Lucky You by Carl Hiaasen

story.”
    “It’s all relative, Katie. Not to change the subject, but you mentioned something about Art intending to kill me.”
    “No, to have you killed.”
    “Right. Of course. You’re sure he wasn’t just talking?”
    “Possibly. But he’s pretty mad.”
    “Did he hurt you?” Krome asked. “Would he?”
    “Never.” Katie seemed amused by the question. “If you want to know the truth, I think it turned him on.”
    “The confession.”
    “Yes. Like suddenly he realized what he was missing.”
    Krome said, “How about that.”
    He paid the check. Outside in the parking lot, Katie touched his arm and asked him to let her know, please, if the $500 wasn’t enough to replace the busted windows. Krome told her not to worry about it.
    Then she said, “Tommy, we can’t see each other anymore.”
    “I agree. It’s wrong.”
    The concept seemed to cheer her. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”
    Judging from the note of triumph in her voice, Katie believed that by sleeping with Tom Krome and then confessing to her low-life cheating husband, she’d helped all three of them become better human beings. Their consciences had been stirred and elevated. They’d all learned a lesson. They’d all grown spiritually.
    Krome graciously chose not to deflate this preposterous notion. He kissed Katie on the cheek and told her goodbye.
     
    Demencio took the stool next to Dominick Amador at the counter at Hardee’s. Dominick was going through his morning ritual of spooning Crisco into a pair of gray gym socks. The socks went over Dominick’s hands, to cover his phony stigmata. The Crisco served to keep the wounds moist and to prevent scabbing—Dominick’s livelihood depended on the holes in his palms appearing raw and fresh, as if recently nailed to a cross. Should the wounds ever heal, he’d be ruined.
    He said to Demencio: “I got a big favor to ask.”
    “So what else is new.”
    Dominick said, “Geez, whatsa matter with you today?”
    “That dippy woman lost the Lotto ticket. I guess you didn’t hear.”
    Demencio held the gym socks open while Dominick inserted his hands. One of the socks had a fray in the toe, through which oozed a white dollop of shortening.
    Dominick flexed his ringers and said, “That’s much better. Thanks.”
    “Fourteen million dollars down the shitter,” Demencio grumbled.
    “I heard it was a robbery.”
    “Gimme a break.”
    “Hey, everybody in town knew she had the ticket.”
    “But who’s got the balls,” Demencio said, “to do something like that? Seriously, Dom.”
    “You got a point.” The only robberies to occur in Grange were the holdups committed by itinerant crooks on their way to or from Miami.
    Demencio said: “My guess? She lost the ticket some stupid way, then cooked up the robbery story so people wouldn’t make fun of her.” “They say she’s a strange one.” ” ‘Scattered’ is the word.”
    “Scattered,” said Dominick. He was eating a jelly doughnut, the sugar dust sticking to the socks on his hands.
    Demencio told him about JoLayne’s turtles. “Must be a hundred of the damn things inside her house. Tell me that’s normal.”
    Dominick’s eyebrows crinkled in concentration. He said, “Is there turtles in the Old Testament?”
    “How the hell should I know.” Just because Demencio owned a weeping Virgin didn’t mean he’d memorized the whole Bible, or even finished it. Some of those Corinthians were rough sledding.
    Dominick said, “What I’m thinking, maybe she’s putting some type of exhibit together. You know, for the tourists. Except I can’t remember no turtles in the Good Book. There’s lambs and fishes—and a big serpent, of course.”
    Demencio’s pancakes arrived. Drenching the plate in syrup, he said, “Just forget it.”
    “But didn’t Noah have turtles? He had two of everything.”
    “Right. JoLayne, she’s building a fuckin’ ark. That explains it.” Demencio irritably attacked his breakfast. The only