Ziggy had never seen so much cash, even on TV. He looked up with even bigger eyes. “You sure you have the right lawyer?”
The leader nodded. “You come highly recommended.”
Outside the concrete-block law office in Hialeah, a bicycle rolled by with dangling iguanas. It continued on and approached one of Florida’s most popular supermarkets, like Publix, except not Publix.
A dozen cars circled the parking lot for elusive spots. Crammed shopping carts crossed the crosswalks. Inside the automatic doors, all the checkout lines were full, even the registers at the customer-service counter, which were usually shortest of all and the last refuge of the one-item shopper. Except now they were the longest lines in sight because . . .
Bright lights flooded the front of the store. A TV correspondent cheerfully raised a microphone. “This is Bianca Blanco reporting live for Action Eye Live Eyewitness Five at Five from one of Florida’s most popular supermarkets, where the short lines at the customer-service counter are now preposterously long due to an outbreak of lottery fever, and since we’ve gone three weeks without a winner, the jackpot has rolled over to a whopping record that is being updated by the hour . . . Excuse me, sir, why are you willing to wait so long to buy lottery tickets?”
“It gives my life meaning . . .”
Behind the counter, employees worked frantically to dispense tickets and process the occasional grocery purchase. The staff all had little green plastic name tags. Two of them: Serge and Coleman.
Another customer stepped up to the counter. “Six quick-picks, please.”
“Jesus, don’t buy lottery tickets,” said Serge. “The store won’t tell you this because they’re in on it, but the whole thing is a fool’s bet. It’s a tax on people who are bad at arithmetic.”
“What the hell’s going on here? Just give me the tickets!”
“Buy food instead,” said Serge. “That’s a sure thing.”
“I am buying food.” The man set an item on the counter.
Serge gasped. “Not that!”
“I’m buying chips.”
“But you’re buying the twelve-pack of small individual bags! It’s the worst possible cost-per-ounce scenario! Work the numbers, man!”
“I can afford it.”
“That’s not the point!” said Serge. “Think of all the extra Fritos!”
“Do I need to get the manager?”
Serge sighed and hit buttons. “It’s your road to ruin.”
The customer snatched tickets and chips. “Wacko . . .”
At the next register, an employee popped a can of soda.
“Six quick-picks, please.”
“Sure thing.” The worker lowered the can and furtively manipulated something in his other hand. Then he chugged while pressing buttons on the lottery console.
“Are you drinking?” asked the customer.
“What?”
“I just saw you pour a miniature bottle of vodka into that can of Sprite.”
Coleman stared a moment. “No, I didn’t.”
“Whatever. Just give me my tickets.”
“Here you go.”
“Hold on.” The customer looked at his stubs. “These are Fantasy Five. I wanted Lotto. Where’s your supervisor?”
“Wait! It’s cool! It’s cool!” Coleman quickly pressed more buttons, canceling the previous sale and spitting out correct tickets. “There you go. Have a nice day.”
The customer gave him a cold stare before leaving.
Coleman took a deep breath, followed by an extra-long chug. “The pressure . . .”
Back at the other register, the line was really starting to stack up.
“No, listen to me!” said Serge, raising his voice. “All of you, listen to me! There are more than twenty million permutations! Do the math! The government is taking all of you for a ride—”
Serge felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around. “Yeah?”
An assistant manager stood dumbstruck. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“What’s it look like? Teaching home economics.”
The supervisor opened his mouth to say something, but stopped and sniffed the air. “Do I smell alcohol?”
“I don’t drink,” said Serge.
The lines of irate customers pointed in unison at the other register.
Coleman punched buttons in frustration. “Darn, wrong tickets again . . .”
Two men wandered away from the grocery store with holes in their shirts where their name tags had been torn off.
“I can’t believe they fired us,” said Coleman. “I was starting to get pretty good at that.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Serge. “We were going to quit tomorrow anyway.”
“But we just started working there Monday.”
“That’s right. We reached our time limit.” Serge pulled a lottery ticket from his pocket and gently caressed the image of a loggerhead turtle. “It’s the key to our new lifestyle choice, moving on to a new town every week and getting another job, just like all the classic American TV road shows: Route 66, The Fugitive, Branded, Kung Fu, and the all-but-overlooked Sea Hunt, starring Lloyd Bridges. None of them ever stayed more than a week.”
“Why not?”
“The next episode had to air. Even rebels must answer to the prime-time network schedule.”
“Serge, why do you have a lottery ticket?”
“Not just any ticket.” He raised it over his head in triumph. “This is a special-edition Guy Harvey marine-life scratch-off.”
“But you told all those people back there that the lottery was stupid.”
“Only if you play,” said Serge. “This is going right in my collection. That way I’ve already won.”
Coleman reached. “Can I scratch it off?”
Serge clutched it to his chest. “And ruin a mint-condition Florida souvenir?”
Coleman shrugged and pulled another miniature bottle from his pocket. “Serge, there’s a dude riding by with a bunch of iguanas hanging from rubber bands on his handlebars.”
“Florida happens.”
The pair strolled down the sidewalk as a commercial truck pulled up to the curb. A work crew got out to update the jackpot total on another lottery billboard. The first began climbing the ladder. “Hey, Stan, check this out.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure.”
Passing motorists had been staring curiously at the unusual sign all morning, but they just assumed it was one of those 3-D gimmick billboards, this one sending a message like You’ll really regret not buying lottery tickets.
The first worker slowly climbed a few more rungs. “What the— . . . Oh my God!”
He practically jumped off the ladder. The whole crew sprinted back to their truck and got on the radio.
High above the road stood the familiar flamingo logo with a tropical splash of colors that promoted wealth without work. In front of the sign was a man wearing a short-sleeve clerk shirt with a clip-on tie. Clasped to his breast pocket: a photo ID badge from the state department of lottery. He gently swung in the breeze from the noose around his neck.
Episode 1
Chapter 1
One Month Earlier
Yellow wildflowers and cattle fences ran along the side of the country highway traveling from the middle of nowhere to the outskirts of nowhere else. It was in the soggy armpit of the state that gently bends the peninsula west up into the Panhandle.
Here and there, separated by long stretches of trees and moss, were signs of the hand of man. A corrugated aluminum building advertising well drilling, a defunct campground on the Suwanee, an unexpected scuba shop for visitors to a local spring. It was that weird swath of backwoods, off-the-radar counties that featured wanton barrenness anchored by a monstrous granite courthouse circa 1909 that could accommodate the entire population.