Lucky You

by Carl Hiassen

  "Try jail."

  "Tom, he wants to help."

  "In the worst way. He'd do anything to make you happy. That's the curse of the hopelessly smitten. Here's my question: Do you want your Lotto money, or do you want revenge?"

  "Both."

  "If you had to choose."

  "The money, then." JoLayne was thinking of Simmons Wood. "I'd want the money."

  "Good. Then leave it at that. You'll be doing Agent Moffitt a big favor."

  And me, too, Krome thought.

  Champ Powell was the best law clerk Judge Arthur Battenkill Jr. had ever hired; the most resourceful, the most hardworking, the most ambitious. Arthur Battenkill liked him very much. Champ Powell didn't need to be taught the importance of loyalty, because he'd been a policeman for five years before entering law school: a Gadsden County sheriffs deputy. Champ understood the rules of the street. The good guys stuck together, helped each other, covered for one another in a jam. That's how you got by, and got ahead.

  So Champ Powell was flattered when Judge Battenkill sought his advice about a delicate personal problem – a fellow named Tom Krome, who'd come between the distinguished judge and his lovely wife, Katie. Champ Powell was working late in the law library, researching an obtuse appellate decision on condominium foreclosures, when he felt Arthur Battenkill's hand on his shoulder. The judge sat down and gravely explained the situation with Krome. He asked Champ Powell what hewould do if it was his wife fooling around with another man. Champ (who'd been on both ends of that nasty equation) said first he'd scare the living shit out of the guy, try to run him out of town. Judge Battenkill said that would be excellent, if only he knew how to do such a thing without getting himself in hot water. Champ Powell said don't worry, I'll handle it personally. The judge was so profusely grateful that Champ Powell could see his future in the law profession turning golden. With one phone call, Arthur Battenkill could get him a job with any firm in the Panhandle.

  That very night, the law clerk drove to Tom Krome's house and shot out the windows with a deer rifle. The judge rewarded him the next morning in chambers with a collegial wink and a thumbs-up. Two days later, though, Arthur Battenkill phoned Champ Powell to irately report that Krome was still communicating with Katie, sending her photographs of an occult nature: weeping statuary. Champ was outraged. With the judge's blessing, he left work early so he could get to the hardware store before it closed. There he purchased twelve gallons of turpentine and a mop. Any experienced arsonist could have told Champ Powell that twelve gallons was excessive and that the fumes alone would knock an elephant on its ass.

  But the law clerk had no time for expert consultations. With resolve in his heart and a bandanna over his nostrils, Champ Powell vigorously swabbed the turpentine throughout Tom Krome's house, slicking the floors and walls of each room. He was in the kitchen when he finally passed out, collapsing against the gas stove, groping wildly as he keeled. Naturally his hands latched onto a burner knob and unconsciously twisted it to the "on" position. When the explosion came, it was heard half a mile away. The house burned to the foundation in ninety minutes.

  Champ Powell's remains were not discovered until many hours after the blaze had died, when firefighters overturned a half-melted refrigerator and found what appeared to be a charred human jaw. Larger bone fragments and clots of jellied tissue were collected from the debris and placed in a Hefty bag for the medical examiner, who determined that the victim was a white male about six feet tall, in his early thirties. Beyond that, positive identification would be nearly impossible without dental records.

  Based on the victim's race, height and approximate age, fire investigators conjectured that the dead body was probably Tom Krome and that he'd been murdered or knocked unconscious when he surprised the arsonist inside his house.

  The grisly details of the discovery, and the suspicions surrounding it, were given the following morning to The Register'spolice reporter, who promptly notified the managing editor. Somberly he assembled the newsroom staff and told them what the arson guys had found. The managing editor asked if anybody knew the name of Tom Krome's dentist, but no one did (though a few staff members remarked upon Krome's outstanding smile, cattily speculating that it had to be the handiwork of a specialist). An intern was assigned the task of phoning every dental clinic in town in search of Krome's X-rays. In the meantime, a feature writer was assigned to work on Krome's obituary, just in case. The managing editor said the newspaper should wait as long as possible before running a story but should prepare for the worst. After the meeting, he hurried back to his office and tried to reach Sinclair in Grange. A woman identifying herself as Sinclair's sister reported he was "at the turtle shrine" but offered to take him a message. The managing editor gave her one: "Tell him to call the goddamn office by noon, or start looking for a new job."

  As it happened, Champ Powell and Tom Krome had, in addition to their race and physique, one other characteristic in common: a badly chipped occlusal cusp on the number 27 tooth, the right lower canine. Champ Powell had damaged his while drunkenly gnawing the cap off a bottle of Busch at the 1993 Gator Bowl. Tom Krome's chip had been caused by a flying brick during a street riot he was covering in the Bronx.

  One of Krome's second cousins, trying to be helpful, mentioned the broken tooth (and its semiheroic origin) to a Registerreporter, who mentioned it to the medical examiner, who dutifully inspected the charred jawbone retrieved from Krome's house. The number 27 canine looked as if it had been busted with a chisel. With confidence, the medical examiner dictated a report that tentatively identified the corpse in the ruins as Tom Krome.

  The Registerwould run the news story and sidebar obituary on the front page, beneath a four-column color photograph of Tom Krome. It would be the picture from his press badge – an underexposed head shot, with Tom's hair windblown and his eyes half closed – but Katie would still fall apart when she saw it, dashing to the bedroom in tears. Judge Arthur Battenkill Jr. would remain at the breakfast table and reread the articles several times. Try as he might, he would not be able to recall the condition of Champ Powell's dentition.

  Arriving at the courthouse, he would find that for the second consecutive day his eager law clerk hadn't shown up for work. The secretaries would offer to go to Champ's apartment and check on him, but the judge would say it wasn't necessary. He would pretend to recall that Champ had mentioned driving to Cedar Key, to visit his parents. Later Arthur Battenkill Jr. would go alone into his chambers and shut the door. He would put on his black robe, untie his shoes and sit down to figure out what would be worse for him, from the standpoint of culpability – if the burned body belonged to Champ Powell or to Tom Krome.

  Either way meant trouble, the judge would reason, but a live Krome was bound to be more trouble than a dead Champ. Arthur Battenkill Jr. would find himself hoping the newspaper was right, hoping it was Krome's barbecued bones that were found in the house, hoping Champ Powell was lying low somewhere – like the savvy ex-cop he was – waiting for things to cool off. He'd probably contact the judge in a day or two, and together they'd invent a plausible alibi. That's how it would go. In the meantime there was Katie, who (between heaving sobs) would accuse Arthur Battenkill Jr. of arranging the cold-blooded murder of her former lover. The judge wouldn't know what to do about that,but he'd find himself wondering whether a new diamond pendant might soothe his wife's anguish.

  On his lunch hour he would go out and buy her one.

  When they returned to the motel, JoLayne changed to her workout clothes and went for a walk. Tom Krome made some phone calls – to his voice mail at The Register,where his insurance agent had left an oddly urgent message regarding Krome's homeowner policy; to his answering machine at home, which apparently was out of order; to Dick Turnquist, who reported a possible sighting (in, of all places, Jackson Hole, Wyoming) of Krome's future ex-wife.

  Krome fell asleep watching a European golf tournament on ESPN. He woke up gasping for air, JoLayne Lucks astride him, jabbing
his sides with her supernatural-blue fingernails.

  "Hey!" she said. "Hey, you, listen up!"

  "Get off – "

  "Not until you tell me," she said, "what the hell's going on."

  "JoLayne, I can't breathe – "

  " 'Helluva risk,' that's what you said. But then it dawned on me: Why in the world would a federal lawman tell you –a newspaper guy, for Lord's sake! – that he's about to commit a break-in. Talk about risk. Talk about stupid."

  "JoLayne!"

  She shifted some of her weight to her knees, so that Krome could inhale.

  "Thank you," he said.

  "Welcome."

  She leaned forward until they were nose to nose. "He's a smart man, Moffitt is. He wouldn't blab anything so foolish in front of the press unless he knew there wasn't going to be any story. And there's not,is there? That's why you haven't taken out your damn notebook the whole time we've been on the road."

  Krome prepared to shield his ribs from a fresh attack. "I told you, I don't write down every little thing."

  "Tom Krome, you are full of shit." She planted her butt forcefully on his chest. "Guess what I did? I called Moffitt on his cellular, and guess what he told me. You're not working for the paper now, you're on medical leave. He checked it out."

  Krome tried to raise himself up. Medical leave? he thought. That idiot Sinclair – he's managed to muck up a perfectly splendid resignation.

  "Why didn't you tell me ?" JoLayne demanded. "What's going on with you?"

  "OK." He slipped his arms under her knees and gently rolled her off. She stayed on the bed, stretched out, propped on her elbows.

  "I'm waiting, Tom."

  He kept his eyes on the ceiling. "Here's what really happened. My editor killed the lottery story, so I resigned. The 'medical leave' stuff is news to me – Sinclair probably made it up to tell the boss."

  JoLayne Lucks was incredulous. "You quit your job because of me?"

  "Not because of you. Because my editor's a useless, dickless incompetent."

  "Really. That's the only reason?"

  "And also because I promised to help you."

  JoLayne scooted closer. "Listen: You can't quit the newspaper. You absolutely cannot, is that understood?"

  "It'll all work out. Don't worry."

  "You damn men, I can't believe it! I found another crazy one."

  "What's so crazy about keeping a promise."

  "Lord," said JoLayne. He was perfectly serious. A cornball, this guy. She said, "Don't move, OK? I'm gonna do something irresponsible."

  Krome started to turn toward her, but she stopped him, lightly closing his eyes with one hand.

  "You deaf? I told you not to move."

  "What is this?" he asked.

  "I owe you a kiss," she said, "from last night. Now please be still or I'll bite your lips off."

  14

  Tom Krome was caught by surprise.

  "Well, say something," JoLayne said.

  "Wow."

  "Something original."

  "You taste like Certs."

  She kissed him again. "Spearmint flavored. I think I'm hooked on the darn things."

  Krome rolled on his side. He could see she was highly amused by his nervousness. "I'm lousy at this part," he said.

  "In other words, you'd rather skip the chitchat and get right to the fucking."

  Krome felt his cheeks get hot. "That's not what – "

  "I'm teasing."

  He sat up quickly. She was too much.

  "Tom, you were sweet to quit your job. Misguided, but sweet. I figured you deserved a smooch."

  "It was ... very nice."

  "Try to control yourself," JoLayne said. "Here's what you do now: Get in the car and go home. Back to work. Back to your life. You've done more than enough for me."

  "No way."

  "Look, I'll be fine. Once Moffitt gets my lottery ticket, I'm outta here."

  "Yeah, right."

  "I swear, Tom. Back to Grange to be a land baroness."

  Krome said, "I don't quit on stories."

  "Gimme a break."

  "What if Moffitt can't find the ticket?"

  JoLayne shrugged. "Then it wasn't meant to be. Now start packing."

  "Not a chance. Not until you get your money." He fell back on the pillow. "Suppose you wound up on the wet T-shirt circuit again. I couldn't live with myself."

  She laid her head on his chest. "What is it you want?"

  "One of those mints would be good."

  "From all this, I mean. All this wicked craziness."

  "A tolerable ending. That's it," Krome said.

  "Makes for a better story, right?"

  "Just a better night's sleep."

  JoLayne groaned. "You're not real. You can't be."

  Krome made a cursory stab at sorting his motives. Maybe he didn't want Moffitt to find the stolen Lotto ticket, because then the adventure would be over and he'd have to go home. Or maybe he wanted to recover the ticket himself, in some dramatic flourish, to impress JoLayne Lucks. It probably wasn't anything noble at all; just dumb pride and hormones.

  He said, "You want me to go, I'll go."

  "Your tummy's growling. You hungry again?"

  "JoLayne, you're not listening."

  She lifted her head. "Let's stay like this awhile, right here in bed. See what happens."

  "OK," Tom Krome said. She was too much.

  Chub was gloating about the getaway. He said they wouldn't have made it if Bode's pickup hadn't been parked in the blue zone, steps from the diner's front door. He said the guy at the counter never saw three handicaps move so goddamn fast.

  As the truck cruised toward Homestead, Shiner kept looking to see if they were being chased. Bode Gazzer was taut behind the wheel – he'd been expecting the Negro woman to cancel her credit card, but it jarred him anyway. The manager of the diner would be calling the law, no doubt about that.

  "We gotta have a meeting," Bode said. "Soon as possible."

  "With who?" Shiner asked.

  "Us. The White Clarion Aryans." It was time to start acting like a well-regulated militia. Bode said, "Maybe this afternoon we'll hold a meeting."

  Chub leaned forward. "What's wrong with right now?"

  "Not in the truck. I can't preside and drive at the same time."

  "Hell, you can't piss and whistle at the same time." Chub ran a mossy-looking tongue across his front teeth. "We don't need a damn meeting. We need our Lotto money."

  Bode said, "No, man, it's too soon."

  Chub took out the .357 and placed it on the floorboard at his feet. "Before somethin' else goes wrong," he said.

  Wedged between the squabbling criminals in the front seat, Shiner felt inexplicably safe. Chub was the toughest, and not only because of the guns. Bode could be a hardass, too, but he was more of a thinker; the idea man. Shiner liked his suggestion for a real militia meeting, liked his attention to orderliness and strategy. But before the White Clarion Aryans held a meeting, Shiner wanted to get his tattoo fixed. It couldn't be that difficult, changing the W.R.B.to W.C.A.The screaming eagle was perfect the way it was.

  When he inquired about stopping at a tattoo parlor, Chub laughed and said, "Just what you need."

  "I'm dead serious."

  Bode, stiffening in the driver's seat: "We ain't stoppin' for no such nonsense."

  "Please, I got to!"

  Chub said, "Aw, look at your damn arm. It's still bruised up from last time, like a rotten banana."

  "You don't unnerstand." Shiner's chin dropped as he slid into a sulk.

  Not this again, Chub thought. He snatched up the Colt and twisted the barrel into the kid's groin. "Son, you 'bout the whiniest little fuck I ever met."

  Shiner's head came up with a jerk. "I'm s-sorry."

  "Sorry don't begin to cover it."

  Bode told his partner to take it easy. "We're all three of us still jacked up from last night. Tell you what, let's stop over to the trailer and fetch the automatics. Go
out by the rock pit and let off some steam."

  "Way cool," Shiner said, expectantly.

  "Then, after, we'll have a meeting."

  Chub said, "Whoop-dee-doo." He put the pistol in his belt. "Fuck the rock pit. I wanna shoot at somethin' that moves. Somethin' bigger 'n' faster than a goddamn turtle."

  "Such as?"

  "Wait and see," said Chub. "Shoot a Jew, cap a Jap – "

  "Pop a wop," Shiner chimed. "Yeah!"

  Bode Gazzer hoped his partner's sinister mood would pass before they broke out the serious toys.

  Moffitt wasn't supposed to get mad.

  He was a pro. He dealt with low-rent shitheads all the time.

  But sneaking through the cramped apartment of Bodean James Gazzer, the agent felt his anger rise.

  The wall poster of David Koresh, the Waco wacko himself. Moffitt had lost a friend in that fiasco of a raid.

  Then there were the bullet holes in the plaster. Empty ammo-clips. Stacks of gun magazines and Soldier of Fortune.Porno videos. A paperback book called The Poacher's Bible.A pepper mill trimmed with a Nazi armband. A how-to pamphlet on fertilizer bombs. A clipped-out cartoon proposing a humorous aspect to the Holocaust. An assortment of NRA patches and bumper stickers. A closetful of camouflage clothes. Tacked to the peeling wallpaper behind the toilet: a Confederate flag. In the bedroom, a calico cross-stitched portrait of David Duke.

  Moffitt thought: These guys must've had a blast, working on JoLayne.

  He locked the front door behind him, bracing it with a chair. He opened a back window and punched out the screen, as an escape in case Bodean James Gazzer returned. The fresh air didn't hurt, either – the place smelled of soiled laundry, cigaret ash and stale beer. Methodically, Moffitt began to search. He knew from experience that even the dimmest of thugs occasionally could be brilliant at concealing contraband – and a lottery ticket was easier to hide than an AK-47 or a kilo of hash.

  The kitchen was first. One glance at the crusty silverware made Moffitt glad he wore surgical gloves. With a heavy forearm he cleared the cluttered dinette. There he dumped every box and tin from Bodean James Gazzer's cabinets – sugar, flour, instant coffee, Cocoa Krispies, croutons, Quaker Oats.