Carl Hiassen - Lucky You

"My regret – our regret," he said in conclusion, "is that Tom couldn't be here to celebrate this moment. But all of us here at The Register will remember him today and always with pride and admiration. His dedication, his spirit, his commitment to journalism, lives on in this newsroom ... "

Inwardly the managing editor cringed as he spoke, for the words came out corny and canned. It was a tough audience, and he expected to hear a muffled wisecrack or a groan. Quickly he pushed on to the main event.

"Now I'd like to introduce someone very special – Tom's wife, Mary Andrea, who came a very long way to be with us and share some memories."

The applause was respectful and possibly heartfelt, the most vigorous burst erupting (out of gung-ho reflex) from the crisp-shirted advertising reps. Slightly more reserved was the newsroom crew, although the managing editor snapped his head around upon hearing a crude wolf whistle; one of the sportswriters, it turned out. (Later, when confronted, the kid would claim to have been unaware of the occasion's solemnity. Bearing late-breaking news of a major hockey trade, he'd been hurrying through The Register's lobby toward the elevator when he had spotted Mary Andrea Finley Krome at the podium and was overcome by her rocking good looks.)

As she stepped to the microphone, the managing editor presented her with the standard slab of lacquered pine, adorned by a cheap gold-plated plaque. An appalling etching of the late Amelia J. Lloyd, full-cheeked and chipper, was featured on the award, which Mary Andrea enfolded as if it were a Renoir.

"My husband ... ," she said, followed by a perfect pause.

"My husband would be so proud."

A second burst of applause swept the lobby. Mary Andrea acknowledged it by hugging the Amelia to her breasts.

"My Tom," she began, "was not an easy man to know. During the last few years, he threw himself into his work so single-mindedly that, I'm sad to say, it pushed us apart ... "

By the time Mary Andrea got to their imaginary backstage reunion in Grand Rapids (which, she'd decided at the last moment, sounded more romantic than Lansing), the place was in sniffles. The TV cameras kept rolling; two of the crews even reloaded with fresh batteries. Mary Andrea felt triumphant.

Twenty seconds, my ass, she thought, dabbing her cheeks with a handkerchief provided by the managing editor.

Most surprising: Mary Andrea's tears, which had begun as well-practiced stage weeping, had bloomed into the real deal. Talking about Tom in front of so many people made her truly grief-stricken for the first time since she'd learned about the fire. Even though she was largely fictionalizing their relationship – inventing anecdotes, intimacies and confidences never shared – the act nonetheless thawed Mary Andrea's heart. Tom was, after all, a pretty good guy. Confused (like all men) but decent at the core. It was a pity he hadn't been more adaptable. A damn pity, she thought, blinking away the teardrops.

One person who remained unmoved during the ceremony was the managing editor of The Register. The other was Tom Krome's lawyer, Dick Turnquist, who politely waited until Mary Andrea was finished speaking before he edged through the well-wishers and served her with the court summons.

"We finally meet," he said.

And Mary Andrea, being somewhat caught up in her own performance, assumed he was a fan from the theater who wanted an autograph.

"You're so kind," she said, "but I don't have a pen."

"You don't need a pen. You need a lawyer."

"What?" Mary Andrea, staring in bafflement and dismay at the documents in her hand. "Is this some kind of sick joke? My husband's dead!"

"No, he's not. Not in the slightest. But I'll pass along all the nice things you said about him today. He'll appreciate it." Turnquist spun and walked away.

The managing editor stood frozen by what he'd overheard. Among the onlookers there was a stir, then a bang caused by lacquered pine hitting terrazzo. The managing editor whirled to see his prized Amelia on the lobby floor, where the nonwidow Krome had hurled it. Only inches away: a discarded rosary, coiled like a baby rattler.

The last conscious act of Bodean Gazzer's life was brushing his teeth with WD-40.

In a survivalist tract he'd once read about the unsung versatility of the popular spray lubricant, and now (while exsanguinating) he felt an irrational urge to brighten his smile. Chub pawed through the gear and found the familiar blue-and-yellow can, which he brought to Bode's side, along with a small brush designed for cleaning pistols. Chub knelt in the blood-crusted sand and tucked a camouflage bedroll under his partner's neck.

"Do my molars, wouldya?" Groggily Bode Gazzer opened his mouth and pointed.

"Jesus Willy," Chub said, but he aimed the nozzle at Bode's brown-stained chompers and sprayed. What the hell, he thought. The fucker's dying.

Bode brushed in a listless mechanical way. He spoke from the uncluttered side of his mouth: "You believe this shit? We just lost twenty-eight million bucks to a Negro terrorist and a damn waitress! They got us, brother. NATO and the Tri-Lateral Negroes and the damn com'nists ... You believe it?"

Chub was in a blinding misery, his bandaged shoulder afire. "You know ... you know what I don't believe?" he said. "I don't believe you still won't say 'nigger' after all she done to us. Goddamn, Bode, I wonder 'bout you!"

"Aw, well." Bodean Gazzer's eyelids drooped to half-staff. One hand flopped apologetically, splatting in a puddle of blood. His face was as pallid as a slab offish.

"She shot you. She shot you, man." Chub hunched over him. "I wanna hear you say it. 'Nigger.' Before you go and croak, I want you to act like a upright God-fearin' member of the white master race and say that HI word just once. Kin you do that for me? For the late, great White Clarion Aryans?" Chub laughed berserkly against the pain.

"Come on, you stubborn little prick. Say it: N-i-g-e-r."

But Bodean James Gazzer was done talking. He died with the gun brush in his cheeks. His final breath was a soft necrotic whistle of WD-40 fumes.

Chub caught a slight buzz from it, or so he imagined. He snatched up the aerosol can, struggled to his feet and staggered into the mangroves to mourn.

The pilgrims were restless. They wanted Turtle Boy.

Sinclair wouldn't come out until he had a deal. Shiner's mother sat beside him on the sofa; the two of them holding hands tautly, as if they were on an airplane in turbulence.

The mayor, Jerry Wicks, had rushed to Demencio's house after hearing about the trouble. Trish prepared coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Shiner's mother declined the pancakes in favor of an omelette.

Demencio was in no mood to negotiate, but the crazy fools had him pinned. Something had gone awry with the food-dye formula and his fiberglass Madonna had begun to weep oily brown tears. Hastily he'd hauled the statue indoors and shut down the visitation. Now there were forty-odd Christian tourists milling in the yard, halfheartedly snapping photos of baby turtles in the moat. Sales of the "holy water" had gone flat-line.

"Lemme get this straight." Demencio paced the living room. "You want thirty percent of the daily collection and thirty percent of the concessions? That ain't gonna happen. Forget about it."

Sinclair, still numb and loopy from his revelations, had been taking his cues from Shiner's mother. She pressed a smudged cheek against his shoulder.

"We told you," she said to Demencio, "we'd settle for twenty percent of the concessions."

"What's this 'we' shit?"

"But only if you find a place for Marva," Sinclair interjected. Marva was the name of Shiner's mother.