Carl Hiaasen (2 page)

“Chaste,” said Tom Krome.

The phone rang.

“Chased? No, sweetheart, that was last night. Get the telephone, please.”

Katie put on her high heels, balancing storklike on elegant slender legs. “You honestly won’t go? To church, Tom, I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah, I’m one heathen bastard.” Krome picked up the phone.

She waited, arms folded, at the bedroom door. Krome covered the receiver and said, “Sinclair.”

“On a Sunday morning?”

“I’m afraid so.” Krome tried to sound disappointed but he was thinking: There
is a
God.

Sinclair’s title at
The Register
was Assistant Deputy Managing Editor of Features and Style. He relied on the fact that nobody outside the newspaper business understood the insignificance of
his position. At smaller papers it was one of the least nerve-racking and lowest-profile jobs. Sinclair couldn’t have been happier. Most of his reporters and editors were young and unabashedly grateful to be employed, and they did whatever Sinclair told them.

His biggest problem was Tom Krome, who also happened to be his best writer. Krome’s background was hard news, which had made him impossibly cynical and suspicious of all authority. Sinclair was scared of Krome; he’d heard stories. Also, at thirty-five Krome was older by two years, so he held the advantage of age as well as experience. Sinclair realized there was no possibility, none whatsoever, that Krome would ever respect him.

His fear—in fact, Sinclair’s most serious concern as the ADME of Features and Style—was that Krome might someday humiliate him in front of the staff. Figuratively cut off his nuts in front of Marie or Jacquelyn, or one of the clerks. Sinclair felt he could not psychologically endure such an episode, so he had resolved to keep Krome away from the newspaper office as much as possible. To that end, Sinclair committed ninety-five percent of his meager travel budget to assignments that kept Krome safely out of town. It worked out fine: Tom seemed content to be gone, and Sinclair was able to relax at the office.

The most challenging of Sinclair’s responsibilities was handing out lame story assignments. Calling Tom Krome at home was particularly trying; usually Sinclair had to shout to make himself heard above the loud rock music or women’s voices in the background. He could only imagine how Krome lived.

Sinclair had never before phoned on a Sunday. He apologized numerous times.

Tom Krome said: “Don’t worry about it.”

Sinclair was encouraged. He said, “I didn’t think this one could wait.”

Krome had no trouble containing his excitement. Whatever Sinclair was calling about, it wasn’t breaking news. Breaking fluff, maybe, but not news. He blew a kiss to Katie and waved her off to church.

“I got a tip,” Sinclair said.

“You
got a tip.”

“My brother-in-law phoned this morning. He lives over in Grange.”

Krome thought: Uh-oh. Crafts show. I will murder this fucker if he makes me cover another crafts show.

But Sinclair said: “You play the lottery, Tom?”

“Only when it’s up to forty million bucks or so. Anything less is chump change.”

No reaction from Sinclair, who was deep into his pitch: “There were two winners last night. One in Dade County, the other in Grange. My brother-in-law knows the woman. Her name is—are you ready for this?—Lucks.”

Inwardly Tom Krome groaned. It was the quintessential Sinclair headline:
LADY LUCKS WINS THE LOTTO!

You had your irony. You had your alliteration.

And you had your frothy, utterly forgettable feature story. Sinclair called them Feel Goods. He believed it was the mission of his department to make readers forget all the nastiness they were getting in other sections of the newspaper. He wanted them to feel good about their lives, their religion, their families, their neighbors, their world.

Once he’d posted a memo setting forth his philosophy of feature writing. Somebody—Sinclair suspected Tom Krome—had nailed a dead rat to it.

“How much she win?” Krome asked.

“The pot was twenty-eight million, so she’ll get half. What do you think, Tom?”

“Depends.”

“She works for a veterinarian. Loves animals, Roddy says.”

“That’s nice.”

“Plus she’s black.”

“Ah,” said Krome. The white editors who ran the newspaper loved positive stories about minorities; Sinclair obviously smelled a year-end bonus.

“Roddy says she’s a trip.”

Krome said, “Roddy would be your brother-in-law?” The tipster.

“Right. He says she’s a character, this JoLayne Lucks.” The headline dancing in Sinclair’s brain actually was:
LUCKS BE A LADY!

Tom Krome said: “This Roddy person is married to your sister?”

“Joan. Yes, that’s right,” Sinclair answered, edgily.

“What the hell’s your sister doing in Grange?”

Grange was a truck-stop town known mainly for its miracles, stigmata, visitations and weeping Madonnas. It was a must-see on the Christian tourist circuit.

Sinclair said, “Joan’s a teacher. Roddy works for the state.” Sinclair wanted to make clear they weren’t nutcases but were responsible citizens. He noticed his palms had gotten damp from talking to Tom Krome for too long.

“This Lady Lucks,” Krome said, in a tone designed to cast scorn on the inevitable headline, “is she a Jesus freak? Because I’m in no mood to be preached at.”

“Tom, I really wouldn’t know.”

“She says Jesus gave her those lucky numbers, end of story. I’m coming home. You understand?”

Sinclair said, “Roddy didn’t mention anything like that.”

Solemnly Krome played his ace. “Think of the letters we’ll get.”

“What do you mean?” Sinclair hated letters almost as much as he hated telephone calls. The best stories were those that produced no reaction, one way or another, from readers. “What kind of mail?” he asked.

“Tons,” Krome replied, “if we do a piece saying Jesus is a gambling tout. Can you imagine? Hell, you’ll probably hear from Ralph Reed himself. Next they’ll be boycotting our advertisers.”

Firmly Sinclair said: “So let’s stay away from that angle. By all means.” After a pause: “Maybe this isn’t such a hot idea.”

On the other end, Tom Krome smiled. “I’ll drive up to Grange this afternoon. Check it out and let you know.”

“OK,” Sinclair said. “Go check it out. You want my sister’s phone number?”

“That’s not necessary,” said Krome.

Sinclair experienced a small shudder of relief.

Demencio was refilling the fiberglass Madonna when his wife, Trish, hurried outside to say that somebody in town won the lottery.

“I don’t suppose it’s us,” said Demencio.

“Rumor is JoLayne Lucks.”

“Figures.”

Demencio removed the top of the Madonna’s head and reached inside the statue to retrieve a plastic bottle that had once held the wiper fluid in a 1989 Civic hatchback. These days the jug held tap water, lightly scented with perfume.

Trish said, “You’re almost out of ‘Charlie’.”

Demencio nodded irritably. That would be a problem. It was important to use a fragrance the righteous faithful wouldn’t recognize;
otherwise suspicions would be stirred. Once he’d experimented with Lady Stetson and there was nearly an uprising. The third pilgrim in line, a buzzardly bank teller from Huntsville, had sniffed it out instantly: “Hey, Mother Mary’s crying Coty tears!”

The woman was discreetly whisked away from the shrine before trouble started. Demencio had vowed to be more careful. Scenting the Madonna’s tears was a fine touch, he thought. The devout souls who waited so long in the hot Florida sun deserved more than a drop of salty water on their fingertips—this was supposed to be Jesus’ mother, for heaven’s sake. Her tears
ought
to smell special.

Trish held the plastic bottle while Demencio poured the last of the Charlie perfume. Again she marveled at how small and childlike his brown hands were. And steady. He would’ve made a wonderful surgeon, her husband, if only he’d had the chance. If only he’d been born in, say, Boston, Massachusetts, instead of Hialeah, Florida.

Demencio replaced the plastic bottle inside the Madonna. Clear thin tubes ran upward from the bottle’s cap to the inside of the statue’s eyelids, where the clever Demencio had drilled pinprick-sized holes. A thicker black tube ran internally down the length of the statue and emerged from another hole in her right heel. The black air tube connected to a small rubber bulb, which could be operated by hand or foot. Squeezing the bulb forced the phony tears out of the bottle, up the twin tubes and into the Madonna’s eyes.

There was an art to it, and Demencio fancied himself one of the best in the business. He kept the tears small, subtle and paced at intervals. The longer the crowd was made to linger, the more soft drinks, angel food cake, T-shirts, Bibles, holy candles, and sunblock they purchased.

From Demencio, of course.

Most everybody in Grange knew what he was up to, but they didn’t say much. Some were too busy running their own scams. Besides, tourists were tourists and there wasn’t much difference, when you got down to the core morality of it, between Mickey Mouse and a fiberglass Madonna.

Trish liked to say: “All we’re really selling is hope.”

Demencio liked to say: “I’d rather peddle religion than a phony goddamn rodent.”

He made decent money, though he wasn’t rich and probably never would be. Not like Miss JoLayne Lucks, whose astounding and undeserved windfall he now contemplated.

“How much she win?” he asked his wife.

“Fourteen million, if it’s true.”

“She’s not sure?”

“She’s not sayin’.”

Demencio snorted. Anybody else, they’d be hooting and hollering all over town.
Fourteen million bucks!

Trish said, “All they announced is there’s two winning tickets. One was bought down around Homestead, the other was in Grange.”

“The Grab N’Go?”

“Yep. The way they figured out who, the store only sold twenty-two Lotto tickets all last week. Twenty-one is accounted for. JoLayne’s is the only one left.”

Demencio fitted the fiberglass Madonna back together. “So what’s she up to?”

Trish reported that, according to neighbors, JoLayne had not come out of her house all morning and was not answering the telephone.

“Maybe she ain’t home,” Demencio said. He carried the Madonna into the house. Trish followed. He set the statue in a corner, next to his golf bag.

“Let’s go see her,” he said.

“Why?” Trish wondered what Demencio was planning. They barely knew the Lucks woman to say hello.

“Bring her some angel food cake,” Demencio proposed. “It’s a neighborly thing on a Sunday morning. I mean, why the hell not?”

J
oLayne Lucks didn’t expect to see Trish and Demencio on her front porch, and Demencio didn’t expect to see so much of JoLayne’s legs. She appeared in a peach-colored jogging bra and sky-blue panties.

“I wasn’t ready for company,” she said in a sleepy voice.

Trish: “We’ll drop by another time.”

“Whatcha got there?”

Demencio said, “Cake.”

He was transfixed by JoLayne’s perfectly muscled calves. How’d they get like that? He never saw her running.

“Come on in,” she said, and Demencio—shaking free of his wife’s grip—went in.

They stood, each holding one side of the cake plate, while JoLayne Lucks went to put on a pair of jeans. The small tidy house showed no signs of a post-lottery celebration. Trish remarked on the handsome piano in the living room; Demencio eyed an aquarium full of baby turtles—there must have been fifty of them, paddling full tilt and goggled-eyed against the glass.

To Trish he said, “I wonder what
that’s
all about.”

“You hush. They’re pets is all.”

JoLayne returned with her hair under a baseball cap, which Demencio found intriguing and sexy—the attitude as much as the style. JoLayne told Trish the cake looked delicious.

“Angel food,” Demencio’s wife said. “My grandma’s recipe. On my mother’s side.”

“Sit down, please.” JoLayne carried the plate to the kitchen counter. Trish and Demencio sat stiffly on an antique cherry-wood love seat.

He said, “Those your turtles?”

JoLayne Lucks gave a bright smile. “Would you like one?”

Demencio shook his head. Trish, by way of explanation: “We’ve got a jealous old tomcat.”

JoLayne peeled the plastic wrapping from the cake and broke off a chunk with her fingers. Serenely she popped it in her mouth. “What brings you folks by?”

Trish glanced at Demencio, who shifted in the love seat. “Well,” he said, “here’s the thing—we heard about your good fortune. You know….”

JoLayne gave him no help. She was savoring the angel food.

Demencio said, “About the Lotto, I mean.”

One of her fine brown eyebrows arched. She kept chewing. Demencio fumbled with a strategy. The woman seemed slightly spacey.

Trish came to the rescue. “We stopped over to say congratulations. Nothing like this ever happens in Grange.”

“No?” With a lizard flick of her tongue, JoLayne Lucks removed a crumb from one of her sparkling cobalt fingernails. “I thought miracles happen all the time around here. Most every Sunday, right?”

Demencio reddened, perceiving a dig at his Madonna concession.
Trish, courageously: “What I meant, JoLayne, was nobody’s ever won anything. Nobody I can recall.”

“Well, you might be right.”

“It’s just a shame you’ve got to split the jackpot with somebody else.” Trish spoke with true sympathy. “Not that fourteen million bucks is anything to sneeze at, but it’d be nice if you were the only winner. Nice for Grange, too.”

Demencio shot a glare at his wife. “It’s still nice for Grange,” he said. “It’ll put us on the map, for damn sure.”

JoLayne Lucks said, “Ya’ll want some coffee?”

“So what’s next, girl?” Trish asked.

“I thought I’d feed the turtles.”

Trish chuckled uneasily. “You know what I mean. Maybe a new car? A place at the beach?”

JoLayne Lucks cocked her head. “You’re losing me now.”

Demencio had had enough. He stood up, hitching at his trousers. “I won’t lie. We came to ask a favor.”