Carl Hiaasen – Lucky You

As she stepped to the microphone, the managing editor presented her with the standard slab of lacquered pine, adorned by a cheap gold-plated plaque. An appalling etching of the late Amelia J. Lloyd, full-cheeked and chipper, was featured on the award, which Mary Andrea enfolded as if it were a Renoir.

“My husband… ,” she said, followed by a perfect pause.

“My husband would be so proud.”

A second burst of applause swept the lobby. Mary Andrea acknowledged it by hugging the Amelia to her breasts.

“My Tom,” she began, “was not an easy man to know. During the last few years, he threw himself into his work so single-mindedly that, I’m sad to say, it pushed us apart… ”

By the time Mary Andrea got to their imaginary backstage reunion in Grand Rapids (which, she’d decided at the last moment, sounded more romantic than Lansing), the place was in sniffles. The TV cameras kept rolling; two of the crews even reloaded with fresh batteries. Mary Andrea felt triumphant.

Twenty seconds, my ass, she thought, dabbing her cheeks with a handkerchief provided by the managing editor.

Most surprising: Mary Andrea’s tears, which had begun as well-practiced stage weeping, had bloomed into the real deal. Talking about Tom in front of so many people made her truly grief-stricken for the first time since she’d learned about the fire. Even though she was largely fictionalizing their relationship—inventing anecdotes, intimacies and confidences never shared—the act nonetheless thawed Mary Andrea’s heart. Tom was, after all, a pretty good guy. Confused (like all men) but decent at the core. It was a pity he hadn’t been more adaptable. A damn pity, she thought, blinking away the teardrops.

One person who remained unmoved during the ceremony was the managing editor of The Register. The other was Tom Krome’s lawyer, Dick Turnquist, who politely waited until Mary Andrea was finished speaking before he edged through the well-wishers and served her with the court summons.

“We finally meet,” he said.

And Mary Andrea, being somewhat caught up in her own performance, assumed he was a fan from the theater who wanted an autograph.

“You’re so kind,” she said, “but I don’t have a pen.”

“You don’t need a pen. You need a lawyer.”

“What?” Mary Andrea, staring in bafflement and dismay at the documents in her hand. “Is this some kind of sick joke? My husband’s dead!”

“No, he’s not. Not in the slightest. But I’ll pass along all the nice things you said about him today. He’ll appreciate it.” Turnquist spun and walked away.

The managing editor stood frozen by what he’d overheard. Among the onlookers there was a stir, then a bang caused by lacquered pine hitting terrazzo. The managing editor whirled to see his prized Amelia on the lobby floor, where the nonwidow Krome had hurled it. Only inches away: a discarded rosary, coiled like a baby rattler.

The last conscious act of Bodean Gazzer’s life was brushing his teeth with WD-40.

In a survivalist tract he’d once read about the unsung versatility of the popular spray lubricant, and now (while exsanguinating) he felt an irrational urge to brighten his smile. Chub pawed through the gear and found the familiar blue-and-yellow can, which he brought to Bode’s side, along with a small brush designed for cleaning pistols. Chub knelt in the blood-crusted sand and tucked a camouflage bedroll under his partner’s neck.

“Do my molars, wouldya?” Groggily Bode Gazzer opened his mouth and pointed.

“Jesus Willy,” Chub said, but he aimed the nozzle at Bode’s brown-stained chompers and sprayed. What the hell, he thought. The fucker’s dying.

Bode brushed in a listless mechanical way. He spoke from the uncluttered side of his mouth: “You believe this shit? We just lost twenty-eight million bucks to a Negro terrorist and a damn waitress! They got us, brother. NATO and the Tri-Lateral Negroes and the damn com’nists… You believe it?”

Chub was in a blinding misery, his bandaged shoulder afire. “You know… you know what I don’t believe?” he said. “I don’t believe you still won’t say ‘nigger’ after all she done to us. Goddamn, Bode, I wonder ’bout you!”

“Aw, well.” Bodean Gazzer’s eyelids drooped to half-staff. One hand flopped apologetically, splatting in a puddle of blood. His face was as pallid as a slab offish.

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