by David Kazzie
"Fool's Gold is the company that operates SuperLotto for the federal government."
"Why?" Sam asked.
"He didn't share that with me," Daggett said. "He just asked to meet you in the conference room in two hours. In the meantime, we can take care of the prints and the photograph."
"Fine with me," said Samantha.
* * *
Two hours later, Samantha and Pasquale were in the conference room, sipping coffee from SuperLotto mugs. Theirs to keep. Samantha was pacing the room.
"Something weird is going on," she said. "They know we didn't buy the ticket."
"So? We didn't have to buy the ticket. It doesn't matter to them how we ended up with the ticket. All they care about is that we have the ticket. Besides, they wouldn't send the CEO. They'd send the police."
Pasquale had a point.
A knock on the door.
Samantha turned as the Chief Executive Officer of Fool's Gold Trading Partners, LLC, stepped into the room.
"Good morning," he said.
Samantha and Pasquale nodded toward him.
"I'm Arden McKinley."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Wednesday, December 26
11:52 a.m.
Six years before Julius Wheeler bought his winning ticket at Lucky Lou's, a freshman Republican senator from Wyoming named Ted Dozier was looking to make a name for himself. He was a rising star in the party, and he had designs on a White House run in his future. First, though, he knew he needed to become a household name, lest he become one of these jokers in the primary debates that no one had ever heard of.
He read an article in The Economist about the popularity of national lottery games in Europe and decided that the U.S. government needed to horn in on some of the action. Why should the states have all the fun? A year into his term, he proposed Senate Bill 815, also known as the National Lottery Act, and almost immediately, the nation was transfixed by the prospect of a lottery jackpot growing exponentially each week.
Initially, members of Congress worried about muscling in on the state lotteries, which would, of course, be sacrificed at the altar of a national game. There were academic concerns about the Commerce Clause and the Fourteenth Amendment, which most Americans neither understood nor gave a shit about. Early poll numbers indicated public support for the bill exceeded eighty percent nationwide. When the members of Congress realized that supporting the bill would grease their re-election campaigns, they quickly threw their full weight behind the Act. The bill was fast-tracked out of subcommittee, to the Appropriations Committee, and then to the Senate floor.
The bill quickly drew support from some heavy lobbies. The National Teachers' Council stepped up first when Senator Dozier announced that the bill would earmark seventy percent of the ticket sales for education. The Convenience Store and Gas Retailers Association just about fell over itself in support, as that lobby supported anything that got customers to drop more cash at the local quickie mart. The CSGRA was so excited it held two press conferences on the day that Senator Dozier introduced the bill.
Naturally, a handful of left-leaning Democrats argued passionately that the lottery was a regressive tax against poor people. Interestingly, the right-wing extremists had closed ranks with these same Democrats in opposition to the bill, but for a different reason. They believed that a national lottery was another step on the path toward a moral doomsday.
Despite this small but vocal minority, the National Lottery Act bill sailed through the Senate by an 86-14 vote. As public support for the bill swelled, the House overwhelmingly passed the bill, with only twenty-three votes against. The President signed the bill into law twenty-four hours later, creating the first nationwide lottery in American history. A rider to the bill provided that the government would not be responsible for the payment of any jackpot, nor would the government engage in any bailout of any lottery jackpot.
SuperLotto fever gripped the nation.
Before the first ticket could be punched, however, Congress needed someone to actually set up and run the lottery. A seven-member joint congressional committee was appointed to draft and issue an Invitation to Bid, a government procurement device designed to save taxpayers money by awarding government contracts to the lowest bidder, but which invariably cost them more when things went south and lawyers got involved. Four companies submitted bids, and Fool's Gold Trading Partners was awarded the contract when the committee declared it the only responsive bidder.
Four of the congressmen on the committee voted to declare the other three bidders as non-responsive. Not coincidentally, each of these public servants was treated to an all-expense paid trip to a destination of his choosing aboard Fool's Gold's corporate jet. This circumvention of the federal procurement and conflict of interest laws was made possible by the non-responsiveness loophole. You could drive a truck through it and no one would ever blink an eye. No one ever sought to close the loophole in the laws because there was too much graft at stake.
Fool's Gold, which had helped a dozen states get lotteries up and running, went to work immediately. It hired an advertising firm, which proposed three names for the lottery, including SuperLotto, MegaBucks and CashBomb. Focus groups responded least favorably to CashBomb, as it reminded them of Islamic terrorism, and most favorably to SuperLotto, especially the logo, which consisted of an anthropomorphic dollar bill, a big shit-eating grin on his face, decked out in a top hat and cane. His name was Bucky, and he was a colossal marketing coup. Within weeks, even before tickets went on sale, Bucky's image was slapped on the side of coffee mugs and lunchboxes, city buses and subways.
Upon the award of the contract, Fool's Gold Trading Partners, LLC moved into a sparkling new high-rise in downtown Atlanta and spared no expense in decorating and furnishing the place. Within two weeks, it had hired fifteen hundred new employees. Server farms and satellite offices were set up across the country, deals for the television and Internet broadcast of the weekly drawing were negotiated, playslips were designed, lottery machines were designed and tested. And most importantly, insurance policies were purchased. With seventy percent of ticket sales tagged for education and another twenty percent dedicated to payroll, overhead and operating expenses, these policies were critical, the game's life support system. Fool's Gold was self-insured for the first $10 million, but larger jackpots were insured through Meridian Risk Management Solutions.
Meridian happily guaranteed these jackpots through a complicated series of insurance and reinsurance plans that tempered its own exposure. Risk, after all, was just another commodity in a capitalist market. It was bought and sold like corn.
* * *
"Why don't we have a seat?" McKinley said, taking one at the head of the long oak table. Samantha thought he may have stumbled a bit.
"Ohh-kay," Samantha said. She took a random seat about two-thirds of the way down the long edge of the table. Pasquale sat in between her and McKinley.
Sam noted McKinley was wearing an expensive suit, but his tie was loosened, and his shirttail dangled over the front of his belt. It looked like it hadn't been tucked in for a while. It looked like it hadn't been changed in a while. Kind of a rough look for a big executive in the middle of the morning. She also thought she detected a hint of vodka in the air.
"So, congratulations, and all that," he said.
"Uh, thanks."
"That is a lot of money," he said, emphasizing the word 'lot.'
Samantha nodded.
"So," he said, "do tell me how you ended up with this little gem!"
"I was at work," she said. "A guy was buying tickets, and I asked him to get one for me."
"Really!" he said loudly. "Marvelous. That's just marvelous."
Sweat was beading on his forehead.
"You know that this is the biggest jackpot in SuperLotto history, right?"
"Yes, I think they talked about it on the news."
"The news," he said. "I like the news."
"Mr. McKinley, is something wrong?" P
asquale said.
"Is something wrong?" he repeated.
With that, he drew out a flask from his inside pocket and took a very long swig.
"I'm guessing that's not orange juice," Samantha said.
McKinley slapped the table and laughed out loud.
"Wanna pull?"
Samantha shook her head.
"What about you, cowboy?" McKinley said, tipping the flask toward Pasquale. "You look like you enjoy a good drink."
"Look, Mr. McKinley, if we could just get this show on the road, that would be great."
He took another drink.
"There isn't going to be any show," he said. His mood darkened considerably.
Samantha put her hands on the table and started to open her mouth.
"If I may," McKinley said, holding up one palm to silence his grand prize winner. "If I may."
Hoping to get something out of this nutjob, she leaned back in her chair.
"Let me tell you a story," he said. "When Fool's Gold won the contract to operate SuperLotto, it had a lot to do. Can you guess what the most important thing it had to do was?"
He looked first at Pasquale, then at Samantha. Neither spoke. A dull cord of worry began to wrap itself around her like a python squeezing its prey.
"I'm talking too fast for you," he said. "Let me axe you a question, as the blacks say. Where do you think the money comes from to pay out these jackpots?"
Again, Pasquale and Sam remained silent.
"You probably think ticket sales, right?"
"I guess that's part of it," Samantha said. She said it just to say something. He was worried that if he didn't say anything, McKinley might start to think he was hallucinating.
"Well, you'd be wrong," he said.
He took one final pull from the flask, draining the last bit of vodka. When it was empty, he tossed it onto the table.
"You'd be wrong," he repeated softly.
That was when everything fell into place for Samantha. McKinley's appearance, the strange tale he was telling.
"What the hell is going on here?" Pasquale asked.
"The insurance," Samantha said. "He's telling us the jackpot wasn't insured. There's no money to pay the jackpot."
"Tell her what she's won, Gene!" he barked, thinking back to that horrible phone call he'd received while Krista danced her beautiful dance on the macaroni and cheese three nights ago.
* * *
"It was supposed to go out Wednesday," Bernard Shelton, SuperLotto's chief financial officer, had said.
"What are you talking about?" McKinley had asked angrily. Then: "Jesus. Don't say it."
"I'm sorry, sir."
He felt lightheaded.
"Did you hear me, sir?"
"No. Tell me again, because I can't fucking believe my ears."
Arden felt his insides drop, as if the scaffolding holding up his guts had failed. He had to go to the bathroom very badly all of a sudden, but his legs refused to respond to his commands. He became quite certain that if he didn't get to the bathroom quickly, he was going to soil himself. And yet, there he stood, the wireless phone glued to his ear, unable to move. Stark terror filled him like wet concrete. For a moment, he considered asking Krista to hold his face in the macaroni until he stopped breathing. That would be a fate preferable to the one he now likely faced.
"Bernie, would you please care to tell me how this could have happened?"
He was shouting now, his legs firing again, carrying him around the room. The urge to eliminate had passed, but that was because Arden McKinley had pissed his pants. He didn't even notice, as his energies were focused on the apocalypse that now faced his company.
"It was supposed to go out Wednesday," Bernie said in a small voice, referring to the monthly premium that kept the insurance policy alive. The insurance policy that protected Fool's Gold from being on the hook for the tens of millions of dollars it awarded each month.
"Yes, I know that it was supposed to go out Wednesday, Bernie," said Arden, totally oblivious to Krista and the macaroni and cheese congealing around her ankles and feet. "The goddamn janitors know that it's supposed to go out Wednesday. What I am trying to figure out is why it did not go out. See the difference, you idiot?"
"It was supposed to go out on Wednesday," repeated Bernie. McKinley let it go. There was nothing else to say. Short of building a time machine and traveling back two days, there wasn't a whole hell of a lot they could do. Who cared why it didn't go out? It wouldn't change anything.
"My office," Arden said. "Thirty minutes."
Thirty minutes later, Arden McKinley was sipping scotch and water (mostly scotch) while pacing the perimeter of the Fool's Gold executive conference room. He had completed about two dozen laps around the giant conference table while Bernard Shelton and Victoria Dean, SuperLotto's chief operating officer, leafed nervously through the Meridian insurance policy. McKinley knew that nothing was going to change the fact that Thursday night's jackpot had been uninsured. He told them to keep reading, however, because to stop meant to admit that they were one hundred percent screwed.
"Here's a question!" Arden suddenly barked out.
He cleared his throat and fired the empty tumbler against the wall, where the lead crystal exploded like a bomb. Tiny shards of glass cut his face, but he didn't seem to notice. Thin trails of blood streamed down his cheeks like crimson tears, and the image bothered Bernard Shelton for the rest of his days. The two underlings sat silently, both expecting the same exact question, both knowing the same answer, both knowing that they wouldn't even have to answer, that their silence would be enough.
"Does the company even have that much cash on hand? I mean, let's say our lucky winner shows up on Wednesday morning – and thank God for Christmas, it's the only lucky break we caught – is our big check going to bounce?"
Victoria turned her attention to the SuperLotto Operations Manual, as if the answer was tucked inside. Shelton continued leafing through the insurance policy while he debated the pros and cons of informing his boss that at the moment, Fool's Gold Trading Partners, LLC currently had $21 million in cash on hand, spread across a number of different accounts.
"Yeah, I didn't think so," he said softly. "I didn't think so."
Arden McKinley, his face bleeding, took the seat at the far end of the table and grabbed a coaster. He slid it like a hockey puck between his two palms, leaving a trail of condensation underneath. A jackpot that his company couldn't pay. The one goddamn thing the company was supposed to do. This would be his life's legacy.
He tried to picture what would happen when the winner came forward with the ticket. For prizes between fifty dollars and $5,000, winners visited a local SuperLotto satellite office, where their winning tickets were verified, certified and paid by cashier's check. The jackpot winners also visited the satellite offices, but, after their tickets were verified, were flown to Atlanta, where a press conference was held, and the oversized check was handed to the winner.
In this case, however, things were likely to unfold a little differently.
Well, congrats on the big win. Here's the thing. We're coming up just a little short on cash here. And oh, by the way, the company filed for bankruptcy protection this morning in a federal district court in Atlanta. You probably won't see a dime. Thanks for playing.
SuperLotto! You've got to be in it to win it!
Undoubtedly, Arden would have to appear before a congressional subcommittee to answer many, many uncomfortable questions. Hundreds of people would be out of work. The winner would sue Fool's Gold, tying it up in litigation for the next five years. He wondered briefly, the thought draped in terror, if he could be indicted for something like this.
"Can someone please turn on the television?" Arden asked quietly.
Shelton got up and turned on the small LCD television mounted in the corner of the room. The TV was tuned to the local Fox affiliate, currently broadcasting a Seinfeld rerun. Arden stared blankly at the screen.
"We can
always hope the winner doesn't cash it in," Victoria said.
"What?" said Arden, morbidly depressed. He had been estimating the odds of a giant asteroid striking Earth between now and Wednesday. That would probably get him off the hook. Probably pretty slim. There was always a chance, though. The Discovery Channel made it seem like there was a goddamn assembly line of asteroids lining up to punch a hole in the planet.
"You know, if the ticket isn't cashed in six months, it's void," Victoria said. "Maybe we'll get lucky, and the winner never steps forward. Loses the ticket or something."
"I don't think that's a very realistic thing to think about," said Shelton. "And we certainly shouldn't put any faith in such an outcome."
Arden ignored Shelton's retort, focusing instead on what Victoria had said. In particular, he zeroed in on the part about "if the ticket isn't cashed." Suddenly, it became clear. If the ticket wasn't cashed, then the jackpot prize wasn't paid out. It happened from time to time, especially on the tickets winning smaller prizes, those that hit on three, four or even five of the winning numbers. Shit, it was something!
"Where was the winning ticket sold again?" Arden asked.
"A little convenience store in downtown Richmond, Virginia."
Right, thought McKinley. It was sort of appropriate, almost poetic. Richmond was like Atlanta's goddamn spiritual brother! Both cities burned to the ground during the Civil War, and both were populated with families who longed to pack the towns up into time machines and zip on back to the mid-nineteenth century. This was a sign, McKinley thought. Of what, exactly, he was not sure.
The edges of a plan began to form in Arden McKinley's head. If the way out of this mess was ensuring that the winning ticket never saw the light of day, then he had to find the ticket. Find it and destroy it. How to find it, though? And who would find it? Who could be trusted to find it and not try to cash it in for himself? He couldn't think of anyone who wouldn't do just that.
The ticket, while virtually worthless to the winner, was now a fatal disease that had infected the company. If he could find someone to track it down, it would be a simple matter of convincing him that the ticket was a cancer metastasizing in the company's body and, like a tumor, it needed to be cut out. Although McKinley could promise a hefty bounty for the ticket's return, or proof of its destruction, any attempt to cash the ticket would void the reward.