Carl Hiaasen – Lucky You

“Way cool,” Shiner said, expectantly.

“Then, after, we’ll have a meeting.”

Chub said, “Whoop-dee-doo.” He put the pistol in his belt. “Fuck the rock pit. I wanna shoot at somethin’ that moves. Somethin’ bigger ‘n’ faster than a goddamn turtle.”

“Such as?”

“Wait and see,” said Chub. “Shoot a Jew, cap a Jap—”

“Pop a wop,” Shiner chimed. “Yeah!”

Bode Gazzer hoped his partner’s sinister mood would pass before they broke out the serious toys.

Moffitt wasn’t supposed to get mad.

He was a pro. He dealt with low-rent shitheads all the time.

But sneaking through the cramped apartment of Bodean James Gazzer, the agent felt his anger rise.

The wall poster of David Koresh, the Waco wacko himself. Moffitt had lost a friend in that fiasco of a raid.

Then there were the bullet holes in the plaster. Empty ammo-clips. Stacks of gun magazines and Soldier of Fortune. Porno videos. A paperback book called The Poacher’s Bible. A pepper mill trimmed with a Nazi armband. A how-to pamphlet on fertilizer bombs. A clipped-out cartoon proposing a humorous aspect to the Holocaust. An assortment of NRA patches and bumper stickers. A closetful of camouflage clothes. Tacked to the peeling wallpaper behind the toilet: a Confederate flag. In the bedroom, a calico cross-stitched portrait of David Duke.

Moffitt thought: These guys must’ve had a blast, working on JoLayne.

He locked the front door behind him, bracing it with a chair. He opened a back window and punched out the screen, as an escape in case Bodean James Gazzer returned. The fresh air didn’t hurt, either—the place smelled of soiled laundry, cigaret ash and stale beer. Methodically, Moffitt began to search. He knew from experience that even the dimmest of thugs occasionally could be brilliant at concealing contraband—and a lottery ticket was easier to hide than an AK-47 or a kilo of hash.

The kitchen was first. One glance at the crusty silverware made Moffitt glad he wore surgical gloves. With a heavy forearm he cleared the cluttered dinette. There he dumped every box and tin from Bodean James Gazzer’s cabinets—sugar, flour, instant coffee, Cocoa Krispies, croutons, Quaker Oats.

No Lotto stub.

He took a deep breath before opening the refrigerator, but it wasn’t as rancid as he’d feared. The food section was practically empty except for Budweisers, marshmallow-filled cookies, ketchup and a fuzzy chunk of Gouda. Finding nothing hidden there, Moffitt hacked his way into the freezer compartment, a favorite stash of novice dopers and smugglers. A half-gallon container of ancient fudge-ripple ice cream went into a mixing bowl, which went into the stove. When the slop was melted, Moffitt strained it through a colander. Then he emptied the ice trays on the counter and examined each cube.

No ticket.

He grabbed a steak knife and headed for the bedroom, where he eviscerated the pillows, gutted the mattress and (box spring, pried up the musty corners of the carpet. Inside Bodean James Gazzer’s dresser, Moffitt came across something he’d never before seen: camo-style underwear. There was also a World War II bayonet, a gummy-looking Penthouse and a pile of dunning notices from the National Rifle Association for unpaid dues. Moffitt was certain he had hit pay dirt in the bottom drawer, beneath a tangle of frayed socks, where he uncovered five crisp tickets from the Florida Lotto.

But none of the sequences matched JoLayne’s winning numbers, and the date of the drawing was wrong: December 2.

That’s tomorrow, thought Moffitt. Unbelievable—the $14 million they stole from her wasn’t enough. The fuckers want more.

He pocketed the tickets and, with some dread, moved to the bathroom. A colony of plump carpenter ants had taken over the sink, demonstrating a special fondness for Bodean James Gazzer’s toothbrush. Moffitt dove into the medicine chest and emptied the pill bottles. Several had been prescribed to persons other than Mr. Gazzer, who’d undoubtedly stolen them or forged the scrips. Moffitt took his time with a dispenser of Crest and a tube of hemorrhoid cream, which he flattened under a shoe and then opened with a wire cutter.

Nothing.

The vanity held an empty box of Trojan nonlubricated condoms, which intrigued Moffitt. Bodean James Gazzer’s apartment showed no signs of a woman’s presence—certainly no woman who was worried about catching a disease. Maybe Gazzer was gay, the agent thought, although it seemed unlikely, given the homophobic tendencies of gun nuts. Also, the pornographic videos stacked near the TV set bore heterosexually oriented titles.