The Winners Circle (22 page)

“
You’ll have to move your car,” the woman said.

He didn’t answer, and although his feet hadn’t budged, he was already backing up.
No, you can’t let a manure shoveler train horses, even a filthy rich manure shoveler.

“
Your car, sir?”

Jerry ducked inside his overpriced indulgence for transportation. He saw the mare in the distance. It seemed like a far off point on the horizon, beautiful, intangible. “I was just leaving.”

A damp wind whistled through a crack in the window, as the Winners Alliance sped toward Cape May—the bottom tip of New Jersey. After the debacle at Gina’s, Jerry swore he’d never rejoin the Alliance, but three weeks later, he was buckled into Dick’s Navigator for another mission. Everyone understood why. It’d been two years since Jerry struck it rich, and his life was emptied out like a used box of cereal. He needed an excuse to lower his feet out of bed in the morning.

“
It’s an intervention,” Dick said in his Gordon Liddy kind of way.

“
I guessed as much.” Jerry kept tabs on each winner in the files. He’d begun reluctantly but became fascinated with the twists and turns of the other millionaires’ lives. He knew about the woman in Bridgewater who was obsessed with handbags and Latin lovers. A young couple who lived on a ranch at the Water Gap were forming their own religion, and of course, there was Chelsea and Haskell Cogdon. “Which case is it?”

“
It’s Willie Nelson.”

“
I thought so,” Jerry replied. He and Dick formed the brains of the Alliance. Dick conjured the grand schemes, and Jerry added the commonsense, he hoped.

“
He’s stockpiling guns.”

“
I’m not surprised.” Jerry sorted through Tucker’s recon photos. Willie Nelson wasn’t the famous singer
, just some guy with nutty parents who named their kid after a country music star. Seven months ago, Super Pick Millions remade Willie into a rich and bitter winner. One photo showed him emerging from an army-navy store in Voorhees with three rifles.

Jerry called to the front. “What’s that I smell?”

“
Linzer Tart.” Tom sampled desserts from an Atlantic City bakery. He planned on returning to the business as soon as he gathered the capital.

“
Any good?” Jerry encouraged Tom’s plans. He’d lend Tom the money, if he didn’t think the hapless dreamer would turn it into a bagels-by-airmail franchise and lose every dime. Hell, he might lend him the cash anyway.

“
I’ve had better pastries,” Tom said.

“
Pass me something.”

Tom held the white box above the seat. He turned his chunky nose from the wheel and shot a sarcastic glance at their leader. “Try the Napoleon, Dick.”

Dick ignored him.

Jerry reached for a clamshell pastry and bit into the flaky dough. The rich lemon custard evoked old memories. Chelsea and he occasionally splurged on fancy desserts or part of a gourmet meal. They’d spread the good china on the living room floor and light candles. Now that he had the means to eat with style, he ate quickly, standing in front of the TV. Last night, he gulped down a frozen microwave dinner: Cajun Shrimp with Savory Potatoes. It tasted like the cardboard and plastic in which it was packed.

Dick stroked his chin. He loved to add mystique to an already sketchy situation. “Our source tells us that Willie Nelson is about to hit a sour note.”

“
Great,” Jerry said, devoid of emotion.

“
He’s planning to send anyone who ever crossed him On The Road Again, if you catch my drift.”

“
Yeah,” Tom said, “but with a one-way Ticket to Ride.”

“
That’s the Beatles,” Jerry said.

“
What?” Tom glanced into the rearview mirror.

“‘
Ticket to Ride.’”

“
What are you talking about?”

“
Forget it,” Dick said. “Stay on the subject.”

Tucker snickered and scooped a handful of cookies from the box.

Jerry pulled Chelsea’s file from the briefcase and flipped through the pages.
Haskell Cogdon was in trouble with the IRS and a few state agencies. The whole mess centered on a bad real estate deal in the Pine Barrens, but Jerry didn’t need the Alliance for that information. The newspapers ran a story almost every day.

Dick held a furtive look in his eye. “Still keeping up with Joneses?”

Jerry closed Chelsea’s file. “I can’t help myself.”

“
Did you catch his real name?”

“
Melvin?”

“
Melvin Cogdon. Not as aristocratic as Haskell Cogdon. No wonder he changed it.”

“
No wonder.” Jerry felt sorry for Chelsea. She still had no children, and her life was more imperfect than ever. Neither one of them got exactly what they bargained for.

Dick waved Willie Nelson’s file in the air. “Can we stick to business?”

“
Sure.”

“
I think we can make headway here.”

“
What are we going to do?” Jerry waited for him to suggest a phone call, but they’d traveled too far down the Garden State Parkway for that. A sign for Cape May raced past the window: 15 miles. They were heading toward something big—Dick’s most ambitious plan to date. Since the moment the Alliance formed, Jerry felt this day coming. Dick needed to get it out of his system.

“
We’re doing what we set out to do.” Dick brushed back his coat jacket, revealing a handgun in a side holster. The holster looked grainy like alligator or eel skin. It matched his shoes.

“
You think we need that?”

“
It’s just a precaution.”

“
A precaution?”

“
I’m not willing the purse yet.” This was Dick’s term for dying and passing on his fortune.

“
Neither am I,” Jerry insisted, although part of him didn’t care. Perhaps if he had a wife and family. Chelsea’s sister in California had tried to get chummy, but she no longer spoke to him. He refused to buy her a waterfront condominium in Malibu. To most people, he’d be more use dead than alive.

“
What’s the plan?” Jerry asked.

“
We’re having a talk.”

“
A talk?”

“
We’re his only friends. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

“
Let’s make that point clear before he shows us what he bought at the army-navy store.”

When they reached Willie’s house on the beach, Tom parked the Lincoln along the boardwalk. The rain stopped, and the wet sand appeared brown and dimpled, like the spiked up infield on a baseball diamond. Foamy green waves curled into the surf. Jerry felt queasy from looking at the swells, so he turned away.

“
I’m staying in the car,” Tom announced.

Dick’s psycho-mumbo-jumbo vanished in the salt air, as he adopted a firmer tone. “You’re coming with us, dough boy.”

“
Somebody’s got to watch the car.”

“
Put on the alarm and get ready to head out.”

Tucker nudged Tom. Begrudgingly, Tom yanked the keys from the ignition and sighed.

Jerry studied the exchange. Dick appeared too itchy to solve the world’s problems. This intervention served Dick as much as Willie Nelson. Jerry hoped that one of them learned a lesson tonight. “Let’s get going, before Dick empties his gun right here on the boardwalk.”

Willie Nelson owned a Victorian mansion overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Once a glorious hotel, Willie bought the place, closed the doors, and occupied the top floor with his wife. That was the balance of the Alliance files. They walked into this blind, except for Dick’s and Tucker’s handguns and the twenty or so rifles stashed somewhere in Willie’s thirty room seaside manor. Talk about bad ideas, but Jerry kept moving forward because he hadn’t heard a better one in years.

They spoke to Willie through a video monitor above the door. His face looked covered with razor stubble, like the real Willie, but beyond that, the comparison stopped. Jerry felt strange judging a man by what he wasn’t.

Dick assumed the lead. “Good evening, Mr. Nelson.”

“
What do you want?” Willie barked.

“
We need to talk.”

“
Did my wife send you?”

“
Is she home?”

“
Very funny.”

“
I assure you this isn’t a joke.”

“
Are you playing games with me? What is it you want?”

The dialogue stalled. A pair of seagulls squawked overhead. The waves crashed the surf, and the breeze tousled Jerry’s hair. The air smelled like rotten clams.

Dick reached into his pocket and held up a magazine article about the Winners Circle. It showed a picture of Dick standing outside the JCC. “We don’t want your money.”

“
No?”

“
The last thing we need is more cash.” Dick wasn’t speaking for Tom of course.

A moment later, the door buzzed open.

“
Take the elevator to the top,” Willie said.

The Alliance spread out in the compartment, and when the doors parted, Willie sat with a low caliber rifle across his lap. The blue steel barrel and stained wood blended with the earthy decor. Red velvet covered the walls, and an eclectic array of leather chairs and brass floor lamps dominated the floor. The exception was the electronics. Digital audio and video equipment filled an entire wall, glowing in the dimly lit room with subtle accuracy.

Jerry reached for the button to go down, but Willie seized the elevator by remote control. He pointed the black clicker in his hand, and the elevator buttons fell dark. “You may as well come in.”

“
I know this is unusual.” Dick went first, strutting into the center of the room. Jerry never met a psychologist who didn’t want to be a hostage negotiator and steal center stage.

“
I know who you are.” Willie rubbed the rifle barrel.

“
Do you know why we’re here?”

“
You’re from the Winners Circle.”

“
Correct.”

“
You want me to join.”

“
That’s your choice.”

“
I’m out of choices.”

“
I assure you that things aren’t that bad. We’ve all been in your shoes.”

Willie stood up. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“
You’re confused, but the last thing you need is to feel sorry for yourself.”

“
Sorry for myself? You don’t know the half of it.”

“
Perhaps you want to tell me.”

“
Why? What’s your game?”

Tom moved through the corner of Jerry’s vision. The fidgety baker shaded himself behind Jerry, pinching his nose. He often developed a nosebleed whenever he became upset.

“
Easy now.” Jerry backed against the wall. He didn’t want Willie getting nervous, although Tom was probably peeing his pants in private.

Tucker sucked on a toothpick. He appeared only half-interested in the rifle, checking out the stereo equipment instead. He bent over and examined the myriad buttons, knobs, and flashing lights.

Jerry imagined how things might play out: Dick gets shot at first, and then Tucker brings Willie down by reflex. Jerry counted on the Australian’s cool hand. Behind Dick’s mansion, he’d watched Tucker shoot the letters out of Fosters Lager cans from a good distance.

“
We want to help,” Dick said.

“
No one wants to help.” Willie’s hands clenched the rifle. “Everyone wants a piece of the jackpot.”

Jerry tried not to laugh but found it impossible. It was Dick’s words coming right back at him.

Willie turned the rifle on Jerry. “What’s your problem?”

Jerry observed the long barrel, imagining a small projectile piercing his gut. It resembled a lot of things in life. It went in small at the start and left a huge whole on the other end.

“
Answer me,” Willie Nelson demanded.

“
Dick thinks he can help you,” Jerry replied.

“
What do you think?”

“
I think you don’t want anybody’s help.”

“
Why did you come?”

“
I came to support Dick.”

Dick gave Jerry a weird glance. Willie’s rifle dropped, aiming at the rug.

“
The two of you need to work this out,” Jerry said. “Dick wants to save you. You want to blow peoples’ heads off. We have a difference of opinion.”

Jerry’s calm unnerved the others. He was surprised that Dick failed to recognize one of his own Winners Circle tactics. That was something else Jerry had learned about psychologists. While busy dissecting other people’s problems, they rarely looked in the mirror.

“
Do you know what it’s like being Willie Nelson?” the namesake Willie asked, his tone bordering on rage.

“
Tell me.”

“
It’s a living hell.”

Jerry cringed.
Here comes the big confession.
He’d witnessed this one hundred times at the Circle meetings. The idea of hearing another wet-eyed trip down memory lane repulsed him. But this one had a rifle, so he guessed he was going to have to listen to every word. “Go ahead.”