Carl Hiaasen (9 page)

He said, “There was a fella came in late off the highway. Got a Quick Pick and a six-pack of Bud Lights.”

“Wait, wait—you’re telling me,” JoLayne protested, her voice rising, “you’re telling me some …
stranger
bought the winning ticket.”

“Ma’am, I don’t honestly know who’s got what. I just run the machine, I don’t pay no ’tention to the damn numbers.”

“Shiner, you know it was my ticket. Why are you lying? Why?”

“I ain’t.” It came out as mush.

The man named Tom asked: “This mystery man who came in late and bought the Quick Pick—who was he?”

Shiner slid his hands under his butt, to conceal the tremor. He said, “I never seen him before. Just some tall skinny guy with a ponytail.”

“Oh no.” JoLayne turned to her friend. “What do you say now, Mister No Fucking Way.” Then she ran out of the house.

The man named Tom didn’t leave right away, which made Shiner jittery. Later he watched from the window as the man put an arm around JoLayne Lucks when they walked off, down Sebring Street.

Shiner sucked on a cigaret and recalled what Bode and Chub had told him:
Your word against hers, son
.

So it was done. And no fuckups!

Presto, Shiner thought. I’m in the brotherhood.

But for the rest of the morning he couldn’t stop thinking about what JoLayne’s friend had told him before walking out.

We’ll be talking again, you and I
.

Like hell, Shiner thought. He’ll have to find me first.

M
ary Andrea Finley Krome wasn’t addicted to Prozac or anything else. Nor was she chronically depressed, psychologically unstable, schizoid or suicidal.

She was, however, stubborn. And it was her very strong desire to not be a divorced woman.

Her marriage to Tom Krome wasn’t ideal; in fact, it had become more or less an empty sketch. Yet that was a tradition among Finley woman, hooking up with handsome, self-absorbed men who quickly lost interest in them.

They’d met in Manhattan, in a coffee shop near Radio City. Mary Andrea had initiated contact after noticing that the intent, good-looking man at the end of the counter was reading a biography of Ibsen. What Mary Andrea hadn’t known was that the book had been forced upon Tom Krome by a young woman he was dating (a drama major at NYU), and that he would’ve much rather been delving into the complete life story of Moose Skowron. Nonetheless, Krome was pleased when the auburn-haired
stranger moved three stools closer and said she’d once read for a small part in
A Doll’s House
.

The attraction was instant, though more physical than either of them cared to admit. At the time, Tom Krome was working on a newspaper investigation of Medicaid mills. He was on the trail of a crooked radiologist who spent his Tuesday mornings playing squash at the Downtown Athletic Club instead of reading myelograms, as he’d claimed while billing the government thousands of dollars. Mary Andrea Finley was auditioning for the role of the restless farm wife in a Sam Shepard play.

She and Tom dated for five weeks and then got married at a Catholic church in Park Slope. After that they didn’t see each other much, which meant it took longer to discover they had nothing in common. Tom’s reporting job kept him busy all day, while Mary Andrea’s stage work took care of the nights and weekends. When they managed to arrange time together, they had sex as often as possible. It was one activity in which they were synchronized in all aspects. Overdoing it spared them from having to listen to each other chatter on about their respective careers, in which neither partner honestly held much interest.

Mary Andrea had barely noticed things coming apart. The way she remembered it, one day Tom just walked in with a sad face and asked for a divorce.

Her reply: “Don’t be ridiculous. In five hundred years there’s never been a divorce in the Finley family.”

“That,” Tom had said, “explains all the psychos.”

Mary Andrea related this conversation to her counselor at the Mona Pacifica Mineral Spa and Residential Treatment Center in Maui, a facility highly recommended by several of her bicoastal actor friends. When the counselor asked Mary Andrea if she and her husband had ever been wildly happy, she said yes, for about six months.

“Maybe seven,” she added. “Then we reached a plateau.
That’s normal, isn’t it, for young couples? The problem is, Tom’s not a ‘plateau’ type of personality. He’s got to be either going up, or going down. Climbing, or falling.”

The counselor said, “I get the picture.”

“Now he has lawyers and process servers chasing me. It’s very inconsiderate.” Mary Andrea was a proud person.

“Do you have reason to believe he’d change his mind about the marriage?”

“Who’s trying to change his mind? I just want him to forget this absurd idea of a divorce.”

The counselor looked bemused. Mary Andrea went on to offer the view that divorce as an institution was becoming obsolete. “Superfluous. Unnecessary,” she added.

“It’s getting late,” said the counselor. “Would you like something to help you sleep?”

“Look at Shirley MacLaine. She didn’t live with her husband for, what, thirty years? Most people didn’t even know she was married. That’s the way to handle it.”

Mary Andrea’s theory was that divorce left a person exposed and vulnerable, while remaining married—even if you didn’t stay with your spouse—provided a cone of protection.

“Nobody else can get their meat hooks in you,” she elaborated. “Legally speaking.”

The counselor said, “I’d never thought of it that way.”

“OK, it’s just a silly piece of paper. But don’t think of it as a trap, think of it as a bulletproof shield,” said Mary Andrea Finley Krome. “Shirley’s got the right idea. Could you ask them to bring me a cup of Earl Grey?”

“You’re feeling better?”

“Much. I’ll be out of your hair in a day or two.”

“No hurry. You’re here to rest.”

“With a wedge of lemon,” Mary Andrea said. “Please.”

Sinclair scalded his tongue on the coffee, a gulp being his reflex to the sight of Tom Krome crossing the newsroom. Pressing a creased handkerchief to his mouth, Sinclair rose to greet his star reporter with a spurious heartiness that was transparent to all who witnessed it.

“Long time no see!” Sinclair gushed. “You’re lookin’ good, big guy.”

Krome motioned toward the editor’s private office. “We should talk,” he said.

“Yes, yes, I heard.”

When they were alone behind the glass, Sinclair said, “Joan and Roddy called this morning. I guess the news is all over Grange.”

Krome figured as much. He said, “I’ll need a week or so.”

Sinclair frowned. “For what, Tom?”

“For the reporting.” Krome eyed him coldly. He’d anticipated this reaction, knowing too well Sinclair’s unspoken credo:
Big stories, big problems
.

The editor rocked back in a contrived pose of rumination. “I don’t think we’re looking at a feature takeout anymore, do you?”

Krome was amused at the collective “we.” The newspaper sent its midlevel editors to a management school that taught them, among other insipid tricks, to employ the “we” during disagreements with staff. The theory was that a plural pronoun subliminally brought corporate muscle to an argument.

Sinclair went on: “I think we’re looking at a ten-inch daily, max, for the city side.
ROBBERS STEAL LOTTO TICKET, UNLUCKY LADY LAMENTS.”

Krome leaned forward. “If that headline ever appears in
The Register
, I will personally come to your home and cut out your lungs with a trenching knife.”

Sinclair wondered if it would be smart to leave the door open, in case he had to make a run for it.

“No daily story,” Krome said. “The woman isn’t making any public statements. She hasn’t even filed a police report.”

“But you’ve talked to her?”

“Yes, but not on the record.”

Sinclair, fortifying himself with another swig of coffee: “Then I really don’t see a story. Without quotes from her or the cops, I don’t see it.”

“You will. Give me some time.”

“Know what Roddy and Joan said? The rumor is, the Lucks girl somehow lost her Lotto ticket and then made up this bit about the robbers. You know, for sympathy.”

Krome said, “With all due respect to Roddy and Joan, they’re positively full of shit.”

Sinclair felt a foolish impulse to defend his sister and her husband, but it passed quickly. “Tom, you know how short-staffed we are. A week sounds more like an investigation than a simple feature, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s a story, period. A good story, if
we
are patient.”

Sinclair’s policy on sarcasm was to ignore it. He said, “Until this lady wants to talk to the cops, there’s not much we can do. Maybe the lottery ticket got stolen, maybe it didn’t. Maybe she never had it to begin with—these big jackpots tend to bring out the kooks.”

“Tell me about it.”

“We’ve got other stories for you, Tom.”

Krome rubbed his eyes. He thought about Alaska, about bears batting rainbows in the river.

And he heard Sinclair saying, “They’re teaching a course on bachelorhood out at the community college. ‘Bacherlorhood in the Nineties.’ I think it could be a winner.”

Krome, numb with disdain: “I’m not a bachelor yet. And I won’t be for some time, according to my lawyer.”

“A minor detail. Write around it, Tom. You’re living a single life, that’s the point.”

“Yes. A single life.”

“Why don’t you sit in on the classes? This week they’re doing sewing—it could be very cute, Tom. First person, of course.”

“Sewing for bachelors.”

“Sure,” said Sinclair.

Krome sighed to himself. “Cute” again. Sinclair knew how Krome felt about cute. He’d rather write obits. He’d rather cover the fucking weather. He’d rather have railroad spikes hammered into his nostrils.

With unwarranted hopefulness, Sinclair awaited Krome’s answer. Which was:

“I’ll call you from the road.”

Sinclair sagged. “No, Tom, I’m sorry.”

“You’re saying I’m off the story?”

“I’m saying there
is
no story right now. Until we get a police report or a statement from this Lucks woman, there’s nothing to put in the paper but gossip.”

Spoken like a true newshound, Krome thought. A regular Ben Bradlee.

He said, “Give me a week.”

“I can’t.” Sinclair was fidgeting, tidying the stack of pink phone messages on his desk. “I wish I could do it but I can’t.”

Tom Krome yawned. “Then I suppose I’ll have to quit.”

Sinclair stiffened. “That isn’t funny.”

“Finally, we agree.” Krome saluted informally, then strolled out the door.

When he got home, he saw that somebody had shot all the windows out of his house with a large-caliber weapon. Tacked to the door was a note from Katie:

“I’m sorry, Tom, it’s all my fault.”

By the time she got there, an hour later, he had most of the
glass swept up. She came up the steps and handed him a check for $500. She said, “Honestly, I’m so ashamed.”

“All this because I didn’t call?”

“Sort of.”

Krome expected to be angrier about the broken windows, but upon reflection he considered it a personal milestone of sorts: the first time that a sexual relationship had resulted in a major insurance claim. Krome wondered if he’d finally entered the netherworld of white-trash romance.

He said to Katie: “Come on in.”

“No, Tommy, we can’t stay here. It’s not safe.”

“But the breeze is nice, no?”

“Follow me.” She turned and trotted toward her car—darn good speed, for a person in sandals. On the interstate she twice nearly lost him in traffic. They ended up at a Mexican restaurant near the dog track. Katie settled covertly in a corner booth. Krome ordered beers and
fajitas
for both of them.

She said, “I owe you an explanation.”

“Wild guess: You told Art.”

“Yes, Tom.”

“May I ask why?”

“I was sad because you didn’t call like you promised. And then the sadness turned to guilt—lying in bed next to this man, my husband, and me keeping this awful secret.”

“But Art’s been banging his secretaries for years.”

Katie said, “It’s not the same thing.”

“Apparently not.”

“Plus two wrongs don’t make a right.”

Krome backed off; he was a pro when it came to guilt. He asked Katie: “What kind of gun did Art use?”

“Oh, he didn’t do it himself. He got his law clerk to do it.”

“To shoot out my windows?”

“I’m so sorry,” Katie said again.

The beers arrived. Krome drank while Katie explained that her husband, the judge, had turned out to be quite the jealous maniac.

“Much to my surprise,” she added.

“I can’t believe he paid his clerk to do a drive-by on my house.”

“Oh, he didn’t pay him. That would be a crime—Art is very, very careful when it comes to the law. The young man did it as a favor, more or less. To make points with the boss, that’s my impression.”

“Want to know mine?”

“Tom, I couldn’t sleep Sunday night. I had to come clean with Art.”

“And I’m sure he promptly came clean with you.”