Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series)

by Susan Fleet

  Evelyn shot him an indignant look. “Maybe you don’t care about Kathy Lee, but I do. I watch her every morning. It’s almost like she’s part of the family.”

  He wanted to tell her to get a job and do something productive with her life instead of going to Mass every day and saying the rosary with the preacher on TV and gossiping with her friends and whatever else she did to fill her aimless hours. But if he spoke the words churning through his mind it would only make things worse.

  What the hell had happened to them? How did it all fall apart?

  He felt a sharp pang of regret, recalling the fun times when they’d started dating twenty years ago. Back then Evelyn was gorgeous, long auburn hair, her curvy body slim and trim. Smart, too. She’d graduated near the top of her high school class.

  But when he looked across the table, he saw no trace of the girl he’d fallen in love with, the girl who thought he was exciting and loved dancing with him. The mother of the child he adored. Maybe if they’d had sex before they got married, things would have been different. But sex before marriage was verboten for Catholics. And even if they had and he’d found out how uptight she was about sex, then what? If they hadn’t gotten married, there would be no Maureen, the light of his life.

  Almost as if she were reading his mind, Evelyn said, “I got a beautiful card from Maureen in today’s mail. She’s doing really well in school.”

  “Yeah, she told me. She’s a smart girl.”

  Evelyn stared at him, a stricken look on her face. “She called you?”

  “No. Sent me an email.” Another no-no for Evelyn. She and her parents thought the Internet was evil, because some religious broadcaster on TV said there were a million porn sites on it.

  He carried his dishes to the sink, rinsed them, put them in the dishwasher and popped three Tums to sooth his acid stomach. Maybe he was getting an ulcer. Or maybe he was getting paranoid like Evelyn.

  “Jeopardy’s on at 7:30,” she said. “Want to watch it with me?”

  Hell no. I’m in enough jeopardy already. “Sorry, I’ve got paperwork to do. I’ll be up later.” Any kind of luck, by then she’d be asleep in bed. He couldn’t stand the goofy sitcoms she watched.

  “Okay. I might turn in early. I was awake before sunup this morning.”

  He went down to the basement, inhaling the odor of fuel oil that powered the furnace. Their house was built on a slope, and the basement had a walkout door to the backyard. Years earlier he’d fixed up a small room for Maureen to use when she invited friends for sleepovers. Evelyn wouldn’t let them use the playroom on the first floor. Four boisterous eleven-year-olds might keep her awake in their bedroom on the second floor. Now that Maureen was in college, he was using the room as an office.

  And, he had to admit, as an escape from Evelyn.

  His laptop sat on a small desk with a swivel chair. He fired it up, got on the Internet and went to the website he’d bookmarked, a site that listed lottery prizes. Tomorrow night there was a Mass Megabucks drawing, the prize estimated to be as much as twelve million dollars.

  He leaned back in his chair. Did the Jackpot Killer watch the prizes?

  Was that how he chose his prey?

  For all he knew, the Jackpot Killer might be using this very website to troll for his next victim.

  CHAPTER 8

  Wednesday, May 3 — Sandwich

  He entered quietly through the front door and paused, listening. No sound from the television set. Where was she? He went in the living room and shut the blinds so people walking by couldn’t see inside.

  “Mom,” he called, “I’m home.”

  “I’m in the kitchen, Billy. Go wash up. Dinner’s ready.”

  He walked down the hall to the bathroom, went in and shut the door. The room stank of bleach. The health aide must have cleaned it after she gave his mother a bath. His mother depended on the home-care workers, but he didn’t like strangers in the house when he wasn’t home. He took off his shirt and sniffed his underarms. Disgusting. He smelled like a ditch-digger.

  Ten days ago it was cold and raw, today it felt like July, temperatures in the eighties. He'd done twenty cable hookups today and not one house with air conditioning.

  The hamper was overflowing with dirty clothes. He’d better go to the laundromat tonight. He hated doing laundry, but it got him out of the house. Afterwards, he’d go to the Seaside Diner and sit at the counter with the cops.

  He soaped his underarms and put on a clean T-shirt, wondering what his mother had fixed for dinner. He hadn’t eaten much lunch. He left the bathroom and entered the kitchen. Even with the windows open it was stifling. She was in her wheelchair in front of the sink where the linoleum was worn down to the bare wood. He bent down and gave her a dutiful peck on the cheek. Beads of sweat dotted her nose and forehead.

  “How was your day, Mom?”

  “The girl from the health service was new. I had a terrible time washing up.” She wheeled over to the card table and set paper napkins by their plates. “I tried a new recipe today. Nobody can say I don’t cook for my family.” She picked up a serving spoon. “Did you shut the light off in the bathroom?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Are you sure? I got up this morning and it was on. We can’t afford to waste electricity, you know. Go check and make sure.”

  He got up and went around the corner to the bathroom. The light was off. When he returned to the kitchen, a glutinous gray mound filled his plate. “What’s the new recipe?”

  “Tuna casserole. I got it off a Campbell’s mushroom soup can. I put green peas and black olives in it.”

  He studied the black specks in the slop on his plate. Probably the olives. The grayish-green things must be the peas. His mother looked at him expectantly. Her portion was smaller, and she had carrot sticks and celery stalks on her plate. His mother liked her rabbit food. He took a bite and rolled it around his mouth. It felt slimy.

  What was it? Overcooked spaghetti, salty, with a fishy taste.

  “Do you like it?” she said, watching him, not touching hers.

  He smiled and nodded. “It’s good, Mom. Real good. But you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble on such a hot day.”

  “The recipe makes a lot, enough for two meals.”

  “That’s nice.” He set his fork down. “But I won’t be home for dinner tomorrow.”

  His mother stopped chewing and frowned. “Why not? Where are you going?”

  “Up to the library in Quincy. They might have an opening.”

  “Why don’t you call first and see? That’s the smart thing to do. Why waste gas?”

  “It’s better to go in person so I can leave my resume. If I get another library job—”

  “For more money, I hope. We can barely afford this house. You should get down on your knees and pray for a job that pays better. With the help of the Lord, maybe you’ll find one.” She took a bite of carrot and chewed. “Your father may have had his faults, but he was a good provider. Silas was salesman of the month, plenty of times.”

  He put his hands in his lap and picked the scab on his thumb, remembering the sour whisky-stink when his father got in his face and yelled: Sissy! Why can’t you be a big boy like John?

  Big brother John.

  He went to the refrigerator and took out a carton of milk. Anything to wash down the slop. He shook the carton. “Is this all the milk?”

  “Yes. I used most of it in the casserole.”

  He poured what was left into a glass and picked up the package of hot-dog rolls on the counter.

  “Don’t open those, Billy. They’re for tomorrow.”

  He put them back, sat down at the table and felt a prickle of excitement.

  His mother was wearing Florence’s bracelet! He stared at it, picturing Florence with the yellow plastic bag over her head. He wondered how his mother would look if—

  “What did you do today?” Gazing at him with her pale-blue watery eyes.

  I ate an ice cream for lunch an
d read one of my movie magazines. Judy was on the cover. Beautiful Judy with her sad eyes and crooked smile. The article said she missed her father. Her dead father.

  “Billy!”

  His head jerked up with a start. His mother was glaring at him. “I asked you what you did today.”

  “Oh. Nothing much. The usual.”

  Her lips tightened. “What does that mean? Tell me what you did.”

  “A bunch of installations.” He forced down a bite of casserole and smiled at her. “Then I came home to you. My boss is such a pain. He called a meeting because some shirts are missing. He thinks somebody stole them.”

  “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods. That’s what Preacher Martin said on TV today. I think that’s from Luke. Or is it Corinthians?”

  His mother quoted scripture, but she never read the Bible. She never read anything. All she did was watch the Christian Cable Network all day. He eyed the mound of casserole on her plate. “Are you done?”

  She heaved a sigh. “Yes. I don’t work up much of an appetite in this wheelchair . . .”

  He took her plate to the counter, scraped the slop in the garbage and set the plate in the sink, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

  The scarab bracelet on her wrist gleamed.

  “I better go feed my girls. I have to go out and do laundry tonight.”

  “Make sure you shut the bathroom light off this time. I know you left it on last night, Billy. Did you get up in the night to use the bathroom?”

  He edged toward the door. “No, Mom.”

  “I worry about you, sleeping downstairs. You should have put in a toilet when you built that room. Remember how you used to have accidents when you were little?”

  His cheeks flamed with embarrassment. He ducked out the door without answering.

  _____

  Nigel drained the last of the scotch and set the glass aside. His eyes were gritty from staring at the numbers, his neck had a crick in it, and his nose was clogged again. He swiveled the high-backed chair and surveyed his hotel room. The desk and chair were passable, but he hadn’t gotten much sleep in the lumpy double bed. Cigarette butts filled the ashtray beside the stack of losing Megabucks tickets on the desk.

  Bloody hell, he’d been at this for an hour with nothing to show for it.

  One stack of tickets left. Ten more chances to win. Or lose.

  He plucked a tissue from the box on the desk and blew his nose.

  Whatever had made him think he’d be lucky enough to win twelve million bean? Here he was leading a third-rate cast in a one-horse town with a hog-raising banker for a chauffeur. The other day Vicky had asked why he’d taken the job. She didn’t know about the packet of bills in his suitcase, or the size of his debts. Why did he take it? Because his schedule was open and he desperately needed money.

  Nothing but bad news from Hale, too. Hale thought someone else would get the Pops gig.

  He sank back in the chair and massaged his neck. He was over the hill. Washed up. Finished.

  He took the top ticket off the last remaining pile and compared the numbers. None matched.

  Bollocks! This was useless. He’d wasted two hundred dollars, money he could ill afford, on these lottery tickets. He rubbed his bleary eyes and took the next ticket off the pile.

  When the first three numbers matched he could hardly believe it. His mouth went dry. Was it possible?

  His heart thumped his chest and sweat dampened his palms. He set the ticket on the desk. For almost a minute he sat there, paralyzed, afraid to check the last three digits.

  Why get his hopes up? This was another loser, like the rest of them.

  He set the ticket below the winning numbers he’d copied off the Internet website and compared the six numbers, one by one.

  They all matched!

  A rush of euphoria hit him. He sagged back in the chair, laughing helplessly. Tears oozed from his eyes and ran down his cheeks. By God that old woman in the store was right. A winner was due and it was him!

  He felt like screaming. Light the fireworks! Sound the trumpets!

  Unable to sit still, he jumped up and paced the room. Now he could pay off his debts. Compared to twelve million, they didn’t amount to a hill of beans. He’d pay them off and have millions left over.

  A giddy laugh bubbled up in his throat. He’d buy a big house on the ocean. Bloody hell, he’d buy two, one on each coast!

  He had to call Vicky and tell her! But she’d probably be angry with him for gambling. He’d have to tell her sooner or later, but he’d better think things through first.

  Maybe he’d call Hale. No, bad idea. When it came to money, Hale was a shark. He might even try to take some of the winnings.

  Should he call Joanna? He owed her five thousand dollars in alimony, and she was threatening legal action. But he couldn’t face talking to her now.

  He went in the bathroom and looked in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, and his nose looked like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

  But so what? He was a winner. He couldn’t tell anyone, but he could bloody well go down to the pub and celebrate.

  He put on a clean shirt and checked the ticket again.

  Every number matched. His money problems were over!

  _____

  Still seething after his mother’s humiliating taunt, reminding him he used to wet his pants sometimes when he was little, he unlocked the door to his basement room, first the deadbolt, then the lock in the doorknob. When he went inside, the fluorescent light above the fish tank gave off a dim glow.

  He turned on the overhead light. His shoes were lined up in a row beside his bed, and his magazines lay on the desk, just as he’d left them. Satisfied no one had been in his room, he massaged the dull ache above his ear. After the accident the doctors had said the pain would go away, but it hadn’t.

  Mouth-mother pain in his head. Hearing her voice right before the accident: Silas, you’re going too fast!!

  Now his father was dead, but his mother wasn’t.

  The ache near his ear kept throbbing, but he ignored it and studied the nametags pasted to the fish tank. Now there were seven. But Number 7 had no name. He scattered food on the water and seven orange goldfish darted to it, but Judy hung back. Judy was different.

  Judy and her beautiful calico-spotted fins.

  Mysterious. Lonely. They were so much alike.

  He watched his girls gobble the food, their eager mouths moving: Lulu and Tessa and Lilly. His groin ached, just thinking about them, remembering his excitement. Then came Betty and Rosie and Florence. Each one more thrilling than the last. Now he had a new girl.

  “Jooody,” he crooned. “My new girl needs a name.”

  He powered up his computer. Maybe he’d read his journals. Which one? Lulu, his Powerball princess? He touched his crotch, remembering. No. Not yet. He had to fix his resume so he could take it to the Quincy Library. He opened the file and studied it. The BS in Library Science was bullshit, of course. BS. Bull Shit. He’d taken only one course. The Film Classics professor gave him an F, but he didn’t care. He had fallen in love with Judy. Beautiful, talented Judy Garland. Little, abused Judy. Judy was so brave. Her mother fed her diet pills to keep her thin. She wanted to please her parents, but the drugs and the diets finally killed her.

  When he was little he wanted to please his parents too, but . . .

  He scrolled past the bogus college degree. He hadn’t bothered to list the electronics courses he’d taken after high school. Libraries didn’t care about that. The college degree got him the job at the Bourne Library.

  How he loved working there! He’d read every book and magazine he could find about Judy. When the head librarian fired him, he wanted to kill her, but she was bigger than he was, muscular, with a long horsy face. One day she caught him in the ladies restroom hiding in a stall. He loved listening to the sounds women made. Horse-face had been outraged, had told him he was sick. Right to his face.

  He updated the resume
and clicked print. He rarely printed things out. Never his journals. Never the lottery lists. He logged onto the Internet and went to the website that listed the lottery prizes. Powerball was at the top: twenty-six million! No winner.

  But the Mass Megabucks prize was gone. His heart fluttered.

  He surfed to the Mass State Lottery website.

  Yes! Tonight’s Megabucks drawing had a winner.

  Twelve million dollars. One winning ticket.

  Now all he had to do was wait and see who claimed the prize.

  _____

  The Budget Inn pub was long and narrow and dimly lit. Fake plants with dusty green leaves lined the wall opposite the bar. Other than two men in business suits watching TV at the far end of the bar, the pub was deserted. Nigel slipped onto a stool beside the service area where plastic bins held olives and cherries and slices of lemon and lime.

  A lanky bartender with a bushy brown mustache set a napkin in front of him. His arms were tanned and muscular, and he wore thick glasses. “Like a drink, sir?”

  “Right-o. D’you have any single-malt scotch?”

  “Single-malt? Let’s see.” The barman shoved his glasses against his nose and squinted at the bottles behind the bar. “Glenlivet okay?”

  “Yes. I’ll have a double, on the rocks.” He lit a cigarette and checked his watch. 9:30. 10:30 in Boston. He wondered what Vicky was doing. Probably finishing up tonight’s Pops concert.

  When the barman brought his drink, Nigel raised his glass. “Join me, why don’t you? On me.”

  “Can’t. I’m working,” the man said, and pushed his glasses against the bridge of his nose.

  “Pity. Pub masters in London would rather have a pint than a tip. Nice custom, that.”

  The man gave him a dubious look and moved down the bar to chat up the businessmen.

  He scooped some peanuts from a dish on the bar. They tasted stale. He washed them down with some Glenlivet. How would he get through the next three days without going mad? Bloody Christ, he’d won twelve million bean and he couldn’t tell anybody!