not consult with Zaina before making this decision, but Samantha did not expect him to. Zaina herself did not expect him to. It was just that kind of thing. If he decided that it was time to sell the store, then it was time to sell the store. Still, it made her smile to see her mother nodding her head vigorously.
"OK," Samantha said. "We'll get things started after the holidays."
* * *
"That's quite an idea you've got there," Pasquale said, dunking a piece of pita bread into his hummus. Pasquale had an almost unholy love of hummus. He ate it by the gallon.
"Mmm," Samantha said, picking at her food. She hadn't eaten much.
They had drifted into the dim hallway, somewhat removed from the chaos of the family room. Still, even from here, Samantha could hear her sister Emily arguing with their cousin Hala about whether the kibbe had too many onions, and so they spoke in guarded whispers.
"You really want to do this?" Samantha asked.
"Yeah," Pasquale said. "I really do. I'm ready to come home. And that's wherever you are. I love that store. I think we could do a good job. You're not worried, are you?"
"I'm more worried about our little friend."
"He took two bullets," he said. "I think he's got other concerns."
"He managed to find us after you took him for that little swim."
"True. Look, if he shows up, we can just give him the ticket," he said. "He's not going to kill thirty Arabs."
"You sure about that?"
"Definitely. He'll probably think they're all terrorists anyway."
"Hilarious."
"OK, I'm not a hundred percent sure," he said. "Call it ninety percent."
"I can't stay here," she said, looking around. "I can't take the chance that he finds me here. If he came here and I wasn't here, I feel like they'd be OK. He'd have no reason to hurt them."
"Then we'll duck out of here after dinner," he said.
"Where will we go?"
"Somewhere," he said. "Can I finish eating first?"
"Sure," she said. Then, after a pause, she added: "What are you still doing here?" she asked.
"What do you mean?" he asked. "By the way, these are some damn good grape leaves."
"You came back at the drop of a hat. No questions."
"What can I say? I'm a hell of a guy."
She knew he was covering, that her questions were making him uncomfortable. His chewing slowed, and his eyes began drifting around the room. She touched his knee.
"You could've died. It would've been my fault."
"No, it would've been what's his name's fault."
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I know," he said. "I know. Look, for whatever reason, this ticket became your responsibility, your cross to bear. It's nearly gotten us killed. You insisted on doing the right thing. I didn't want you to do it. All I could do is to try to keep you from getting hurt."
"And now?"
"Now? We've done all we can," he said. "Tomorrow, we lay low, and Wednesday you cash in the ticket. You do what you can."
"It doesn't seem right," she said.
"Right?" he repeated. "Was it right for Carter and his brother to kill Julius? Was it right for us to be hunted down by the goddamn boogeyman for the last forty-eight hours? If it hadn't been for you, Carter would be blowing this money on crystal meth and hookers for the next fifty years. Right? Look, if you want to try to find Julius' heirs, by all means, we can try. But let's do it in a way that doesn't risk your life and the lives of everyone around you. Remember what I told you at your place? That I hoped it never got out that you had the ticket? Look how many people have died. We both almost died."
"OK," she said, holding her palms up in surrender. "I get it. I get it."
But deep down, she wasn't sure she did.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Wednesday, December 26
8:58 a.m.
Samantha lucked into a first-level parking spot in a public deck at the corner of 9th and Cary Street in the middle of downtown. For this, she was thankful, because she was freaking exhausted. After wedging her little coupe into a spot just a few steps from the street, she and Pasquale, both armed with expensive cups of coffee, set out toward lottery headquarters two blocks north on Bank Street. It was a cloudy, frigid morning, the mercury in the twenties, but the bulk of the storm had finally pulled away from the area. Long, high embankments of dirty snow flanked the street like bunkers as the snowplows worked to clear the roads.
As they turned left onto 9th Street, she caught a glimpse of herself in a reflective glass building panel. Yikes, she thought. She looked like hell. She was wearing jeans and a thick Florida State University sweatshirt, which she had found in her laundry one day in college. Its origin remained a mystery, as she did not know anyone who had ever gone to FSU, nor had she ever seen the sweatshirt before that day. It was her favorite item of clothing. The cold air felt good on her eyes, puffy and red from fatigue.
"You doing OK?" asked Pasquale.
"Just glad this is going to be over soon."
"How'd you sleep?"
She cut her eyes toward him without answering. This was her way of telling him, "not well." Pasquale took a quick sip of his coffee and glanced around the quiet buildings.
It had been two days since they'd skipped out on Christmas Eve dinner. Sam had spent the last two nights pacing around the two different hotel rooms they had stayed in, awaiting the opening of SuperLotto's Virginia headquarters. The first night, at a Holiday Inn Express just north of town, she sat in the uncomfortable chair by the door, which they blockaded with the dresser. She had considered re-consummating her relationship with Pasquale in the hopes it might relax her enough to fall asleep, but she thought such a maneuver likely would create a whole new set of issues she wasn't quite ready to deal with just yet.
She spent much of the time trying to convince herself to simply turn the ticket over to the police or some lottery official and that would be that. The problem was that she was a lawyer, and she knew human nature. She had seen firsthand the devastation wrought by the three-inch-square playslip, and yet she was having a hard time not cashing it for herself. Some good had to come from this terrible weekend.
So, instead, she had watched half a dozen reruns of The Cosby Show on Nickelodeon. At five, she watched the morning news on CNN, which had a brief bit about the SuperLotto ticket. The graphic banner striped across the bottom of the screen stunned her out of the chair and onto the floor, where she sat Indian-style and watched with rapt interest.
CLERK WHO SOLD $415 MILLION WINNING TICKET GUNNED DOWN
The same television reporter who had been so unhappy to report on the lottery mania three nights ago was really getting after it now. This was her star turn for the network, and she wasn't going to screw it up. Had Samantha seen her mailing it in a few nights earlier, she would have been amazed by the dramatic change. She used a snappy lead with strong verbs and scary adjectives.
"Police in Richmond, Virginia are hunting for a brutal killer this morning and asking whether the senseless murder of store clerk Carly Madison is connected to the winning $415 million ticket that she sold just two days earlier. There has been some speculation that the killer may have been looking for the tick
et itself."
Gee, ya think?
They spent Christmas in a Red Roof Inn just south of town, the holiday meal consisting of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and cole slaw from a nearby grocery store. They ate on one of the two double beds in the room. She called her parents and wished them a Merry Christmas. They were not happy about her sudden and unexplained departure from Christmas Eve dinner, but there were no reports of a strange man looking for her.
That night, Pasquale took six more ibuprofen and was out within seconds of his head hitting the pillow. Sam drifted in and out of sleep. Her tidbits of slumber were punctuated by extremely bad dreams that involved an army of howler monkeys smoking cigars wrapped with thousand-dollar bills. By six, they were both showered and dressed and ready to go.
* * *
"Here it is," Pasquale said, nudging Samantha with an elbow. The SuperLotto office was housed in a concrete-and-glass block between 9th and 10th Streets, just south of the Virginia Capitol.
"Here it is," Samantha repeated.
"So, do we need some kind of plan?" Pasquale asked.
"You mean, do we need to get our stories straight?"
Pasquale nodded.
"I've thought about that," she said. "They obviously know when and where the ticket was purchased. You know, it just occurred to me that we, on the other hand, don't know where Julius got it. If it comes up, I'll just say I asked a friend to buy me a ticket."
"Boy, you've got this all figured out for someone who doesn't want to cash the ticket."
"Please don't start with me," she said.
"Sorry."
"Here we go," she said.
Samantha took a deep breath and stepped into the rotating carousel door.
* * *
SuperLotto offices were like the wild teenagers of a family of banks. Sure, they looked like the other family members, with their crisp marble floors, cashiers working behind wood-paneled work stations and vaults full of cash. But instead of moodily taking money from quiet, well-behaved customers for safekeeping in low-interest-bearing accounts, this place shoveled cash out the door. Every day was like a fraternity kegger. The cashiers wore bright blue button-down shirts emblazoned with the SuperLotto logo, and classic rock thumped from hidden loudspeakers. A pair of wildly undertrained armed guards patrolled the lobby, looking very official with their uniforms and guns. A large electronic marquee hung from the ceiling, displaying a series of rotating messages.
JACKPOT FOR THURSDAY'S DRAWING – $23 MILLION!
This one amused Samantha. The show must go on.
SUPERLOTTO – YOU'VE GOT TO BE IN IT TO WIN IT!
And you might get your head blown off to boot!
WINNERS – CHECK IN WITH CASHIER
Samantha threaded her way through the velvet ropes to the front of the line. They were the first ones here. Behind the counter, the cashiers were chitchatting and getting their stations ready for the day. Samantha could hear some grumbling, and who could blame them? Who wanted to work the day after Christmas?
Relax, you sad little elves, Samantha thought. This day is about to get very exciting.
* * *
Lauren Walsh wasn't happy to be at work today. She had put in a leave request a month ago, which had been approved, but her bitch of a supervisor, Natalie, decided at the last minute that she and the family were spending Christmas at Vail. Suddenly, her approved leave request went from Approved to "Sorry, you gotta haul your ass in here." So this morning, she had pushed her way out the door while her little boy clutched his new Thomas the Tank Engine toys in his hands, giant crocodile tears streaming down his little face. She hoped Natalie skied into a tree. God, she hated this job.
As the first winners of the day approached her window, she squeezed in a sip of Mountain Dew, the can hidden under her work counter. The SuperLotto Policies and Procedures manual strictly prohibited cashiers from consuming food or beverage while manning their stations. She didn't care.
"Good morning," Lauren said, tucking the can below her desk.
"Hi," Samantha said. "I'm not really sure how this works." She held up the ticket.
"Let me take care of that," she said. "Got yourself a little Christmas bonus?"
"You could say that," Samantha said.
Mindlessly, Lauren took the ticket and waved her scanning wand over the bar code, which would verify the ticket's authenticity. Her computer responded strangely, drawing her gaze to the suddenly excitable monitor. A series of messages blinked angrily at her.
TICKET AUTHENTICATED
NOTIFY SUPERVISOR IMMEDIATELY
Her heart pounding crazily in her chest, Lauren picked up her phone and dialed the on-duty supervisor. She couldn't believe it. This chick had won the whole goddamn jackpot. A tickle of envy crawled up her back like a bug.
"This is Lauren Walsh, Station 3."
* * *
Samantha saw the surprise in the cashier's face and wondered who she was calling. Probably the SWAT team. That's it, she was spending the next three years in federal prison. Defrauding the national lottery had to be a federal crime, right?
After a hushed discussion, Lauren hung up the phone and set a small SEE NEXT WINDOW placard on her desk.
"I need to take you upstairs," she said. "Hang on a minute."
Lauren came out from behind the counter and led them to a bank of elevators at the back of the lobby. Samantha could feel the woman's eyes boring in on her like a drill.
"Congratulations," Lauren said, while she waited for the elevator.
"Where are we going?" Pasquale asked.
"Upstairs," she said. "You'll meet with the regional manager, media relations, marketing, some other folks. Need to get you ready for the press conference. You know, the one with the oversized check? That sort of thing. It's going to be a big day."
The elevator doors whooshed open, and the trio stepped on board. They were silent during the fifteen-second trip to the third floor. When the doors slid open again, Samantha saw a nervous-looking man in a suit that was about two sizes too large waiting for them. A heavy-set woman stood by him.
"Hi, I'm Aaron Daggett," he said, strutting toward her with his hand extended. "Mid-Atlantic regional manager for SuperLotto. Congratulations!"
"Uh, thanks," Samantha said, taking his small, sweaty hand in her own. "Samantha Khouri. This is my friend Pasquale."
"Ms. Khouri, you are one lucky woman!"
If only you knew, she thought.
"I guess," she agreed. "A real long shot."
"You can say that again! Do you know the odds of winning the SuperLotto jackpot?"
Sam and Pasquale shook their heads.
"Well, believe me when I tell you they are pretty crappy."
"I bet they are."
"Hey, I'll take any bet you're taking! You're a lucky lady! I'm not washing this hand until I make it to Vegas!"
A few moments of awkward silence followed. Samantha cleared her throat.
"So what happens now?" she asked.
"Well," he said, coughing into his hand, "first things first. You need to put on this identification bracelet," he said. He looped a plastic bracelet stamped with a bar code onto her wrist.
"We're also going to fingerprint you and take your photograph. That way we'll always know you are who you say you are. Later this morning, we're going to fly you down to Atlanta. SuperLotto headquarters. That's where all the magic will happen."
"Magic?"
"Well, for one, it's where you will fill out all the necessary paperwork, decide whether you're taking the annual payout or the lump sum. Wait, wait, wait. I'm getting ahead of myself. Can I get you folks some coffee?"
Sam and Pasquale held up their cups.
"Right. You've got coffee. How silly of me. You have to understand, this is an exciting moment for our office. Biggest jackpot ever. And you won it!"
"Look," Samantha said. "I don't want a lot of hoopla."
"No hoopla?" he said, his face falling. "There's a news conference."
"I'm not really into that sort of thing," she said. "I really just played this on a whim. Asked someone to pick up a ticket for me. That's why I came in so early. I wanted to get it over with."
Aaron Daggett clicked his teeth together. He was obviously disappointed. Samantha didn't know why. Maybe he was planning to appear at the news conference with her.
"Do I have to do the news conference?" she asked.
"Well, we strongly encourage our players to appear at the news conference," he said. "You know, the whole oversize check and everything. It makes for quite a show."
"But I don't have to."
"No," said Daggett. "You don't. But we really think it's a lot of fun."
"Then I'll pass," she said. "Whatever the absolute minimum is to get my money. Please."
"Fine," he said. "Deb here will get you printed and photographed. I'll alert headquarters. The SuperLotto jet will be here soon."
"Jet?"
This seemed to get Daggett energized again.
"Yeah, a Gulfstream," he said. "They pick up all the jackpot winners in it. It's a really nice ride. You're going to love it."
An invisible cell phone began to ring.
Daggett held up an index finger. "Excuse me for a moment," he said, fishing the phone from his jacket pocket. He eased away from the group, but he remained within earshot.
"Aaron Daggett," he said. "Good morning, sir." A pause. "Yes, they're here now." Another pause. "I'll let them know."
Pasquale glanced over at Samantha, who shrugged her shoulders.
"Yes, sir, I will let them know," said Daggett.
He sauntered back to them, lightly tapping his palms together.
"Looks like you're getting a special visitor," said Daggett.
"Who's that?" Samantha asked, her mind flashing to Charles Flagg, back to finish his quest.
"The CEO."
"The CEO of what?"
"The CEO of Fool's Gold Trading Partners, LLC."
"What the hell is that?" asked Pasquale.