“Get the fuck outa here.”
“I am not lying.”
Marty put his hand out for the ticket. “Well hand it over, man. I gotta see this with my own eyes.”
Yaghi said, “I can’t believe it. Eight years I got this machine, nobody win nothing.” He leaned forward and actually kissed the machine. “Ten million dollars…”
Getting testy, Marty said, “Yeah, well, listen Sahib, it’s
my
ten million dollars, so hand it over. You’re bending the fuck out of it.”
Yaghi started to do just that. The rules of fair play and propriety he’d learned since coming to this country demanded no less. But as he moved to hand over the ticket something dawned inside him in a glorious sunburst, burning off a twelve-year fog. His was a proud people, a warring people, and in the many years he’d been isolated from their influence, chained to this counter under the watchful eye of his wife, he’d forgotten that part of his heritage, that part of himself. It came back to him now, though—oh, yeah—big, bright and unstoppable.
In his mind’s eye Tarek Yahgi saw the events of the next few moments with total clarity.
He reached down and switched on the surveillance camera. Then he looked squarely at Marty. “The door’s unlocked,” he said. “Open it and get out. We’re not open yet.”
Marty said,
“Hey,”
sticking out his hand. “Are those ears painted on? Gimme the fuckin’ ticket.”
Cool as hell, Yaghi said, “What ticket?” tucked it into his shirt pocket and folded his arms across his skinny chest. Case closed.
“You’re cute,” Marty said. “A fuckin’ comedian. Now give it up before I get ugly.”
Yaghi let his arms drift to his sides. “Get out or I call the cops.”
“All right, greaser,” Marty said, pulling the switchblade from his hip pocket. “Last chance.” The blade whipped free, six inches of razor-sharp steel gleaming in the sunlight. “Hand that fucker over
now
, or I swear to God, I’ll gut you like a trout.”
“In my country we pick our toes with a toy like that,” Yaghi said, bating him. “This is
your
last chance. Get out of my store or I throw you out.”
“Okay, fuckface, we’ll do it the hard way.”
Marty launched himself at the counter and started scrambling over the top. In one smooth sweep Yaghi drew a sawed-off shotgun from under the counter and shot him in the face. In the force of the blast Marty Small went airborne in a spectacular reversal of momentum, arcing out like a diver leaving a platform, but with none of the diver’s grace. He was dead before he slammed into the candy rack. The bag containing his purchases flew off the counter with him, the six-pack exploding on the floor, pop fizzing out to join a spreading puddle of Marty’s blood.
Deafened by the report, Yaghi ran to the door and locked it, then sagged to the floor behind the counter. He laid the shotgun beside him and fished the ticket out of his pocket with trembling fingers, barely noticing the freckles of Marty’s blood on his forearms. He could hardly breathe.
Ten million dollars
, he kept thinking.
Ten million dollars…
* * *
Kate couldn’t believe it when she saw him, sitting up in bed in the Stepdown Unit, a nurse on either side of him and a big grin on his face, sipping ice water through a straw with that turban on his head, a sultan flirting with the house girls.
One of the nurses saw her come in and said, “You must be Kate. Your dad’s been telling us all about you. He says you’re going to be a famous screenwriter someday.” She smiled, having fun. “He’s got us playing your movie trivia game. Isn’t he a whip?”
Kate said, “Be careful what you bet him.” And to her father, “Dad, you behave.”
“Ladies,” Keith said, his voice still hoarse, “excuse me, if you will. My princess beckons.”
The second nurse, dark and petite, said, “Okay, Keith, just one more. Get this one and I’ll rub your feet.” She scrunched her green eyes to slits, looked flatly into the distance and said, “‘We’re all gonna die.’”
Keith chuckled. “Fetch the baby oil, Candace.
Predator
, nineteen eighty-eight. What Billy, the big Indian says. Best line in the movie.”
“‘I ain’t got time to bleed,’ is my favorite,” Kate said, capturing her father’s full attention now. The nurses took it as their cue to leave. Kate pulled up a chair and took his hand. “So how you doin’,
Keith
? You old smoothie.”
He grinned at the gentle rib. “Not bad, you know, considering the mileage. This epidural’s a wonder. And they gave me a shot this morning for my fingers. They throb some.” He noticed her cast for the first time. “What about you? You broke your arm?”
Kate rapped her knuckles against the cast. “Yeah. Aches a little. Itchy. No biggy.” It amazed her how bright he was this morning. “How much do you remember?”
“I remember the accident. And that big bugger in the orange jumpsuit trying to stick something down my throat. After that, not much ’til this morning. What about what’s-his-name—Bernie—the limo guy?”
“He didn’t make it.”
Keith looked at his broken legs, considering this news. He said, “Then we were lucky, you and I.”
“Yes, we were.”
He gave her a wan smile. “Some millionaires, huh?”
Here it was, then. She squeezed his hand and said, “Dad, we’re not millionaires anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“We were robbed. On the highway, after the accident. Some guy, he stopped and took everything, including your wallet. I didn’t want to tell you right away, but…”
Keith’s faced tightened, a blankness coming into his eyes. He said, “No, Katie, I’m glad you did.” He sighed and Kate thought she’d never heard a more defeated sound. It broke her heart. “Got everything, huh?”
“Pretty much.”
“Even Janey’s Big Bird?”
Kate blew air through her nose, as close to a laugh as she could muster. Even in the face of such abysmal news her father was trying to make light of it. “No, he didn’t get Big Bird. But I got blood all over it.”
Keith shook his head. “You know, honey, it almost seems just. I got greedy. And afraid. All that money, I just couldn’t wait to get my mitts on it. I should’ve waited. We could’ve driven down later, once the weather cleared. I’m sorry. I got your hopes up for nothing. I even jeopardized your life.”
“Dad, please. I was just as excited as you.”
That terrible sigh again. “Did you report the theft?”
“Not—”
“Yes, Mister Whipple, she did.” Kate turned to see Steve standing in the doorway, his jacket slung over one shoulder. He came in and stood at the foot of the bed. “To me.”
“Oh, Dad,” Kate said, flushing a little. God, she couldn’t take her eyes off this guy. “This is Constable Seger. He was at the accident.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Keith said.
“Same here, sir.”
“So tell me, Constable, are we out of luck here?”
“Maybe not,” Steve said. “I put out an unofficial report on the computer with a list of stolen items. You had some expensive merchandise there, sir, but it’s not much good to a thief unless he can fence it. It’s a long shot, but it might turn something up. You should file an official report, though, as soon as you can. We also put a call in to the Lottery Corporation. They said you can file an appeal for payment without the actual ticket, but it’s complicated. The good news is, they agreed that if our boy shows up trying to cash it, they’ll detain him and notify us. That’s how I think we’re going to catch him.”
Keith said, “Wouldn’t it be his word against ours?”
“If it comes down to that, Mister Whipple, you let us worry about it.” He pulled on his jacket. “Anyway, I just wanted to pass that along. I’m going to go now, let you two visit. Nice meeting you, sir.”
“Likewise,” Keith said. “And thanks for your help.”
“Glad to do it,” Steve said. He turned to Kate. “Uh, if your dad’s okay, it probably makes sense to file that ticket claim as soon as possible. I was thinking, if you’d like, I could drive you there later this morning.”
Caught off guard, Kate said, “That’d be great,” feeling her face turn three shades of scarlet. Her father always said she got that from her mom. She glanced at Keith, who nodded, a sparkle in his eyes she couldn’t help notice. “Sounds like a good idea,” he said.
“Okay,” Steve said, a little red-faced himself. “They open at nine. What say I meet you back here at quarter to?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
He gave her a cheerful smile and left. Keith caught Kate’s wistful gaze as she watched him go.
“Finally,” he said, grinning. “Grandchildren.”
“Dad.”
* * *
Tarek Yaghi got to his feet. He’d been slumped behind the counter since the shooting, twenty minutes, maybe more, his mind going a mile a minute: rehearsing what he’d tell the police, deciding on the best way to deal with his wife, picturing what it was going to be like to be handed a check for ten million dollars. He hadn’t felt this alive since his teens, running wild in the streets of Beirut, living by his wits in those days, stealing food from vendors’ stalls, finding shelter where he could. And later, after fleeing Lebanon for the Greek islands at the age of fifteen, trading sex for money in the tourist hotels. Soft American women with a taste for brown boys. He’d had a purpose back then, a mission: to find his fortune and return to Beirut, to his parents and three baby sisters, to liberate them from the squalor of the slums. And no matter how far fate had taken him from his homeland, no matter how many empty years had gone by since those heady days, that dream had never left him. He’d prayed and he’d believed. And at last, Allah had answered.
Yaghi gazed at the ticket with bitter-sweet tears in his eyes, thinking,
Twelve years.
Twelve years since he first set foot in this godless store, an illegal immigrant of twenty-six, one short step ahead of the law. Claudette sitting at the till on that rainy September afternoon—a fine big woman in those days, before she blew herself up to three hundred pounds in front of the TV—looking up from one of her romance novels as he entered, lizard eyes eating him whole even then; Yaghi asking in his broken English about the HELP WANTED sign in the window. Claudette hired him on the spot, treating him with affection and respect in those first sweet months. So sly, drawing him slowly, almost willingly into a life of servitude. Within a year, luring him first with rich food and wine, then with the most exciting sex he’d ever had, she found her hook, offering citizenship and security in exchange for a contract of marriage. “Marry me, Tarek, and I’ll look after you. And someday soon, your family, too.” Signing documents in front of her lawyer—partnership papers, she told him—changing the name of the store to Yaghi’s Market, filling him with pride; Yaghi finding out only years later, after threatening to leave her for lying about his family, that what he’d signed was a prenuptial agreement. “You go out that door, Yaghi, you go with the clothes on your back.” Penniless if he left her, nothing to show for his years of slavery. So he stayed, biding his time, skimming what he could to send to his family, still living in the same rat-infested tenement in Beirut.
He said it out loud, “Twelve years,” letting it build. Twelve years working six-thirty to eleven, seven days a week, Claudette coming up with new and thinner excuses each day for not pulling her weight. “My arthritis is bad today, Tarek, I don’t think I can make it in.” “Mother’s heart is acting up again, she needs me close.” “Michael Douglas is gonna be on Oprah this afternoon and you know how I just love Michael…” And on and on, until she just stopped bothering. The only time she did come in anymore was to run one of her surprise inspections on him, like he was an employee instead of her husband.
He couldn’t wait to get even. And it was going to be so easy. Just show her the ticket and walk.
He looked over at Marty and felt his gorge rise. The guy’s face was…gone. Luckily no customers had come to the door. He only wanted to have to explain this once.
He tucked the ticket into his shirt pocket and got moving, dragging a dusty tarp out of the back and throwing it over the corpse, then going to the phone and dialing a number from memory.
“Come on,” he said as it rang. “Be home…be home…”
It was picked up on the eighth ring, the breathless, sing-song voice warming his heart: “Hello?”
“Marilyn, it’s me.”
“Tar. Oh, it’s so nice to hear from you. I was just in the shower.” She pitched her voice low and sexy. “I was thinking of you.”
Yaghi squirmed, turned on in spite of the circumstances. Maybe because of them. He said, “Listen, I need you tonight.”
“But honey, what about your wife?”
“Everything’s changed. Will you be there?”
“Of course I will.”
“Okay, good. See you later.” He cut the connection and dialed 911.
* * *
Lee Merrick, the eldest of Keith’s three siblings, showed up at eight-thirty that morning with a black duffel bag and a large coffee. She plunked the bag on the bedside table, then the coffee, then bent to give Keith a noisy kiss on the mouth. She turned and gave Kate one, too. She said, “Have you ever tried to find a parking spot at this place?” looked at Keith’s legs and started to bawl.
“Hey, come on,” Keith said. “It’s not that bad. Really, we’re fine.”
“I know, I know,” Lee said, accepting Kate’s hug. “It’s just such a shock.” She sniffed—a small, angular woman of sixty-four with deep-set eyes the color of worn denim—said, “Okay, enough of that,” unzipped the duffel bag and started unloading. “We got a deck of cards for Crazy Eights. The bible according to Leonard Maltin.” She slapped the fat movie guide on the table next to the cards. “If I can’t stump you with this thing, I give up. We got a jumbo bag of Werther’s Originals, your favorite. A stack of movie magazines—sorry, little brother, no skin books in your condition.” She winked at Kate. “Some home-made butter tarts for when you’re eating again. Lose the Tupperware and I’ll kill you. Warm socks—they’re Dale’s, but don’t worry I soaked ’em in Javex overnight—and a couple of Stephen King paperbacks.” She said to Kate, “I’ve been trying to get him to read King’s novels since the seventies. See if he can squirm out of it now.”