What were the odds that she’d been on the boat when O’Toole stole the lottery ticket, McKenzie thought as she pulled on the bell bottoms. After Caleb gave her the dough, she’d get an apartment. Start over. Be somebody.
She combed her fingers through her lifeless hair and saw dandruff fall on her shoulders. Her head itched. Her skin was dry. She needed a shower. All this would happen very soon. All she had to do was be patient for O’Toole to deliver the goods.
Jack Weber had loved his drugs. He’d invited McKenzie to his parties, as he had wanted the good stuff and knew she had contacts. She’d done him a few times when he was totally wasted and, if she remembered correctly, Weber hadn’t been that good in bed. He’d treated her like shit when he wasn’t high. She was sorry he’d died, but the only thing she missed about Weber was the money he’d paid her for drugs.
When her cell rang, she fumbled to take it out of her pocket. “What?” she answered curtly.
“It’s your brother,” the rough voice said. “The one who gives you money to stay alive.”
“What up?” She pushed her hair off her forehead, her eyes scanning the floor for a cigarette.
“Need anything?”
“Naw. Got all I need for a while.” She leaned over to pick up a cigarette butt and lost her balance. Toppling to the floor, the phone slipped out of her hand. “Oh, gawwwd.”
“Jesus Christ, what’s going on?” her brother yelled.
She laughed a throaty laugh when she slapped her hand over the phone and pushed it against her ear. “Nothing going on.”
“How about I come over and take you to lunch?”
“Don’t want no lunch,” she snarled, anchoring her hand on the floor and boosting herself to a wobbly standing position. “Not hungry.”
“You need to eat, Sis.”
“Meeting someone.”
“Like who?” he asked.
Feeling woozy, she rested a hand on the window sill for support.
“Tell me who you’re meeting,” Ron barked.
“Caleb O’Toole, if it’s any of your bees wax,” she snipped.
“Who?”
“Guy who won the lottery.” She put the cigarette butt between her lips and sandwiched the phone between her ear and shoulder as she lit it.
“How’d you meet him?”
“Fuck,” she let out when she smelled something burning. Slapping the side of her head, she watched the fried ends of her hair fall to the floor.
“Jesus, McKenzie, are you okay?”
“Lit my fucking hair on fire.” McKenzie drew in a puff and blew out smoke.
“Want me to go with you to meet this guy?”
“Hell, no. I’m a big girl.”
“I want you to come live with me,” Ron said in a fatherly tone. “We’ll get you straight.”
She smirked. “I’m fine.”
“Mom and Dad are worried about you.”
“Fuck Mom and Dad,” she spat. “And screw you. If you remember, you introduced me to this shit.” She knew which buttons to push, as her brother would always feel guilty for giving McKenzie her first hit.
“They only want the best for you.”
“They want the best for themselves. They don’t give a rat’s ass about me. Never did.”
He blew out a breath. “I give up.”
“You use, too, asshole.”
“When can I come over?” Ron asked, ignoring her comment.
She shrugged a shoulder and took in the last puff of the cigarette. “Friday … wait.” She paused. “What day’s today?”
“Tuesday.”
“Cool. Come to my humble abode on Friday.” She swept an emaciated arm around the large, decaying warehouse. “And you can take me to lunch. Not too early, though. Need my beauty sleep.”
After McKenzie hung up, she covered her thinning hair with the paisley scarf and pushed the oversized sunglasses up on her nose. She remembered O’Toole had left Weber to die. He hadn’t even called for help. If he could do that to a friend, McKenzie had to be careful. Fuck, she wished she had a valium. If O’Toole tried any funny stuff, she’d call her brother. Ron’d take care of the SOB.
Her stomach was on fire when she left to meet O’Toole. Ron was right. McKenzie needed to quit using this crap. As soon as O’Toole paid up, she’d get straight. Well … maybe after she’d had a couple of days to celebrate her good fortune.
aleb stood in front of the restaurant, rocking from his heels to his toes. If he didn’t meet with this person, he or she would go to the cops. Even though Weber’s death was an accident, he could be charged for leaving the scene of an accident or, even worse, for stealing a winning lottery ticket—and not just any lottery ticket, but one that paid out 736 million. His eye wouldn’t stop twitching and the relentless, pounding headache told him his blood pressure was boiling at an all-time high.
Someone bumped Caleb’s shoulder. “’Scuse me, sir,” a young man said politely.
“Watch where the hell you’re going,” Caleb retorted. He was on edge. He looked around anxiously. Where the hell was this person? Were they playing with him? Watching him from a distance?
“O’Toole.” He heard and whipped his head around. The woman wearing dark sunglasses, with a paisley scarf covering her hair looked vaguely familiar. “Follow me,” she ordered.
They walked in silence toward the pier. Seagulls cried above them, and a horde of faceless people inhabited the wharf. Who was she?
“What’s this about?” Caleb asked, staring down at her frail body.
McKenzie turned toward him and pushed the sunglasses down the bridge of her nose.
“I know you,” Caleb said, recognizing Weber’s contact for drugs.
“Yes … you do,” she said hoarsely. McKenzie pushed the glasses back into place.
“McKenzie?” Caleb asked, confused. “You wrote the note?” He’d seen her at Jack’s parties. She’d been the woman Ling had felt sorry for, and had wanted to talk to the night of Weber’s accident.
“I was there.”
He glanced at her right hand and noticed the tremor; saw that her nails were chewed to the quick. “There?” Caleb tried. “Where?”
She leaned toward him and whispered, “The night you killed Weber.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Caleb snapped. She’d been there. Damn it.
She walked to an empty bench and sat down. “Sit.”
Did he have a choice? She was pissing him off. Caleb sat down beside her. A Japanese couple held tight to their toddler’s hands as they watched the vast number of noisy sea lions bark in succession; a young man in his late-twenties, a backpack strapped to his shoulders, sat down on the end of the pier. “Can you tell me what you’re talking about because I have no—”
“I was in the john.” She slapped her hands over the knees of the worn, frayed jeans.
Caleb sat up straight.
“I saw Jack fall.”
Caleb cleared his throat.
“You were fighting over that lottery ticket. The one you cashed in.”
Caleb glanced around anxiously, and then turned toward her. “I had nothing to do with his accident.”
“Really? ‘Cuz the way I see it, if you hadn’t been there, he’d still be alive.” McKenzie paused. “And you got lots and lots of dough because of it. Saw your picture in the paper and everything.”
Caleb looked down at the planks in the pier. “Look, I—”
“I need money,” she interrupted.
What addict didn’t need money, he wanted to say, but didn’t. Her arms and legs were wasting away, and the opaque thin skin on her cheeks was covered in tiny, lightning-like streaks of red and blue capillaries. “And?”
“And you’re going to give it to me.” McKenzie’s mouth settled into a sickly grin.
“Or?” Caleb held his breath.
“Or the police and that pretty little Chinese woman are going to know the truth.”
“Listen, bitch,” Caleb said angrily
and stood, “Weber and I were supposed to—”
“No,” she said emphatically, shooting up beside him. McKenzie pointed a shaky finger at him, “you listen, asshole. I want a hundred grand. I’m not fucking around here.”
Caleb paced a few feet away from the bench, and crossed his arms over his chest. The sun beat down on him, making the perspiration unending. He was trapped; just like he’d been with that damn bookie.
“Meet me in Huntington Park,” McKenzie said, standing next to him. “Ten-forty-five p.m. A week from today. By the fountain.”
“And this will be the end of it?”
She nodded. “I just need enough to tide me over.”
Caleb didn’t believe her. She was never going to go away. Not until she’d milked him for every last dime.
He needed a drink. No, he needed a bottle. He watched her walk away and went in the opposite direction, ducking into the first pub he came to. Since Weber had died, his drinking had increased. When Ling didn’t stay all night at his condo, it took a shitload of gin to knock Caleb out. Then there were his ongoing nightmares, where he saw Weber’s fixed stare; the blood pooling around him … God damn it. Caleb had to stop thinking about Weber or he was going to go crazy.
He ordered a scotch neat. The place was a dive, but it didn’t matter where he was. He had figure out the next step. If the druggie went to the police, Caleb would not only lose Ling but the money from the lottery. And he’d be facing years of prison time.
Unlike the Tonga Room, the customers in this place looked down and out. Most of them with shaggy, unkempt hair, and the aroma of bad breath turned his stomach. Misery loved company.
“Get rid of the trash,” Caleb heard faintly, and quickly twisted his head to look at the man sitting on his left.
“I’m sorry?” Caleb asked.
“What ya sorry ‘bout?” the heavy-set man with deep craters in his cheeks and forehead garbled.
“I didn’t hear what you said.”
“Me?” The drunk slapped a hand over his flowered shirt, which had the top three buttons open to reveal a swirly nest of gray chest hair. “Didn’t say nuthin’, buddy.”
Caleb turned his head to his right, but no one was there. He found the bartender at the other end of the bar.
Jesus. He was losing his fucking mind. He downed the drink, paid his bill, and set out for his condo. He was drinking too much, just like he had when Katherine had left him. The stress of meeting McKenzie was getting to him.
He opened the door to his condo and stepped inside, fighting the urge to open the cupboard and take out the gin.
After he showered, he gave in, took out the bottle and carried it up to the deck off his bedroom.
Standing in his boxers, Caleb took a swig straight from the bottle and leaned over the railing. Good old San Francisco. It all looked so perfect. The buildings looked like stair steps going down the hill and ending at the wharf; the occasional loud clang of street cars, and the full moon above, cast a welcome aura over the city. Caleb had been lucky until McKenzie fucking Price had come into his life.
He took another gulp of gin.
“Only one way out of this, O’Toole.”
Petrified, he broke out in a cold sweat. “Who the hell are you?” He turned in every direction.
When he didn’t see anyone, he rubbed his forehead with two fingers. “Shit.” He held up the bottle and looked at it. “Gotta stop this.”
He heard a laugh that sounded familiar. A chill raced down his spine. Caleb put his hands out to his sides, the liquor bottle dangling from his hand. “What do you want from me?” Caleb shouted.
“As Nicholson would say, Jackie’s back,” the deep voice said.
“This is a fucking joke.” Caleb was infuriated, his heart racing. “Is that you, McKenzie? You trying to drive me crazy?”
“’Fraid not,” the voice answered.
Oh, God, he knew that voice. He muscles tightened, his head jerked in every direction. “I asked you who are you. Where are you?”
“I’m right here. It’s your old friend, Weber.”
The bottle dropped out his hand and the sound of glass shattering into a million pieces echoed into the dark, still night.
wenty-three-year-old Jenee Rager felt like she had just been kicked in the stomach. “What do you mean?” she asked her gynecologist.
“I mean the biopsy showed the tumors are pre-cancerous.” Dr. Hansen looked at her over the top of his glasses, his face solemn.
Her heartbeat quickened. “And?”
The physician cleared his throat. “Given your family history, my opinion is we do a complete hysterectomy.”
The news took her breath away. “A hysterectomy? But Justin and I want more children.”
The doctor stood, and took a few steps to Jenee, who sat on the end of the bed in one of the examination rooms in his office. He laid a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “There’s a chance you might not be around to raise Baileigh if you don’t take care of this.”
Jenee bowed her head, trying to absorb what he was telling her. “When? If I have the operation, when would it be?”
“I’d like to schedule it for this coming Monday.”
Jenee was in shock. She had had no idea the news would be this bad. She’d stored all of her three-year-old daughter’s baby toys, newborn sleepers, and receiving blankets in the third bedroom that she’d hoped would become a nursery. She and Justin had been trying for two years to get pregnant, and Jenee had gone to the clinic just to see if everything was all right. She swiped a tear off her cheek.
Jenee and Justin lived in Topeka, the capital of Kansas, where they had both grown up. The city, which had a population of a little over 125,000, was three counties away from touching Missouri, and two counties south of bumping into Nebraska. While many of the girls in Jenee’s high school class had left Topeka soon after graduation, Jenee had never had the desire to pull up roots. Topeka was her home; the place where both her family and heart belonged.
She and Justin had grown up next door to each other, so falling in love had been a natural progression; he’d pulled her pigtails when she was six, held her hand in junior high, pecked her cheek at thirteen, and had made love to her in the back of his truck when she was seventeen.
They were married the summer after high-school graduation, and both families agreed they were perfect for each other. Justin had been nineteen when he’d started a small car business that fixed everything from carburetors to flat tires, and Jenee kept the books. Their daughter, Baileigh, had been born a month after Jenee’s twentieth birthday, and life had been simple and uncomplicated … until now.
Driving home, Jenee felt as if she was having an out-of-body experience. She couldn’t wrap her head around what she’d just been told. After she drove into the driveway of the story-and-a-half home, Jenee put the older Honda into park and turned off the ignition. She put her head down on the steering wheel, thinking about her two aunts that had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. One of them had died from the disease. It had never crossed Jenee’s mind that she might have the same genes.
Drawing in a breath, she leaned back in the seat and tried to think positively; after all, she hadn’t been given a death sentence. However, with a complete hysterectomy she was losing her ovaries; the organs that could bring new life into the world. She and Justin would never create another child. Even though Justin had never said anything, every man wanted a boy to fish with—toss a football back and forth with—carry on their name. “Damn.” She hit the steering wheel with an open palm. It wasn’t fair.
She’d promised Baileigh she would have a brother or sister, and now she was going to have to break her word. Jenee didn’t know whether she felt more, anger, hurt, or devastation. Grappling with the array of emotions coursing through her, she opened the door, and walked trance-like up the few steps to the back door.
As she stepped into the small, square kitchen, Jenee remembered when she and Justin had bought this home three years ago. Th
ey’d been so excited when they moved into the well-established neighborhood. Century-old oaks shaded the house in the summer and brought a truckload of leaves to rake in the fall.
Baileigh loved playing on her swing set and in a sand pile in the corner of their fenced-in backyard. In the summer, when Justin’s band wasn’t playing, he spent his time holding a can of beer while he cooked hamburgers or hot dogs on the charcoal grill. How would she tell Baileigh there would never be a brother or sister to play with? And how could Jenee tell Justin that their dream of having more children was never going to happen?
Silent tears flooding her cheeks, she took the tea kettle off the stove and put it in the sink. She’d dropped Baileigh off at her mother’s before she went to her appointment, but wasn’t ready to pick up her daughter yet.
She turned around and leaned back against the counter, her eyes moving over the black and white tiled floor to the gunny sack curtains she’d dyed red and tied back so the cascading philodendron that hung from the ceiling above the sink would have enough light. She and Justin had worked hard to make this house a home. Why had this happened to them? Why, God? But she knew there’d be no answers. Jenee turned back around, filled the kettle with water and set it on a burner.
When the tea kettle sang out, she poured the boiling water into a mug and then swirled a tea bag into the water until it turned a deep brown. Taking the cup with her, she walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. After they’d moved in, Jenee had painted the small living area a light gray, and then had swirled a darker gray over the top using a technique she’d learned at Sherwin-Williams.
Strolling past the wood-burning brick fireplace, she could almost smell the apple wood that filled the air during the holidays. She sat down in the bay window where Baileigh often watched the older kids ride their bicycles down the street. The neighborhood was filled with other young couples; couples that, unlike her and Justin, would have more children.
Jenee stood and walked the few steps to the stairs. Holding onto the oak railing Justin had refurbished, she went up to the second floor landing and into Baileigh’s room. She ran her hand over the top of the bright red dresser she’d found at a garage sale and painted it in Baileigh’s favorite color.
Lottery Page 5