The only question now was how many other winning tickets, and that data would come the next day. With jackpots this large, there was often more than one, but the split would still be exceedingly ample. The celebration in the hotel suite lasted almost till dawn. Big cigars puffed out on the ninth-floor balcony. Cart after cart of room service arrived, and the mini-bar guy was called in to restock. They ignored front-desk complaints about the blaring TV. A local commercial came on with sitar music and a swaying lawyer in a tie-dyed T-shirt.
Covering 92 percent of the board is a lot of tickets, but you wouldn’t believe how much actual physical space they take up until you saw it. Almost twenty briefcases sat in neat rows in Pelota’s closet. Considering whose suite they were in, security was no issue. The cases weren’t going to get as much as a fingerprint.
The sky gave its initial hint that the black of night was beginning to fade, and the last of the lieutenants adjourned to their own rooms.
Ocho Pelota was left alone on his balcony in a personal orb of cigar smoke and accomplishment. Tiny lights blinked on the western sky as the first of the red-eyes began their landing approaches from Los Angeles and San Diego. Pelota stubbed out his cigar and went to bed.
Chapter 32
Jackpot
Jack-pot (noun) 1. The top prize in a game of stakes, such as bingo, poker, slots, lottery. 2. A significant fortune. 3. Large, unexpected success. Syn: pool, kitty, bonanza. Hitting the jackpot.
Idiom: (chiefly western, southern) Suddenly and without warning entering into a position of extreme distress or peril. Syn: jam, pickle, crisis. Find oneself in a jackpot.
Monday Morning
Ziggy Blade was fresh off a two-joint breakfast as he tapped his steering wheel to the not-so-ageless tunes of Iron Butterfly. There was a reason for his jaunty outlook besides chemicals. A recent uptick in his lottery resale business. He attempted to do the math in his head, but the pot made it like trying to spray molasses from an aerosol can. Let’s see, those tickets and the other ones, multiplied by this and divided by that and, well, it’s a lot. The twelve-year-old Toyota turned in the parking lot at his office, and Ziggy saw a sign that the new week was indeed going to be special.
A new customer was already waiting outside his door.
“Peace,” said Ziggy, trotting up the steps with keys in hand. “Been waiting long?”
A head whipped this way and that, and back again. “Can we just get inside?”
“Chill,” said Ziggy, leading him through the office. “Most defendants are nervous like you when they first arrive, but your troubles are over now that you’re with the Z-ster—as long as you haven’t signed any confessions.” An eyebrow raised.
“No confession,” said the client.
“Great!” Ziggy took a seat behind his desk. “How can I help you today?”
The man’s hands trembled as he reached inside his jacket for a large envelope, which contained a medium envelope, that held a small envelope, protecting an even smaller one . . . It was like all the secret doors at the beginning of Get Smart. Ziggy blinked hard.
The new client finally reached the end of his low-tech security system. He stood and placed a small rectangle of thick paper in front of the lawyer.
“Oh, another winning ticket,” said Ziggy. “How many numbers did you hit? Four? Please tell me it’s five . . .” A widening smile.
The man continued twitching as he placed a folded-over page from the Miami Herald on the desk. Ziggy held it side by side with the ticket, eyes moving back and forth, number after number. The smile disappeared. Ziggy didn’t trust his cannabis eyes. He checked all six numbers again, then backward, then slowly set the ticket down like a Fabergé egg. “You won?”
“I know.”
Emotions rocketed in opposite directions. First Ziggy was elated at his cut of the take. Hooray! . . . Immediately followed by: I could be holding hundreds of millions in my hands, in this neighborhood. “I need another joint.” Rapid-fire toking. “Now I’m paranoid.”
And now they were both twitching and jerking around. “We have to get this to a safer place pronto!” said Ziggy. “My wheels aren’t reliable enough for this kind of gig. What are you driving?”
“New Chrysler 300.”
“You’re driving.”
They repackaged the ticket in all the envelopes and stuck it in Ziggy’s soft-sided hemp briefcase. They crept to the front of the office and peeked out the window. “All clear!”
“Run!”
A Chrysler slung a cloud of dust as they sped away.
Miami Women’s Legal Aid Clinic
Brook sat behind her desk. The client on the other side wore a camo baseball cap.
They were quiet for the moment, the attorney trying to decipher new data.
“Let me see if I understand this correctly,” said Brook. “You took a small alligator in a cardboard box to the convenience store to trade for beer and lottery tickets.”
“That’s right. I was all over the TV.”
“But . . . why?”
Shrug. “The other guy was getting the better deal.”
Brook paused again. “You do understand that stores don’t make trades.”
“I do now.”
A sigh. “Okay, then what happened?”
“State wildlife officials arrested me and took the gator.”
“If they took the gator,” said Brook, “then what’s in the cardboard box in your lap?”
“I had others,” said the client. “I wanted to see if we could work out a trade concerning your fee.”
The phone rang.
“Hold that thought.” She picked up the receiver. “Brook Campanella, how may I— . . . Oh, hi . . . Wait, slow down. What’s wrong? . . . You’re not serious . . . You are serious? . . . Okay, I have to think this through. Meanwhile, you need to come here right now and don’t stop anywhere . . . You’re already driving over as fast as you can? Good, but not too fast . . . Oh, and one more thing: Whatever you do, don’t talk to anyone else.”
She set the receiver down and looked at her client. “Sorry, but something’s come up. Can you wait in the waiting room?”
Her client left and Brook picked up the phone again . . .
A Chrysler 300 raced east across greater Miami. Ziggy got off the phone.
Pablo turned in the driver’s seat. “The other attorney?”
Ziggy nodded. “One of the best. Everything will be fine.” He began dialing again.
“I could overhear,” said Pablo. “I thought you weren’t supposed to talk to anyone else.”
“I know what I’m doing.” He put the phone to his head. “Hello, it’s me, the Blade-man . . .”
A young reporter stood bedside in a recovery room at Miami General Hospital. A cameraman filmed a patient whose head had swollen up like a basketball.
“But why were you sleeping with a cottonmouth water moccasin?” asked Reevis.
“Mgfhjadsd . . .”
“There are reports that you regularly kissed it.”
“Mgjireifdek . . .”
“Is that when it bit you on the face?”
“Midfkgkls . . .”
A cell phone rang, and Reevis checked the caller ID. “Hold on, I have to take this . . . Hello, Brook, what’s going on? . . . What! . . . Okay, don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right over . . .”