“Exactly,” Bode said. As soon as his heart stopped skipping, he put the truck in gear and eased back on the turnpike.
Chub watched him in a neutral but not entirely innocuous way. He said: “You understand what coulda happened? That we wouldn’t be partners no more if I blowed your brains all over this truck and took the Lotto stub for m’self.”
Bode nodded tightly. Until now it hadn’t occurred that Chub might rip him off. Obviously it was something to think about. He said, “It’s gonna work out fine. You’ll see.”
“OK,” said Chub. He opened a beer: warm and fizzy. He closed his eyes and sucked down half the can. He wanted to trust Bode Gazzer but it wasn’t always easy. Negro, for God’s sake. Why’d he keep on with that word? It troubled Chub, made him wonder if Bode wasn’t all he claimed to be.
Then he had another thought. “They a whorehouse in Grange?”
“Who knows,” Bode said, “and who cares.”
“Just don’t forget where you hid our ticket.”
“Gimme a break, Chub.”
‘Be helluva way to lose out on fourteen million bucks, winds up in the sheets of some whorehouse.”
Bode Gazzer stared straight ahead at the highway. He said, “Man, you got a wild imagination.”
The brains of a goddamn squirrel, but a wild imagination.
Tom Krome didn’t wait to unpack; tossed his carry bag on the bed and dashed out. The owner of the bed-and-breakfast was pleased to give directions to the home of Miss JoLayne Lucks, at the corner of Cocoa and Hubbard across from the park. Krome’s plan was to drop in with sincere apologies, invite Miss Lucks to a proper dinner, then ease into the interview gradually.
His experience as a visiting journalist in small towns was that some folks would tell you their life story at the drop of a hat, and others wouldn’t say boo if your hair was on fire. Waiting on the woman’s porch, Krome didn’t know what to expect. He had knocked: No reply. He knocked again. Lights shone in the living room, and Krome heard music from a radio.
He walked around to the backyard and rose on his toes, to peer in the kitchen window. There were signs of a finished meal on the table: a setting for one. Coffee cup, salad bowl, a bare plate with a half-nibbled biscuit.
When Krome returned to the porch, the door stood open. The radio was off, the house was still.
“Hello!” he called.
He took a half step inside. The first thing he noticed was the aquarium. The second thing was water on the hardwood floor; a trail of drips.
From down the hall, a woman’s voice: “Shut the door, please. Are you the reporter?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Tom Krome wondered how she knew. “Are you JoLayne?”
“What is it you want? I’m really not up for this.”
Krome said, “You all right?”
“Come see for yourself.”
She was sitting in the bathtub, with soap bubbles up to her breasts. She had a towel on her hair and a shotgun in her hands. Krome raised his arms and said, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“No shit,” said JoLayne Lucks. “I’ve got a twelve-gauge and all you’ve got is a tape recorder.”
Krome nodded. The Pearlcorder he used for interviews was cupped in his right hand.
“Sure is tiny,” JoLayne remarked. “Sit down.” She motioned with the gun toward the commode. “What’s your name?”
“Tom Krome. I’m with The Register.” He sat where she told him to sit. She said, “I’ve had more company today than I can stand. Is this what it’s like to be rich?”
Krome smiled inwardly. She was going to be one helluva story.
“Take out the cassette,” JoLayne Lucks told him, “and drop it in the tub.”
Krome played along. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Quit staring.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t tell me you never saw a woman take a bath. Oh my, is it the bubbles? They sure don’t last long.”
Krome locked his eyes on the ceiling. “I can come back tomorrow.”
JoLayne said, “Would you kindly stand up. Good. Now turn around. Get the robe off that hook and hand it to me—without peeking, please.”