“But here’s what else: They’s two winning tickets is what the news said.”
Bode Gazzer’s eyes puckered into a hard squint. “The hell you say!”
“Two tickets won. Which is still, what, fourteen million ‘tween us. You believe it?”
Bode’s tongue, lumpy and blotched as a toad, probed at the corners of his mouth. He looked to be working up a spit. “Who’s got the other one? The other goddamn ticket.”
“TV didn’t say.”
“How can we find out?”
Chub said, “Christ, who gives a shit. Long as we get fourteen million, I don’t care if Jesse Fucking Jackson’s got the other ticket.”
Now Bode Gazzer’s stubbled cheeks began to twitch. He fingered the Lotto coupon and said: “There must be a way to find out. Don’t you think? Find out who’s this shitweasel with the other ticket. There’s gotta be a way.”
“Why?” Chub asked, but it was awhile before he got an answer.
Sunday morning, Tom Krome refused to go to church. The woman who’d slept with him the night before—Katie was her name; strawberry blond, freckles on her shoulders—said they should go and seek forgiveness for what they had done.
“Which part?” asked Tom Krome.
“You know darn well.”
Krome covered his face with a pillow. Katie kept talking, putting on her panty hose.
She said, “I’m sorry, Tommy, it’s the way I’m made. It’s time you should know.”
“You think it’s wrong?”
“What?”
He peeped out from beneath the pillow. “You think we did something wrong?”
“No. But God might not agree.”
“So it’s precautionary, this church visit.”
Now Katie was at the mirror, fixing her hair in a bun. “Are you coming or not? How do I look?”
“Chaste,” said Tom Krome.
The phone rang.
“Chased? No, sweetheart, that was last night. Get the telephone, please.”
Katie put on her high heels, balancing storklike on elegant slender legs. “You honestly won’t go? To church, Tom, I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah, I’m one heathen bastard.” Krome picked up the phone.
She waited, arms folded, at the bedroom door.
Krome covered the receiver and said, “Sinclair.”
“On a Sunday morning?”
“I’m afraid so.” Krome tried to sound disappointed but he was thinking: There is a God.
Sinclair’s title at The Register was Assistant Deputy Managing Editor of Features and Style. He relied on the fact that nobody outside the newspaper business understood the insignificance of his position. At smaller papers it was one of the least nerve-racking and lowest-profile jobs. Sinclair couldn’t have been happier. Most of his reporters and editors were young and unabashedly grateful to be employed, and they did whatever Sinclair told them.
His biggest problem was Tom Krome, who also happened to be his best writer. Krome’s background was hard news, which had made him impossibly cynical and suspicious of all authority. Sinclair was scared of Krome; he’d heard stories. Also, at thirty-five Krome was older by two years, so he held the advantage of age as well as experience. Sinclair realized there was no possibility, none whatsoever, that Krome would ever respect him.
His fear—in fact, Sinclair’s most serious concern as the ADME of Features and Style—was that Krome might someday humiliate him in front of the staff. Figuratively cut off his nuts in front of Marie or Jacquelyn, or one of the clerks. Sinclair felt he could not psychologically endure such an episode, so he had resolved to keep Krome away from the newspaper office as much as possible. To that end, Sinclair committed ninety-five percent of his meager travel budget to assignments that kept Krome safely out of town. It worked out fine: Tom seemed content to be gone, and Sinclair was able to relax at the office.
The most challenging of Sinclair’s responsibilities was handing out lame story assignments. Calling Tom Krome at home was particularly trying; usually Sinclair had to shout to make himself heard above the loud rock music or women’s voices in the background. He could only imagine how Krome lived.
Sinclair had never before phoned on a Sunday. He apologized numerous times.
Tom Krome said: “Don’t worry about it.”
Sinclair was encouraged. He said, “I didn’t think this one could wait.”
Krome had no trouble containing his excitement. Whatever Sinclair was calling about, it wasn’t breaking news. Breaking fluff, maybe, but not news. He blew a kiss to Katie and waved her off to church.