Carl Hiaasen – Lucky You

And we’ll be waiting for her, thought Dick Turnquist.

On the phone, the reporter from The Register was winding up the interview. “Thanks for talking with me at such a difficult time. Just one more question: As Tom’s close friend, how do you feel about what’s happened?”

The lawyer answered, quite truthfully: “Well, it doesn’t seem real.”

On the morning of December 2, Bernard Squires telephoned Clara Markham in Grange to inquire if his generous purchase offer had been conveyed to the sellers of Simmons Wood.

“But it’s only been three days,” the broker said.

“You haven’t even spoken to them?”

“I’ve put in a call,” Clara fudged. “They said Mr. Simmons is in Las Vegas. His sister is on holiday down in the islands.”

Bernard Squires said, “They have telephones in Las Vegas, I know for a fact.”

Normally Bernard was not so impatient, but Richard “The Icepick” Tarbone urgently needed to make a covert withdrawal from the union pension accounts. The nature of the family emergency was not confided to Bernard Squires, and he pointedly exhibited a lack of curiosity on the matter. But since the Florida real estate purchase was crucial to the money laundering, The Icepick had taken a personal interest in expediting the deal. None of this could be frankly communicated by Bernard Squires to Clara Markham, who was saying:

“I’ll try to reach them again this morning. I promise.”

“And there are no other offers?” Bernard asked.

“Nothing on the table,” said Clara, which was strictly the truth.

As soon as the man from Chicago hung up, she dialed the number in Coral Gables that JoLayne had given her. A desk clerk at the motel said Miss Lucks and her friend had checked out.

With heavy reluctance Clara Markham then phoned the attorney handling the estate of the late Lighthorse Simmons. She described the pension fund’s offer for the forty-four acres on the outskirts of Grange. The attorney said three million sounded like a fair price. He seemed sure the heirs would leap at it.

Clara was sure, too. She felt bad for her friend, but business was business. Unless JoLayne Lucks found a miracle, Simmons Wood was lost.

An hour later, when Bernard Squires’ telephone rang, he thought it must be Clara Markham calling with the good news. It wasn’t. It was Richard Tarbone.

“I’m sicka this shit,” he told Squires. “You get your ass down to Florida.”

And Squires went.

They’d checked out of the Comfort Inn shortly after Moffitt’s visit. The agent had come straight from the redneck’s apartment. His tight-lipped expression told the story: no Lotto ticket.

“Damn,” JoLayne had said.

“I think I know where it is.”

“Where?”

“He hid it in a rubber. The camo guy.”

“A rubber.” JoLayne, pressing her knuckles to her forehead, trying not to get grossed out.

“A Trojan,” Moffitt had added.

“Thanks. I’ve got the picture.”

“He’s carrying it on him somewhere, I’m willing to bet.”

“His wallet,” Tom Krome had suggested.

“Yeah, probably.” Moffitt matter-of-factly told them about the search of Bodean James Gazzer’s place—the anti-government posters and bumper stickers, the gun magazines, the vermin, the condoms in the wastebasket.

“What now? How do we find the ticket?” Krome had asked.

“Gimme a week.”

“No.” JoLayne, shaking her head. “I can’t. Time’s running out.”

Moffitt had promised he’d take care of it as soon as he returned from San Juan. He had to go testify in a seizure case—illegal Chinese machine guns, routed through Haiti.

“When I get back, I’ll deal with these guys. Do a traffic stop, pat ’em down real hard. Search the pickup, too.”

“But what if—”

“If it’s not there, then… hell, I don’t know.” Moffitt, working his jaw, stared out the window.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Three days. Four at the most.”

Moffitt had handed JoLayne Lucks the lottery tickets from Bodean Gazzer’s sock drawer. “For Saturday night,” he’d said. “Just in case.”

“Very funny.”

“Hey, weirder things’ve happened.”

JoLayne had tucked the tickets in her handbag. “By the way, Tom’s dead. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow.”

Moffitt had glanced quizzically at Krome, who’d shrugged and said, “Long story.”

“Murdered?”

“Supposedly. I’d prefer to keep it that way for now. You mind?”