Preston turned his head to the side and watched the soil come alive with dozens of pinkish worms. Then hundreds.
“. . . And here’s your bonus round: As I explained earlier, the sound waves drive up the worms, which will begin crawling on you and—sorry, this part is a little gross—some will fall in your mouth. But the sonic device behind it all is running on battery power, so if you can outlast the life of the power supply by eating enough earthworms, then they won’t suffocate you. I know you drew one of my most distasteful contests, but on the other hand, they’re an incredible source of protein. Well, that about does it. See you on the flip side . . .”
Serge began walking back to the car. Preston yelped as the first worm fell in his mouth.
Serge snapped his fingers and spun around. “I totally forgot! The colonoscopy!” He ran back over and plopped down again. “I can’t leave you hanging in suspense.”
Preston flopped and vainly tried to spit.
“I’m trying to tell you something important. Forget about the worm and pay attention!” Serge reached in his captive’s mouth and flung it aside. “Now then, as I alluded earlier, psychopaths are adept at climbing company ladders because they’re easily able to make draconian decisions that would leave the rest of us sleepless for weeks. Did you know that if a colonoscopy turns up a polyp, any doctor will advise you to come back for another test within three years or risk inoperable cancer? Yet some insurance companies refuse to authorize follow-up tests for ten years. Know why? An executive did the harm–profit ratio and decided that at ten years, there was an acceptable fifty percent survival rate—for something that’s virtually one hundred percent preventable with timely screenings. Now, if that isn’t treating the customers like livestock.” Serge nodded to himself with conviction. “A psychopath made that decision.”
Another worm hit Preston’s tongue. More squirming and gurgling.
“You’re a real nervous type,” said Serge. “Just relax and work the odds. Of course it all depends on the individual, but this particular contest leaves you a decent twenty to thirty percent survival rate . . . Wow, I just realized something. That’s less than the fifty percent used by those insurance companies.” Serge stared at Preston and tapped his chin. “Give me the unvarnished truth. Do you think I should take that personality test again?”
Chapter 7
South Florida
The airspace over Miami International grew crowded. An American Airlines flight from LaGuardia touched down. Then a United, Southwest, JetBlue, Delta, Virgin Atlantic, Lufthansa. Somewhere in the middle, a smaller private jet from South America landed and taxied to a separate terminal. Six serious men with mustaches got out and marched in cadence toward the customs building.
They made their way to baggage claim, where a chauffeur held a sign: Mierda Holding Group.
The men filed into the back of the limo, and the driver climbed in up front. “Where to? . . .”
It was shortly after lunch as the white stretch cruised down Brickell Avenue and double-parked outside one of the numerous downtown banks that used to launder cocaine money in the eighties, and now just laundered money. The half-dozen men entered the lobby with unwavering precision and approached a teller. One of the bank vice presidents saw them and dashed out of his office.
“Mr. Pelota,” said the hurried executive, shaking hands. “Great to see you again. Mind if I call you Ocho? What brings you to town?”
Pelota silently gave him a certified check from the Caymans. The vice president raced behind the counter and practically hip-checked a female teller away from her station. “I’ll take care of this personally.” He looked up. “I’m assuming you want this in hundreds?”
Ten empty briefcases were passed over the counter, and ten heavy ones came back.
The limo cruised across the Miami River and north toward Aventura, passing convenience stores of varying ethnicity with numbers of customers dribbling out the doors. All along the route, billboard workers putting up new numbers. They arrived at a local office with a circular illustration on the door: an Indian maiden near a palm tree as a wooden ship approached. The sun was on the horizon, but it was ambiguous about rising or setting. The official seal of the state of Florida.
The men went inside, and the receptionist had them wait until a low-level bureaucrat in a short-sleeve dress shirt appeared in a doorway, eating a baloney-and-lettuce sandwich. “How can I help you?”
They simply pushed past him.
“Wait! You can’t just go in there!”
“Which is your desk?”
“The gray one.”
They pulled up a half-dozen chairs from nearby work areas. Two were being used, and people had to stand up. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The wordless looks they received in response convinced them that chairs suddenly were out of style.
The men gathered around the bureaucrat’s desk. On the corner of the desk was a novelty plastic bird with a pointy beak that occasionally dunked down into a glass of water. The concept was to make people happier. The bureaucrat finished chewing and balled up a piece of wax paper. “Now what can I do for you?”
“We would like to buy the board,” said Pelota.
The office worker had grown used to language barriers, but this wasn’t a question of accents. “Buy the board?”
“Yes.” Pelota leaned to read the official laminated badge clipped to the worker’s shirt. “Mr. Foote.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”
Pelota turned and looked back at the door they had just come through. “This is the Miami office of the Florida State Lottery?”
“Yes, it is . . . but if you could just explain a little more.”
“We want to buy the whole board. Every number.”
“Of . . . what?”
“The lottery.”
“Let me get this straight: You want to buy a ticket for every single number in the lottery?” The bird dunked in the water. “But there are over twenty million different combinations.”
Pelota didn’t need to say anything. Ten briefcases were promptly opened on the floor.
“Holy God! Is that what twenty million looks like? . . . How can you guys carry that much cash around Miami and not feel scared?” Foote gazed into six sets of vacant eyes. “Oh.”
“Sell us the board,” said Pelota.
“You do realize that the lottery pays a lot less?”
“Except it’s rolled over five weeks now.”
“What if there are several winning tickets?” asked Foote.
“We’ve done the math,” said Pelota. “The board, please.”
“Look, I would if I could, but there just isn’t any mechanism,” said the employee. “The only way we sell tickets is from the machines in the stores. The lottery has a strict policy against mass sales because it would discourage individual players.”
The silence lasted only seconds, but it was effective. “I am familiar with computers,” said Pelota. “If one is so inclined, anything can be achieved.” He pulled several packets of bills from a briefcase. “How much do you make a year?”
“Put that away!” Foote glanced around quickly and lowered his voice. “I can’t take your money, and even if I did, the system is completely firewalled.”
“They’ve hacked into the Pentagon,” said Pelota.
“Our system’s better. The lottery’s pretty important in Florida.”