Lucky You

by Carl Hiassen

  And not wishing to cloud his mother's newfound esteem for him, Shiner would elect not to tell her the story of the $14 million Lotto ticket and how he came to give it back.

  Because she would've kicked his ass.

  It wasn't a loaded firearm in Mary Andrea's purse. It was a court summons.

  "Your attorney," she said, waving it accusingly, "is a vicious, vicious man."

  Tom Krome said, "You look good." Which was very true.

  "Don't change the subject."

  "OK. Where did Slick Dick finally catch up with you?"

  "At your damn newspaper," Mary Andrea said. "Right in the lobby, Tom."

  "What an odd place for you to be."

  She told him why she'd gone there. "Since everybody thought you were dead – including yours truly! – they asked me to fly down and pick up your stupid award. And this is what I get: ambushed by a divorce lawyer!"

  "What award?" Tom asked.

  "Don't you dare pretend not to know."

  "I'm not pretending, Mary Andrea. What award?"

  "The Emilio," she said sourly. "Something like that."

  "Amelia?"

  "Yeah, that's it."

  He shot a wrathful glare toward the house, where Sinclair was holed up. That asshole! Krome thought. The Amelias were the lamest of journalism prizes. He was appalled that Sinclair had entered him in the contest and infuriated that he hadn't been forewarned. Krome fought the impulse to dash back and snatch the yellow-bellied slider from the editor's grasp, just to see him whimper and twitch.

  "Come on." Tom led his wife away from the bustle of the shrine, around to the backyard. He set the bulky aquarium in the sun, to warm the baby cooters.

  Mary Andrea said, "I suppose you saw it on television, Turnquist's big coup. You probably got a good laugh."

  "It made the TV?"

  "Tom, did you set me up? Tell the truth."

  He said, "I wish I were that clever. Honestly."

  Mary Andrea puffed her cheeks, which Tom recognized as a sign of exasperation. "I don't think I'm going to ask about those turtles," she said.

  "It's a very long story. I like your hair, by the way. Looks good short."

  "Stop with that. You hear me?" She very nearly admitted she'd started coloring it because it had become shot full of gray, no thanks to him.

  Tom pointed at the summons, with which Mary Andrea briskly fanned herself. He had to grin. Fifty-nine degrees and she's acting like it's the Sahara.

  "So when's our big day in court?"

  "Two weeks," she said curtly. "Congratulations."

  "Oh yeah. I've already ordered the party hats."

  "What happened to your face?"

  "A man stomped it. He's dead now."

  "Go on!" But she saw he wasn't kidding. "My God, Tom, did you kill him?"

  "Let's just say I was a contributing factor." That would be as much as he'd tell; let her make up her own yarn. "Well," he said, "what's it going to be? Are you going to keep fighting me on this?"

  "Oh, relax."

  "Gonna take off again? Change your name and all that nonsense?"

  "If you want the truth," Mary Andrea said, "I'm tired of running. But I'm even more tired of road tours and working for scale. I need to get back East and jump-start this, acting career of mine."

  "Maybe look for something off Broadway."

  "Exactly. I mean, God, I ended up in the middle of Montana."

  "Yeah?" Krome thinking: Not a megamall for a thousand miles.

  "Me in cowboy country! Can you imagine?"

  "All because you didn't want a divorce."

  "I'll be the first Finley woman in five centuries to go through with it."

  "And the sanest," Tom said.

  Mary Andrea gave a phony scowl. "I saved your goodbye note. The lyric you ripped off from Zevon."

  "Hey, if I could write worth a lick," he said, "I wouldn't be working for schmucks like Sinclair."

  "What about your novel?" she asked.

  Stopping him cold.

  "Your girlfriend told me about it. The Estrangement.Catchy title."

  Mary Andrea's tone was deadly coy. Tom angled his face to the sky, shielding his eyes; pretending to watch a flight of ducks. Buying time. Wondering when, why and under what unthinkable circumstances JoLayne Lucks and Mary Andrea Finley Krome had met.

  "So how far along are you?"

  "Uh?" Tom, with a vague, sidelong look.

  "On your book," prodded Mary Andrea.

  "Oh. Bits and pieces are all I've got."

  "Ah."

  A knowing smile was one of her specialties, and now she wore a killer. Just as Tom was about to surrender and ask about JoLayne, Katie Battenkill came around the corner, humming contentedly. Then he understood.

  "Ex-girlfriend," he whispered to Mary Andrea.

  "Whatever."

  Katie rushed up and unabashedly hurled her arms around his neck. "We rode over together," she said. "Your wife and I."

  "So I gather."

  The information had a paralytic, though not entirely disagreeable, effect. Tom had never before been bracketed by two women with whom he'd slept. Though awkward, the moment enabled him to understand perfectly why he'd been attracted to each of them and why he couldn't live with either one.

  "Tell her she looks great," Mary Andrea said archly to her husband. "We alllook great."

  "Well, you do."

  Katie said, "I think you guys need to be alone."

  Tom snagged her around the waist before she could slip away. "It's all right. Mary Andrea and I have finished our serious chat."

  His wife asked: "What's that on your hand, Katie? Did you cut yourself?"

  "Oh no. That's an actual teardrop from the world-famous weeping Madonna." Katie gaily displayed a red-flecked ring finger. "My guess is tap water, food coloring and perfume. Charlie, it smells like."

  After a discreet sniff, Mary Andrea concurred.

  Krome said to Katie: "I hope you're not too disappointed."

  "That it's not real? Geez, Tommy, you must think I'm a total sucker. It's a beautiful shrine, that's what matters. The tears are just for hype."

  Mary Andrea was on the verge of enjoying herself. "His book," she reported confidentially to Katie, "is still in the very early stages."

  "Eeeeek." Katie covered her face in embarrassment. She knew she shouldn't have mentioned to Tom's wife his idea for a divorce novel.

  "What else did you tell her," he said, "or am I foolish to ask?"

  Katie's green eyes widened. Mary Andrea responded with a quick shake of the head.

  Krome caught it and muttered: "Oh, terrific." Katie and her carnal scorecard. "You should get a job on the sports desk," he told her.

  She smiled wanly. "I might need it."

  Mary Andrea gave her new friend's arm a maternal pat and suggested it was time to leave. "We've got a long drive, and you need to get home."

  "It's Art," Katie volunteered to Tom. "He's been arrested – it was all over the radio."

  Krome couldn't fake so much as a murmur of sympathy. His house burned down because of Arthur Battenkill; burned down with a man inside. The judge deserved twenty to life.

  "The police want to talk to me some more," Katie explained.

  "It's good you're cooperating."

  "Of course, Tommy. It's the only honest thing. Oh, look at all the little cooters – they're adorable!"

  Lugging the turtle tank, Tom Krome escorted the two women through the ebullient pilgrims, past the blood-weeping Virgin and the runny Jesus Omelette, and out to the street.

  Katie Battenkill was delighted to learn what was planned for the baby reptiles. "That's so lovely!" she said, kissing Tom on the nose. She primly scissored her long legs into the car and told him she'd see him at Arthur's trial. Tom waved goodbye.

  Mary Andrea stood there looking tickled; savoring the sight of her long-lost spouse trying to balance his swirling emotions and an exotic cargo. The only possible explanation for the turtle project was
a new woman, but Mary Andrea didn't pry. She didn't want to know anything that might weaken the story in the retelling.

  "Well," Tom said, "I guess we'll be seeing each other at a different trial, won't we?"

  "Not me. I don't have time."

  She sounded sincere but Krome remained wary; Mary Andrea could be so smooth. "You mean it?" he said. "We can finally settle this thing?"

  "Yes, Tommy.But only if I get a first edition of The Estrangement.Autographed personally by the author."

  "Christ, Mary Andrea, there's no book. I was just ranting."

  "Good," she said to her future ex-husband. "Then we've got a deal. Now put down that damn aquarium so I can give you a proper hug."

  Bernard Squires was a light drinker, but after supper he accepted one glass of sherry from Mrs. Hendricks at the bed-and-breakfast; then another, and one more after that. He wouldn't have drunk so much liquor in front of other guests, particularly the two attractive women who'd arrived the previous night. But they'd already checked out, so Squires felt that seemly comportment was no longer a priority.

  The poor fellow was suffering, Mrs. Hendricks could see that. He told her the deal had fallen through, the whole reason he'd come all the way to Grange from Chicago, Illinois.

  Kaput! Finished!

  Mrs. Hendricks sympathized – "Oh dear, these things happen" – and tried to nudge the conversation toward cheerier topics such as the Dow Jones, but Mr. Squires clammed up. Slouched on the antique deacon's bench, he stared dolefully at his shoe tops. After a while Mrs. Hendricks went upstairs, leaving him with the sherry bottle.

  When it was empty, he snatched up his briefcase and went wandering. Crumpled in a pocket of his coat were three telephone messages in Mrs. Hendricks' flawless penmanship. The messages had come from Mr. Richard Tarbone and were progressively more insistent. Bernard Squires could not summon the courage to call the hot-tempered gangster and tell him what had happened.

  Squires himself wasn't sure. He didn't know who the black girl was, or where she'd gotten so much dough. He didn't know how the hard-ass ATF agent got involved, or why. All Bernard Squires knew for certain was that neither the pension fund nor the Tarbone crime family could afford another front-page headline, and that meant the Simmons Wood deal was queered.

  And it wasn't his fault. None of it.

  But that wouldn't matter, because Richard the Icepick didn't believe in explanations. He believed in slaying the messenger.

  Each passing minute reduced the odds of Bernard Squires' surviving the week. He knew this; drunk or sober, he knew.

  In his career as a mob money launderer, Squires had faced few predicaments that a quarter million dollars cash could not resolve. That was the amount he'd brought to Grange, to secure the Simmons Wood parcel. Afterwards, when the deal officially turned to dogshit, Clara Markham had made a special trip to the bank to retrieve the money and had even helped Squires count the bundles as he repacked the briefcase.

  Which he now carried nonchalantly through the sleeping streets of Grange. It was a lovely, still autumn evening; so different from how he'd always pictured Florida. The air was cool, and it smelled earthy and sweet. He stepped around an orange tomcat, snoozing beneath a street-lamp, which barely favored him with a glance. Occasionally a dog barked in a backyard. Through the windows of the homes he could see the calming violet flicker of televisions.

  Squires hoped the night air might clear his muddled brain. Eventually he would figure out what to do – he always did. So he kept walking. Before long he found himself on the same street where he'd been two nights before, under the same oak in front of the same bland one-story house. From behind the drawn curtains he heard lively conversation. Several cars were parked in the driveway.

  But Bernard Squires was alone at the glazed shrine of the Virgin Mary. No one attended the spotlit statue, its fiberglass hands frozen in benediction. From his distance it was impossible for Squires to see if there were teardrops in the statue's eyes.

  Edging forward, he spotted a lone figure in the moat; the linen-clad man, his knees pulled up to his chest.

  Hearing no chanting, Squires ventured closer.

  "Hello, pilgrim," the man said, as if he'd been watching the entire time. His face remained obscured by a shadow.

  Squires said, "Oh. Am I interrupting?"

  "No, you're fine."

  "Are you all right in there?"

  "Couldn't be better." The man lowered his knees and reclined slowly into the water. As he spread his arms, the white bedsheet billowed around him, an angelic effect.

  "Isn't it cold?" Squires said.

  "Sah-kamam-slamasoon-noo-slah!"came the reply, though it was more a melody than a chant.

  soccer moms slams sununu for slur – another of Sinclair's legendary headlines. He couldn't help it; they kept repeating themselves, like baked beans.

  Bernard Squires asked, "What language is that?"

  "Into the water, brother."

  Sinclair welcomed any company. A noisy meeting was being held in the house – Demencio and his wife, Joan and Roddy, dear lusty Marva, the mayor and the plucky stigmata man. They were talking money; commissions and finder's fees and profit points, secular matters for which Sinclair no longer cared.

  "Come on in," he coaxed the visitor, and the man obediently waded into the shallow moat. He did not remove his expensive suit jacket or roll up his pants or set aside his briefcase.

  "Yes! Fantastic!" Sinclair exhorted.

  As Bernard Squires drew closer, he noticed in the wash of the floodlights a small object poised on the floating man's forehead. At first Squires believed it to be a stone or a seashell, but then he saw it scoot an inch or so.

  The object was alive.

  "What is it?" he asked, voice hushed.

  "A sacred cooter, brother."

  From the shell a thimble-sized head emerged, as smooth as satin and striped exquisitely. Bernard Squires was awestruck.

  "Can I touch it?"

  "Careful. He's all that's left."

  "Can I?"

  The next day, during the long flight to Rio de Janeiro, Bernard Squires would fervidly describe the turtle handling to a willowy Reebok account executive sitting beside him in business class. He would recount how he'd experienced a soul soothing, a revelatory unburdening, an expurgation; how he'd known instantly what he was supposed to do with the rest of his life.

  Like a cosmic window shade snapping up, letting the sunlight streak in – "blazing lucidity" is how Bernard Squires would (while sampling the in-flight sherry) describe it. He would tell the pretty saleswoman about the surrealistic little town – the weeping Madonna, the dreamy Turtle Boy, the entrepreneurial carpenter with the raw holes in his hands, the eccentric black millionaire who worked at the animal clinic.

  And afterwards he would tell the woman a few personal things: where he was born, where he was educated, his hobbies, his tastes in music and even (sketchily) his line of work. He would under no circumstances, however, tell her the contents of the eelskin briefcase in the overhead compartment.

  EPIPHANY

  Tom Krome carried the turtle tank up the porch and backed it slowly through the front door. The house was warm and fragrant with cooking; spaghetti and meatballs.

  JoLayne was sampling the sauce when he came in. She was barefoot and blue-jeaned, in a baggy checked shirt with the tails knotted at her midriff.

  "Where've you been?" she sang out. "I'm in my Martha Stewart mode! Hurry or you'll miss it." She breezed over to check on the cooters.

  "We're one shy," Tom said. He told her about Demencio's "apostles" and the weirdness with Sinclair. "I felt so sorry for the guy," he said, "I gave him a slider. He thinks it's Bartholomew."

  JoLayne, with consternation: "What exactly does he do with them? Please tell me he doesn't ... "

  "He just sort of touches them. And chants like a banshee, of course."

  She said, "You've gotta love this town."

  The remaining forty-four seemed perky a
nd fit, although the aquarium needed a hosing. To the turtles JoLayne crooned, "Don't worry, troops. It won't be long now."

  She felt Tom's arms around her waist. He said, "Let's hear the big news – are you a baroness, or still a wench?"

  JoLayne knighted him grandly with the sauce spoon. He snatched her up and twirled with her around the floor. "Watch the babies! Watch out!" she said, giggling.

  "It's fantastic, Jo! You beat the bastards. You got Simmons Wood."

  They sat down, breathless. She pressed closer. "Mostly it was Moffitt," she said.

  Tom raised an eyebrow.

  "He told the guy you were writing a big expose on the shopping-mall deal," JoLayne said. "Told him it was bound to make the front pages – Mafia invades Grange!"

  "Priceless."

  "Well, it worked. Squires bolted. But, Tom, what if they believe it? What if they come after you? Moffitt said they won't dare, but – "

  "He's right. The mob doesn't kill reporters anymore. Waste of ammo, and very bad for business." Krome had to admire the agent's guile. "It was a great bluff. Too bad ... "

  "What?"

  "Too bad I didn't think of it myself."

  JoLayne gave him a marinara kiss and headed for the kitchen. "Come along, Woodward, help me get the food on the table."

  Over dinner she went through the terms of the land sale. Tom worked the math and said: "You realize that even after taxes and interest payments, you'll still have quite a comfortable income. Not that you care."

  "How comfortable?"

  "About three hundred grand a year."

  "Well. That'll be something new."

  OK, JoLayne thought, here's the test. Here's when we find out if Mr. Krome is truly different from Rick the mechanic or Lawrence the lawyer, or any of the other winners I've picked in this life.

  Tom said, "You could actually afford a car."

  "Yeah? What else?" JoLayne, spearing a meatball,

  "You could get that old piano fixed. And tuned."

  "Good. Go on."

  "Decent speakers for your stereo," he said. "That should be a priority. And maybe a CD player, too, if you're really feeling wild and reckless."