Carl Hiaasen (44 page)

“Lemme get this straight.” Demencio paced the living room. “You want thirty percent of the daily collection
and
thirty percent of the concessions? That ain’t gonna happen. Forget about it.”

Sinclair, still numb and loopy from his revelations, had been taking his cues from Shiner’s mother. She pressed a smudged cheek against his shoulder.

“We told you,” she said to Demencio, “we’d settle for twenty percent of the concessions.”

“What’s this ‘we’ shit?”

“But only if you find a place for Marva,” Sinclair interjected. Marva was the name of Shiner’s mother. “A new shrine,” Sinclair went on, brushing a clod of lettuce from his forelock, “to replace the one that was paved.”

He hardly recognized his own voice, a trillion light-years beyond his prior life. The newsroom and all its petty travails might as well have been on Pluto.

Demencio sagged into his favorite TV chair. “You people got some goddamn nerve. This is
my
business here. We built it up by ourselves, all these years, me and Trish. And now you just waltz in and try to take over….”

Shiner’s mother pointed out that Demencio’s pilgrim traffic had tripled, thanks to Sinclair’s mystical turtle handling. “Plus I got my own loyal clientele,” she said. “They’ll be here sure as the sun shines, buying up your T-shirts and sodey pops and angel food snacks. You two’ll make out like bandits if only you got the brains to go along.”

Trish started to say something, but Demencio cut her off. “I don’t need you people, that’s the point. You need
me.”

“Really?” Shiner’s mother, with a smirk. “You got a Virgin Mary leakin’ Quaker State out her eyeballs. Who needs who? is my question.”

Demencio said, “Go to hell.” But the loony witch had a point.

Even in his blissfully detached state, Sinclair wouldn’t budge
off the numbers. He knew a little something about business—his father ran a gourmet cheese shop in Boston, and there were plenty of times he’d had to play hardball with those blockhead wholesalers back in Wisconsin.

“May I suggest something?” Mayor Jerry Wicks, playing mediator. The manager of the Holiday Inn, fearing a dip in the bus-tour trade, had implored him to intervene. “I’ve got an idea,” said the mayor. “What if … Marva, let me ask: What would you need in the way of facilities?”

“For what?”

“Another manifestation.”

Shiner’s mother crinkled her brow. “Geez, I don’t know. You mean another Jesus?”

“I think that’s the ticket,” the mayor said. “Demencio’s already got dibs on the Mother Mary. The turtle boy—may I call you Turtle Boy?—he’s got the apostles. That leaves a slot wide open for the Christ child.”

Shiner’s mother wagged a bony finger. “No, not the baby Jesus. The growed-up one is what I favor.”

“Fine,” said the mayor. “My point is, this place would make a helluva shrine, would it not? Talk about having all your bases covered!” He cocked his chin toward Demencio. “Come on. You gotta admit.”

Demencio felt Trish’s hand on his shoulder. He knew what she was thinking:
This could be big
. If they did it right, they’d be the number one stop on the whole Grange bus tour.

Nonetheless, Demencio felt impelled to say: “I don’t want no stains on my driveway. Or the sidewalks, neither.”

“Fair enough.”

“And I won’t give up no more than fifteen percent on the collections.”

Sinclair looked at Shiner’s mother, who smiled in approval. “That we can live with,” she said.

They gathered at the dining table to brainstorm a new Christ shrine. “Wherever He appears, that’s where it is,” Shiner’s mother explained, raising her palms. “And maybe He won’t appear at all, not after what happened out on the highway—them heathens from the road department.”

Ever the optimist, Mayor Jerry Wicks said: “I bet if you went outside and started praying real hard … Well, I just have a feeling.”

Shiner’s mother squeezed Sinclair’s arm. “Maybe that’s what I’ll do. Get down on my knees and pray.”

“Not in my driveway,” Demencio said curtly.

“I heard you the first time, OK? Geez.”

Trish said: “Who needs more coffee?”

From where he sat, Demencio had a clear view of the scene out front. The crowd was thinning, the pilgrims bored to tears. This was bad. The mayor noticed, too. He and Demencio exchanged apprehensive glances. Unspoken was the fact that Grange’s meager economy had come to rely on the seasonal Christian tourist trade. The town couldn’t afford a downturn, couldn’t afford to lose any of its prime attractions. Around Florida there was growing competition for the pilgrim dollar, some of it Disney-slick and high-tech. Not a week went by when the TV didn’t report a new religious sighting or miracle healing. Most recently, a purported three-story likeness of the Virgin Mary had appeared on the wall of a mortgage company in Clearwater—nothing but sprinkler rust, yet three hundred thousand people came to see. They sang and wept and left cash offerings, wrapped in handkerchiefs and diapers.

Offerings, at a mortgage company!

Demencio didn’t need Jerry Wicks to tell him it was no time to slack off. Demencio knew what was out there, knew it was vital to keep pace with the market.

“Wait’ll you see,” he told the mayor, “when I got my Mary cryin’ blood. You just wait.”

The telephone rang. Demencio went to take it in the bedroom, where it was quiet. When he came out, his expression was dour. Shiner’s mother asked what was wrong.

“You said you were gonna pray? Well, go to it.” Demencio waved an arm. “Pray like crazy, Marva, because we’ll need a new miracle, ASAP. Any new Jesus’ll do just fine.”

Jerry Wicks sat forward, planting his elbows on the table. “What happened?”

“That was JoLayne on the phone. She’s coming home,” Demencio reported cheerlessly. “She’s on her way home to pick up her cooters.”

Sinclair went pale. Shiner’s mother stroked his forehead and told him not to worry, everything was going to be all right.

They bought some new clothes and went to the best restaurant in Tallahassee. Tom Krome ordered steaks and a bottle of champagne and a plate of Apalachicola oysters. He told JoLayne Lucks she looked fantastic, which she did. She’d picked out a long dress, slinky and forest green, with spaghetti straps. He went for simple slate-gray slacks, a plain blue blazer and a white oxford shirt, no necktie.

The lottery check was in JoLayne’s handbag: five hundred and sixty thousand dollars, after Uncle Sam’s cut. It was the first of twenty annual payments on JoLayne’s share of the big jackpot.

Tom leaned across the table and kissed her. Out of the corner of an eye he saw a starchy old white couple staring from another table, so he kissed JoLayne again; longer this time. Then he lifted his glass: “To Simmons Wood.”

“To Simmons Wood,” said JoLayne, too quietly.

“What’s wrong?”

“Tom, it’s not enough. I did the math.”

“How do you figure?”

“The other offer is three million even, with twenty percent down. I promised Clara Markham I could do better, but I don’t think I can. Twenty percent of three million is six hundred grand—I’m still short, Tom.”

He told her not to sweat it. “Worse comes to worse, get a loan for the difference. There isn’t a bank in Florida that wouldn’t be thrilled to get your business.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“JoLayne, you just won fourteen million bucks.”

“I’m still black, Mr. Krome. That
do
make a difference.”

But after thinking about it, she realized he was probably right about the loan. Black, white or polka-dotted, she was still a tycoon, and bankers adored tycoons. A financing package with a fat down payment could be put together, a very tasty counteroffer. The Simmons family would be drooling all over their foie gras, and the union boys from Chicago would have to look elsewhere for a spot to erect their ticky-tacky shopping mall.

JoLayne attacked her Caesar salad and said to Tom Krome: “You’re right. I’ve decided to be positive.”

“Good, because we’re on a roll.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

They’d returned the overdue Boston Whaler with a minimum of uproar, blunting the old dock rat’s ire by pleasantly agreeing to forfeit the deposit. After grabbing a cab down to the boat ramp, they’d retrieved Tom’s Honda and sped directly to Miami International Airport, where they lucked into a nonstop to Tallahassee. By the time they arrived, the state lottery office had closed for the day. They’d gotten a room at the Sheraton, hopped in the shower and collapsed in exhaustion across the king-sized bed. Dinner was cocktail crackers and Hershey’s
kisses
from the minibar. They’d both been too tired to make love and had fallen asleep laughing about it, and trying not to think of Pearl Key.

When the Lotto bureau opened the next morning, JoLayne and Tom were waiting at the door with the ticket. A clerk thought she was joking when she matter-of-factly remarked it had been hidden inside a nonlubricated condom. The paperwork took about an hour, then a photographer from the publicity office made some pictures of JoLayne holding a blown-up facsimile of the flamingo-adorned check. Tom was pleased they’d avoided TV and newspaper coverage by showing up unannounced. By the time a press release was issued, they’d be back in Grange.

“This is all going to work out,” he assured JoLayne, pouring more champagne. “I promise.”

“What about you and me?”

“Absolutely.”

JoLayne studied him. “Absolutely, Tom?”

“Oh brother. Here it comes.” Krome set down his glass.

She said, “I think you deserve some of the money.”

“Why?”

“For everything. Quitting your job to stay with me. Risking your neck. Stopping me from doing something crazy out there.”

“Anything else?”

“I’d feel so much better,” she said, “giving you something.”

Tom tapped a fork on the tablecloth. “Boy, that guilt—it’s a killer. I sympathize.”

“You’re wrong.”

“No, I’m right. If I won’t take the money, it’ll make it harder for you to dump me later. You’ll feel so awful you’ll keep putting it off, stringing me along, probably for months and months—”

“Eat your salad,” JoLayne said.

“But if I
do
take a cut, then you won’t feel so lousy saying
goodbye. You can tell yourself you didn’t use me, didn’t take advantage of a hopelessly smitten sap and then cut him loose. You can tell yourself you were fair about it, even decent.”

“Are you finished?” JoLayne inwardly ached at the truth of what he said. She definitely was looking for an escape clause, in case the romance didn’t work. She was looking for a way to live with herself if someday she had to break up with him, after all he’d done for her.

Tom said, “I don’t want the damn money. You understand?
Nada
. Not a penny.”

“I believe you.”

“Finally.”

“But just for the record, I’ve got no plans to ‘dump’ you.” JoLayne kicked off a shoe and slipped her bare foot in Tom’s lap, under the table.

Tom’s eyes widened. “Oh,
that’s
fighting fair.”

“I’ve had a bad run with men. I guess I’m conditioned to expect the worst.”

“Understood,” he said. “And just for the record, you should feel free to string me along. Drag it out as long as you can stand to, because I’ll take every minute with you that I can get.”

“You’re pretty polished at this guilt business.”

“Oh, I’m a pro,” Tom said, “one of the best. So here’s the deal: Give us six months together. If you’re not happy, I’ll go quietly. No wailing, no racking sobs. The only thing it’ll cost you is a plane ticket to Alaska.”

JoLayne steepled her hands. “Hmmm. I suppose you’ll insist on first class.”

“You bet your ass. Up front with the hot towelettes and sorbets, that’s me. Deal?”

“OK. Deal.”

They shook. The waiter came with the steaks, big T-bones done rare. Tom waited for JoLayne to take the first bite.

“Delicious,” she reported.

“Whew.”

“Hey, I just thought of something. What if you dump
me?”

Tom Krome grinned. “You just thought of that?”

“Smart ass!” she said, and poked him with her big toe in quite a sensitive area. They wolfed their steaks, skipped dessert and hurried back to the room to make love.

Judge Arthur Battenkill Jr. came home to an empty house. Katie was probably at the supermarket or the hairdresser. The judge put on the television and sat down to savor a martini, in celebration of his retirement. The early news came on but he didnt pay much attention. Instead he absorbed himself with the challenge of selecting a Caribbean wardrobe. Nassau would be the logical place to shop; Bay Street, where he’d once bought Willow a hand-dyed linen blouse and a neon thong bikini, which he’d brutishly gnawed off in the cabana.

Arthur Battenkill tried to imagine himself in vivid teal walking shorts and woven beach sandals; him with his hairy feet and chalky, birdlike legs. He resolved to do whatever was needed to be a respectable exile, to blend in. He looked forward to learning the island life.

The name Tom Krome jarred him from the reverie. It came from the television.

The judge grabbed for the remote and turned up the volume. As he watched the footage, he stirred the gin with a manicured pinkie. Some sort of press conference at
The Register
. A good-looking woman in a short black dress; Krome’s wife, according to the TV anchor. Picking up a journalism plaque on behalf of her dead husband. Then: chaos.

Arthur Battenkill rocked forward, clutching his martini with both hands. God, it was official—Krome was indeed alive!

There was the man’s lawyer on television, saying so. He’d just served the astonished and now flustered Mrs. Krome with divorce papers.

Ordinarily the judge would’ve smiled in admiration at the attorney’s cold-blooded ambush, but Arthur Battenkill wasn’t enjoying the moment even slightly. He was climbing the stairs, taking three at a time, anticipating what he’d find when he reached the bedroom; preparing himself for the catastrophic fact that Katie wasn’t at the grocery or the salon. She was gone.

Her drawers in the bureau were empty; her side of the bathroom vanity was cleaned out. A suitcase was also missing, the big brown one with foldaway casters. A lavender note in Katie’s frilly handwriting was Scotch-taped to the headboard of their bed, and for several moments it paralyzed the judge: