JoLayne reached across the kitchen table and tweaked him in the ribs. “Hey, cheer up.”
The mayor turned to gooseflesh at her touch; he smiled bashfully and looked away. He beheld a fleeting impure fantasy: JoLayne’s blue fingernails raking slowly across his pallid, acne-scarred shoulder blades.
Teasingly she said, “You came here to tell me something, Jerry. So let’s hear it already, ‘fore we both die of old age.”
“Yes, all right. There’s a newspaper reporter coming into town. From The Register. He’s got a reservation at the bed-and-breakfast—Mrs. Hendricks told me.”
“For tonight?”
“That’s what she said. Anyhow, he’s looking for the lottery winner. To do a feature story, is my guess.”
“Oh,” said JoLayne Lucks.
“Nothing to worry about.” As mayor, Jerry Wicks had experience dealing with the press. He said, “They love to write about ordinary people who make it big.”
“Really.” JoLayne pursed her lips.
“Human interest, they call it.” The mayor wanted to reassure her there was nothing to fear from giving interviews. He hoped she would be cooperative and friendly, since the image of Grange was at stake.
JoLayne said, “Do I have to talk to him?”
“No.” Jerry Wicks’ heart sank.
“Because I’m fond of my privacy.”
“The man doesn’t have to come to the house. Fact, it’d be better if he didn’t.” The mayor was worried about JoLayne’s turtle hobby, and what cruel fun a snotty city reporter might have with that. “Maybe you could meet him at the restaurant in the Holiday Inn.”
“Yum,” said JoLayne.
The phone on the kitchen wall rang. She stood up. “I’ve got some errands. Thanks for stopping over.”
Jerry Wicks said, “I just thought you should know what’s ahead. Winning the Lotto is very big news.”
“Must be,” JoLayne Lucks said.
The mayor told her goodbye and let himself out. As he walked from the porch to the driveway, he could hear JoLayne’s telephone ringing and ringing and ringing.
Chub said they should drive directly to Tallahassee and claim their half of the $28 million jackpot as soon as humanly possible. Bodean Gazzer said nope, not just yet.
“We got one hundred and eighty days to pick it up. That’s six whole months.” He loaded a cold twelve-pack into the truck. “Right now we gotta find that other ticket before whoever’s got it cashes in.”
“Maybe they already done it. Maybe it’s too late.”
“Don’t think so negative.”
“Life is fucking negative,” Chub noted.
Bode spread a striped beach towel on the passenger half of the front seat, to shield the new upholstery from the gun grease and sweat that was Chub’s natural marinade. Chub took mild offense at the precaution but said nothing.
A few minutes later, speeding along the turnpike, Bode Gazzer summarized his plan: “Break in, rip off the ticket, then split.”
“Happens we can’t find it?” Chub asked. “What supposed they hid it too good ?”
“There you go again.”
“I ain’t interested in felony time.”
“Relax, goddammit.”
“I mean, my God, we’s millionaires,” Chub went on. “Millionaires, they don’t do b-and-e’s!”
“No, but they steal just the same. We use crowbars, they use Jews and briefcases.”
As usual, Bode had a point. Chub hunkered down with a Budweiser to think on it.
Bode said, “Hey, I don’t wanna go to jail, either. Say we go up on charges, who’d take over the White Rebels?”
The White Rebel Brotherhood is what Bodean Gazzer had decided to call his new militia. Chub didn’t fuss about the name; it wasn’t as if they’d be printing up business cards.
Bode said, “Hey, d’you finish that book I gave you? On how to be a survivalist?”
“No, I did not.” Chub had gotten as far as the business on eating bugs, and that was it. “How to Tell Toxic Insects from Edible Insects.” Jesus Willy Christ.
“I didn’t see no chapter on prime rib,” he grumbled.
To ease the tension, Bode asked Chub if he’d like to make a bet on who was holding the other winning Lotto numbers. “I got ten bucks says it’s a Negro. You want to take Jews, or Cubans?”
Chub had never met a white supremacist who said “Negro” instead of “nigger.”