“Delusional? Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Serge pumped fists in the air. “Delusions are my specialty. This will be fun!”
“Fun?” said Chuck. “I’m under siege! All the bouncers at my club have his picture, so he can’t get in there anymore. But the rest of my life is a nightmare!”
“When do you perform next?”
“Tomorrow night at ten.”
“Tell the bouncers to let him back in the club.”
“What!”
“All your problems will soon be over,” said Serge. “Trust me.”
Chapter 30
The Next Morning
A late-model arctic-white Mercedes-Benz was an odd sight in the neighborhood. In fact, the largely abandoned industrial area didn’t see much traffic at all, except the twenty-four-hour pedestrians moving with less verve and direction than zombies. Dobermans barked behind fences topped with barbed wire to protect tanks and drums of manufacturing chemicals.
The Mercedes pulled into a parking lot that baked in the unfiltered sun. Five Jamaicans with dreadlocks got out. It was the job of the last one to unfold a silver reflective screen and place it in the windshield.
A small concrete-block building with burglar bars sat in the back of the lot. A hand knocked on the door.
“Be right there!”
For once, it was answered promptly. Ziggy Blade was all smiles as he held the door. “Come in! Come in! Thank you for calling! Pleasure to meet you! . . . My secretary’s out sick today . . .”
Ziggy parted a curtain of beads and led them into the back half of the one-room office. He quickly unfolded Samsonite chairs. “Mi casa es su casa. Please, all of you have a seat . . .”
They remained on their feet and stared with vacant eyes.
“Or stand,” said Ziggy.
They sat down in unison.
Ziggy took a deep breath and found his own chair behind his desk. “Now then, you mentioned on the phone something about lottery tickets. I’m not sure I completely understood.”
“We want to buy winning lottery tickets,” said Rogan.
“That’s what I heard on the phone,” said Ziggy. “I’m not sure how long you’ve been in the country—and by the way, we’re so glad to have you despite what you might have heard—but how it works is you buy your tickets at the stores. Supermarket, convenience, they’re all over the place.”
“We’ve lived here a long time,” Rogan said evenly. “And we know how to play the lottery in the stores.”
“Then I’m not exactly sure what my role is.”
“We’ve seen you on TV. You cash in lottery tickets for people who can’t come forward. We highly respect your discretion. We’ve asked around.”
“Well . . .” Ziggy chuckled. “The glowing testimonials can get a little embarrassing when you’re at the top, but they’re always appreciated.”
Rogan opened his jacket to remove an Uzi, and the rest of the men followed his lead.
“Whoa!” said Ziggy. “What are all the guns for?”
“We know about cashing in other people’s lottery tickets because that’s our line of work,” said Rogan, stretching out his arm with the machine gun. His voice raised in volume and menace: “You simply decided to move in on my territory? Just who in the fuck do you think you are?”
Ziggy stared motionless with wide, bloodshot eyes. Then he cracked up with uncontrollable giggles. He held up a hand—“Sorry, just give me a second”—the laughter subsided and he wiped away tears. “As your attorney, this is probably unprofessional, but you have dreadlocks, so I’m sure you’ll understand. I just scored some radioactive hydroponic pot and it’s kicking my ass. I’m practically hallucinating and hearing things I’m sure you didn’t say. But put any worries aside—when it’s time to get cracking, I’m all business.”
“Motherfucker!” screamed Rogan. “How dare you mock me! Anyone else insulting me like you have has ended up praying for death!”
Ziggy cracked up again and began slapping his desk. “Stop! You’re killing me! . . . I’m definitely calling my weed guy and getting some more of this shit . . .”
Rogan’s shooting arm became rod-straight, as did all the others.
Ziggy held out a plastic tube. “Bong hit?”
“What?”
“Of course, you’re driving.” Ziggy concealed the smoking tube back under his desk. “Now then, what can I do for you?”
Rogan abruptly changed the trajectory of his thoughts. He sat back in his chair and studied the attorney, thinking to himself: I was wrong about the bozo in that TV commercial. Now it’s obvious how he was able to muscle in on my turf. He has balls the size of coconuts.
The Uzi was stowed back inside his jacket, and the others followed again. “You have my respect. I hope I have yours.”
Suppressed laughter. “Totally.”
Rogan gave a slight nod, a signal to the others.
Ziggy had been tripping out on the sight of the guns so that he completely forgot about all the briefcases the men had carried into his office. And now they were popping open on his desk to reveal an obscene amount of cash.
“Whoa!” said the lawyer. “I’m definitely calling that weed guy back.”
Rogan allowed the effect of the money to settle in. “I wanted you to see how serious I am.”
“About what?”
“We are going to become business partners. It’s not negotiable.”
Ziggy had never seen so much cash, even on TV. “You sure you have the right lawyer?”
The leader nodded. “You come highly recommended.”
“I do?”
“On TV, you advertised that you cash in winning lottery tickets,” said the leader. “And as I mentioned earlier, we do the same, but our connections have become unreliable as of late. I’d like to start bringing you our winning tickets.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“To launder money.”
Ziggy covered his ears and made a high-pitched beeping sound—“Didn’t hear that, didn’t hear that, beep, beep, beep . . .”
The leader looked around oddly at the others.
Ziggy dropped his hands. “Let me explain attorney-client privilege. You’re free to tell me anything you’ve done in the past, but the privilege doesn’t extend to unlawful acts you’re planning in the future.”
“But you will do this thing for us?”
“Like ringing a bell.”
“One more item,” said Rogan. “This is my territory. Any other tickets that come your way from your TV commercials or otherwise are mine. You’ll still receive a cut. I’m sure a businessman of your stature will see the mutual benefit.”
Another fit of giggles. “Why not?”
“That’s very good. That’s what we like to hear.” He pulled a brown envelope from his jacket and tossed it on the desk. It slid into Ziggy’s lap.
“What’s this?” He looked inside. “Trippy!”
“Your retainer,” said Rogan. “How much flow do you get?”
“Depends on how lucky people are.” Ziggy thumbed through the cash. “Some hit the Fantasy Five, or one of the big scratch-offs. A few thousand on a slow week, maybe five figures on the better-than-average, unless someone hits a really big one, then we’re looking north.”
“You’re probably already taking five percent off the front end.” Rogan began standing. “We’ll give you another five. Buy some furniture.”
“How will I get in touch with you?”
“You won’t. You’ll hear from us.” He walked toward the bead curtain and turned around. “When you do business with us, your word is your bond. From now on, you will not cash in anyone else’s tickets without running them through us . . . I will take your silence as your word.”