Free Lucky You by Carl Hiaasen Page B

wrinkle marks from the bedsheets.
    Finally he said: “I don’t remember seein’ you Saturday.”
    JoLayne couldn’t hear the words, Shiner was speaking so low. “What? “she said.
    “I don’t remember seein’ you in the store Saturday. Sure it wasn’t last week?” Shiner began fiddling with the curly black hairs around his navel.
    JoLayne came over and lifted his chin. “Look at me.”
    He flinched at the prospect of her blue fingernails in his throat.
    She said, “Every Saturday I play the same numbers. Every Saturday I come to the Grab N’Go and buy my ticket. You know what happened this time, don’t you? You know I won.”
    Shiner pushed her hand away. “Maybe you come in Saturday, maybe you didn’t. Anyhow, I don’t look at the numbers.”
    JoLayne Lucks stepped back. She seemed quite angry. The man named Tom spoke up: “Son, surely you know that one of the two winning Lotto tickets came from your store.”
    “Yeah, I do. Tallahassee phoned up about it.”
    “Well, if Miss Lucks didn’t have the numbers, who did?”
    Shiner licked his lips and thought: Damn. This high-stakes lying was harder than he figured it would be. But a blood oath was a blood oath.
    He said, “There was a fella came in late off the highway. Got a Quick Pick and a six-pack of Bud Lights.”
    “Wait, wait—you’re telling me,” JoLayne protested, her voice rising, “you’re telling me some … stranger bought the winning ticket.”
    “Ma’am, I don’t honestly know who’s got what. I just run the machine, I don’t pay no ‘tention to the damn numbers.”
    “Shiner, you know it was my ticket. Why are you lying? Why?”
    “I ain’t.” It came out as mush.
    The man named Tom asked: “This mystery man who came in late and bought the Quick Pick—who was he?”
    Shiner slid his hands under his butt, to conceal the tremor. He said, “I never seen him before. Just some tall skinny guy with a ponytail.”
    “Oh no.” JoLayne turned to her friend. “What do you say now, Mister No Fucking Way.” Then she ran out of the house.
    The man named Tom didn’t leave right away, which made Shiner jittery. Later he watched from the window as the man put an arm around JoLayne Lucks when they walked off, down Sebring Street.
    Shiner sucked on a cigaret and recalled what Bode and Chub had told him: Your word against hers, son.
    So it was done. And no fuckups!
    Presto, Shiner thought. I’m in the brotherhood.
    But for the rest of the morning he couldn’t stop thinking about what JoLayne’s friend had told him before walking out.
    We’ll be talking again, you and I.
    Like hell, Shiner thought. He’ll have to find me first.

 
    6
     
    Mary Andrea Finley Krome wasn’t addicted to Prozac or anything else. Nor was she chronically depressed, psychologically unstable, schizoid or suicidal.
    She was, however, stubborn. And it was her very strong desire to not be a divorced woman.
    Her marriage to Tom Krome wasn’t ideal; in fact, it had become more or less an empty sketch. Yet that was a tradition among Finley women, hooking up with handsome, self-absorbed men who quickly lost interest in them.
    They’d met in Manhattan, in a coffee shop near Radio City. Mary Andrea had initiated contact after noticing that the intent, good-looking man at the end of the counter was reading a biography of Ibsen. What Mary Andrea hadn’t known was that the book had been forced upon Tom Krome by a young woman he was dating (a drama major at NYU), and that he would’ve much rather been delving into the complete life story of Moose Skowron. Nonetheless, Krome was pleased when the auburn-haired stranger moved three stools closer and said she’d once read for a small part in A Doll’s House.
    The attraction was instant, though more physical than either of them cared to admit. At the time, Tom Krome was working on a newspaper investigation of Medicaid mills. He was on the trail of a crooked radiologist who spent his Tuesday mornings playing squash at