Lottery (7 page)

Her older brother was always preaching about how McKenzie needed to get her life in order. And she’d tried to get straight a couple of times. But the agonizing pain she’d had to go through while weaning off crack, along with the discovery that she was never going to get out of debt, landed her right back to the streets.

Damn, she thought as she took out one of the cubes from the bag, she hoped this was good stuff. So many people McKenzie used to know had died from drugs that had been laced with some serious crap.

After she dropped one of the sugar-cube squares into the opening of the pipe, she sealed the plastic bag and pushed it back into her pocket. She flicked the lighter and held the flame close to the opening of the pipe. Once the crack started to melt, she inhaled deeply and her eyes rolled back.

Reds, yellows, and blues swirled around her as she scooted back into the wall.
Heaven.
McKenzie’s mind became peaceful and her muscles relaxed as she went to the place she called Nirvana.

When her eyes shot open, she had no idea what time it was. Paranoid someone had stolen her stuff, her eyes raked the floor. Relieved to find the lighter and pipe beside her, she glanced around anxiously to see if anyone was watching. When
McKenzie found she was still alone, she slid the lighter into her pocket and pushed the pipe underneath the rags again.

Oh, God, what time was it? Had she slept past when she’d told O’Toole to meet her? She’d waited six long months before she’d gathered enough courage to write the note. McKenzie was entitled to some of O’Toole’s money for keeping her mouth shut. Given the amount he’d won, what she was asking for wouldn’t put a dent in his fortune.

Propping up on her knees, she squinted through the cracks in the window pane to the large clock across the street; five minutes until twelve. Thank God it was light out as that meant it was noon, and not midnight.

Weber had taken McKenzie to O’Toole’s place once before, so she knew where O’Toole lived. She doubted, however, that Caleb O’Toole remembered her. She was nobody; just a street whore who used to deliver Weber his drugs. To hell with the men who took advantage of her. Her life was about to change.

Early yesterday morning, McKenzie had frantically knocked on the front door of O’Toole’s condo building. Crying hysterically, she’d summoned the cleaning woman who was vacuuming the hallway. After McKenzie had given the employee a sob story that she needed to tell her sister that their mother had just died, the woman had let her in. Christ. Everyone was so fucking gullible. Once inside the building, McKenzie had slipped the note under O’Toole’s door.

She needed to get ready to meet Mr. Big Shot O’Toole. Stumbling to the stack of clothing she’d collected from dumpsters, she was jittery. Would he agree to pay her or tell her to get lost? He had to pay up or McKenzie would fucking turn him in. For once, she held the power.

Holding up a red dress with a low-cut neckline, McKenzie shook it out, the garment blurring from the effects of the drug. “No … no … no,” she slurred, “you won’t do.” When she came
across the bell-bottom jeans and a paisley scarf, she smiled; casual, yet the scarf added a touch of class.
Perfect.

What were the odds that she’d been on the boat when O’Toole stole the lottery ticket, McKenzie thought as she pulled on the bell bottoms. After Caleb gave her the dough, she’d get an apartment. Start over. Be somebody.

She combed her fingers through her lifeless hair and saw dandruff fall on her shoulders. Her head itched. Her skin was dry. She needed a shower. All this would happen very soon. All she had to do was be patient for O’Toole to deliver the goods.

Jack Weber had loved his drugs. He’d invited McKenzie to his parties, as he had wanted the good stuff and knew she had contacts. She’d done him a few times when he was totally wasted and, if she remembered correctly, Weber hadn’t been that good in bed. He’d treated her like shit when he wasn’t high. She was sorry he’d died, but the only thing she missed about Weber was the money he’d paid her for drugs.

When her cell rang, she fumbled to take it out of her pocket. “What?” she answered curtly.

“It’s your brother,” the rough voice said. “The one who gives you money to stay alive.”

“What up?” She pushed her hair off her forehead, her eyes scanning the floor for a cigarette.

“Need anything?”

“Naw. Got all I need for a while.” She leaned over to pick up a cigarette butt and lost her balance. Toppling to the floor, the phone slipped out of her hand. “Oh,
gawwwd
.”

“Jesus Christ, what’s going on?” her brother yelled.

She laughed a throaty laugh when she slapped her hand over the phone and pushed it against her ear. “Nothing going on.”

“How about I come over and take you to lunch?”

“Don’t want no lunch,” she snarled, anchoring her hand on the floor and boosting herself to a wobbly standing position. “Not hungry.”

“You need to eat, Sis.”

“Meeting someone.”

“Like who?” he asked.

Feeling woozy, she rested a hand on the window sill for support.

“Tell me who you’re meeting,” Ron barked.

“Caleb O’Toole, if it’s any of your bees wax,” she snipped.

“Who?”

“Guy who won the lottery.” She put the cigarette butt between her lips and sandwiched the phone between her ear and shoulder as she lit it.

“How’d you meet him?”

“Fuck,” she let out when she smelled something burning. Slapping the side of her head, she watched the fried ends of her hair fall to the floor.

“Jesus, McKenzie, are you okay?”

“Lit my fucking hair on fire.” McKenzie drew in a puff and blew out smoke.

“Want me to go with you to meet this guy?”

“Hell, no. I’m a big girl.”

“I want you to come live with me,” Ron said in a fatherly tone. “We’ll get you straight.”

She smirked. “I’m fine.”

“Mom and Dad are worried about you.”

“Fuck Mom and Dad,” she spat. “And screw you. If you remember, you introduced me to this shit.” She knew which buttons to push, as her brother would always feel guilty for giving McKenzie her first hit.

“They only want the best for you.”

“They want the best for themselves. They don’t give a rat’s ass about me. Never did.”

He blew out a breath. “I give up.”

“You use, too, asshole.”

“When can I come over?” Ron asked, ignoring her comment.

She shrugged a shoulder and took in the last puff of the cigarette. “Friday … wait.” She paused. “What day’s today?”

“Tuesday.”

“Cool. Come to my humble abode on Friday.” She swept an emaciated arm around the large, decaying warehouse. “And you can take me to lunch. Not too early, though. Need my beauty sleep.”

After McKenzie hung up, she covered her thinning hair with the paisley scarf and pushed the oversized sunglasses up on her nose. She remembered O’Toole had left Weber to die. He hadn’t even called for help. If he could do that to a friend, McKenzie had to be careful. Fuck, she wished she had a valium. If O’Toole tried any funny stuff, she’d call her brother. Ron’d take care of the SOB.

Her stomach was on fire when she left to meet O’Toole. Ron was right. McKenzie needed to quit using this crap. As soon as O’Toole paid up, she’d get straight. Well … maybe after she’d had a couple of days to celebrate her good fortune.

aleb stood in front of the restaurant, rocking from his heels to his toes. If he didn’t meet with this person, he or she would go to the cops. Even though Weber’s death was an accident, he could be charged for leaving the scene of an accident or, even worse, for stealing a winning lottery ticket—and not just any lottery ticket, but one that paid out 736 million. His eye wouldn’t stop twitching and the relentless, pounding headache told him his blood pressure was boiling at an all-time high.

Someone bumped Caleb’s shoulder. “’Scuse me, sir,” a young man said politely.

“Watch where the hell you’re going,” Caleb retorted. He was on edge. He looked around anxiously. Where the hell was this person? Were they playing with him? Watching him from a distance?

“O’Toole.” He heard and whipped his head around. The woman wearing dark sunglasses, with a paisley scarf covering her hair looked vaguely familiar. “Follow me,” she ordered.

They walked in silence toward the pier. Seagulls cried above them, and a horde of faceless people inhabited the wharf. Who was she?

“What’s this about?” Caleb asked, staring down at her frail body.

McKenzie turned toward him and pushed the sunglasses down the bridge of her nose.

“I know you,” Caleb said, recognizing Weber’s contact for drugs.

“Yes … you do,” she said hoarsely. McKenzie pushed the glasses back into place.

“McKenzie?” Caleb asked, confused. “You wrote the note?” He’d seen her at Jack’s parties. She’d been the woman Ling had felt sorry for, and had wanted to talk to the night of Weber’s accident.

“I was there.”

He glanced at her right hand and noticed the tremor; saw that her nails were chewed to the quick. “There?” Caleb tried. “Where?”

She leaned toward him and whispered, “The night you killed Weber.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Caleb snapped. She’d been there. Damn it.

She walked to an empty bench and sat down. “Sit.”

Did he have a choice? She was pissing him off. Caleb sat down beside her. A Japanese couple held tight to their toddler’s hands as they watched the vast number of noisy sea lions bark in succession; a young man in his late-twenties, a backpack strapped to his shoulders, sat down on the end of the pier. “Can you tell me what you’re talking about because I have no—”

“I was in the john.” She slapped her hands over the knees of the worn, frayed jeans.

Caleb sat up straight.

“I saw Jack fall.”

Caleb cleared his throat.

“You were fighting over that lottery ticket. The one you cashed in.”

Caleb glanced around anxiously, and then turned toward her. “I had nothing to do with his accident.”

“Really? ‘Cuz the way I see it, if you hadn’t been there, he’d still be alive.” McKenzie paused. “And you got lots and lots of dough because of it. Saw your picture in the paper and everything.”

Caleb looked down at the planks in the pier. “Look, I—”

“I need money,” she interrupted.

What addict didn’t need money, he wanted to say, but didn’t. Her arms and legs were wasting away, and the opaque thin skin on her cheeks was covered in tiny, lightning-like streaks of red and blue capillaries. “And?”

“And you’re going to give it to me.” McKenzie’s mouth settled into a sickly grin.

“Or?” Caleb held his breath.

“Or the police and that pretty little Chinese woman are going to know the truth.”

“Listen, bitch,” Caleb said angrily and stood, “Weber and I were supposed to—”

“No,” she said emphatically, shooting up beside him. McKenzie pointed a shaky finger at him, “you listen, asshole. I want a hundred grand. I’m not fucking around here.”

Caleb paced a few feet away from the bench, and crossed his arms over his chest. The sun beat down on him, making the perspiration unending. He was trapped; just like he’d been with that damn bookie.

“Meet me in Huntington Park,” McKenzie said, standing next to him. “Ten-forty-five p.m. A week from today. By the fountain.”

“And this will be the end of it?”

She nodded. “I just need enough to tide me over.”

Caleb didn’t believe her. She was never going to go away. Not until she’d milked him for every last dime.

He needed a drink. No, he needed a bottle. He watched her walk away and went in the opposite direction, ducking into the first pub he came to. Since Weber had died, his drinking had increased. When Ling didn’t stay all night at his condo, it took a shitload of gin to knock Caleb out. Then there were his ongoing nightmares, where he saw Weber’s fixed stare; the blood pooling around him … God damn it. Caleb had to stop thinking about Weber or he was going to go crazy.

He ordered a scotch neat. The place was a dive, but it didn’t matter where he was. He had figure out the next step. If the druggie went to the police, Caleb would not only lose Ling but the money from the lottery. And he’d be facing years of prison time.