“He’s right. The mob doesn’t kill reporters anymore. Waste of ammo, and very bad for business.” Krome had to admire the agent’s guile. “It was a great bluff. Too bad… ”
“What?”
“Too bad I didn’t think of it myself.”
JoLayne gave him a marinara kiss and headed for the kitchen. “Come along, Woodward, help me get the food on the table.”
Over dinner she went through the terms of the land sale. Tom worked the math and said: “You realize that even after taxes and interest payments, you’ll still have quite a comfortable income. Not that you care.”
“How comfortable?”
“About three hundred grand a year.”
“Well. That’ll be something new.”
OK, JoLayne thought, here’s the test. Here’s when we find out if Mr. Krome is truly different from Rick the mechanic or Lawrence the lawyer, or any of the other winners I’ve picked in this life.
Tom said, “You could actually afford a car.”
“Yeah? What else?” JoLayne, spearing a meatball,
“You could get that old piano fixed. And tuned.”
“Good. Go on.”
“Decent speakers for your stereo,” he said. “That should be a priority. And maybe a CD player, too, if you’re really feeling wild and reckless.”
“OK.”
“And don’t forget a new shotgun, to replace the one we tossed overboard.”
“OK, what else?”
“That’s about it. I’m out of ideas,” Tom said.
“You sure?”
JoLayne, hoping with all her heart he wouldn’t get a cagey glint in his eye and say something one of the others might’ve said. Colavito the stockbroker, for instance, would’ve offered to invest her windfall in red-hot would’ve advised her to deposit it all in the police credit union, so he could withdraw large sums secretly to spend on his girlfriends.
But Tom Krome had no schemes to troll, no gold mines to tout no partnerships to propose. “Really, I’m the wrong person to give advice,” he said. “People who work for newspaper wages don’t get much experience at saving money.”
That was it. He didn’t ask for a penny.
And JoLayne knew better than to offer, because then he’d suspect she was setting him up to be dumped. Which was, now, the farthest thing from her mind.
Bottom line: From day one, the man had been true to his word. The first I’ve ever picked who was, she thought. Maybe my luck has changed.
Tom said, “Come on—you must have your own wish list.”
“Doc Crawford needs a new X-ray machine for the animals.”
“Aw, go nuts, Jo. Get him an MRI.” He tugged on the knot of her shirttail. “You’re only going to win the lottery once.”
She hoped her smile didn’t give away the secret.
“Tom, who knows you’re staying here with me?”
“Am I?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass. Who else knows?”
“Nobody. Why?”
“Look on top of the piano,” she said. “There’s a white envelope. It was in the mail when I got home.”
He examined it closely. His name was hand-printed in nondescript block letters. Had to be one of the locals—Demencio, maybe. Or the daffy Sinclair’s sister, pleading for an intervention.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” JoLayne tried not to appear overeager.
“Sure.” Tom brought the envelope to the table and meticulously cut the flap with the tines of a salad fork. The Lotto ticket fell out, landing in a mound of parmesan.
“What the hell?” He picked it up by a corner, as if it were forensic evidence.
JoLayne, watching innocently.
“Your numbers. What were they?” Tom was embarrassed because his hand was shaking. “I can’t remember, Jo—the six numbers you won with.”
“I do,” she said, and began reciting. “Seventeen… ”
Krome, thinking: This isn’t possible.
“Nineteen, twenty-two… ”
It’s a gag, he told himself. Must be.
“Twenty-four, twenty-seven… ”
Moffitt, the sonofabitch! He’s one who could pull it off. Print up a fake ticket, as a joke.
“Thirty,” JoLayne said. “Those were my numbers.”
It looked too real to be a phony; water-stained and frayed, folded then unfolded. It looked as if someone had carried it a long way for a long time.
Then Krome remembered: There had been two winners that night.
“Tom?”
“I can’t… This is crazy.” He showed it to her. “Jo, I think it’s the real thing.”