He locked the front door behind him, bracing it with a chair. He opened a back window and punched out the screen, as an escape in case Bodean James Gazzer returned. The fresh air didn't hurt, either – the place smelled of soiled laundry, cigaret ash and stale beer. Methodically, Moffitt began to search. He knew from experience that even the dimmest of thugs occasionally could be brilliant at concealing contraband – and a lottery ticket was easier to hide than an AK-47 or a kilo of hash.
The kitchen was first. One glance at the crusty silverware made Moffitt glad he wore surgical gloves. With a heavy forearm he cleared the cluttered dinette. There he dumped every box and tin from Bodean James Gazzer's cabinets – sugar, flour, instant coffee, Cocoa Krispies, croutons, Quaker Oats.
No Lotto stub.
He took a deep breath before opening the refrigerator, but it wasn't as rancid as he'd feared. The food section was practically empty except for Budweisers, marshmallow-filled cookies, ketchup and a fuzzy chunk of Gouda. Finding nothing hidden there, Moffitt hacked his way into the freezer compartment, a favorite stash of novice dopers and smugglers. A half-gallon container of ancient fudge-ripple ice cream went into a mixing bowl, which went into the stove. When the slop was melted, Moffitt strained it through a colander. Then he emptied the ice trays on the counter and examined each cube.
No ticket.
He grabbed a steak knife and headed for the bedroom, where he eviscerated the pillows, gutted the mattress and (box spring, pried up the musty corners of the carpet. Inside Bodean James Gazzer's dresser, Moffitt came across something he'd never before seen: camo-style underwear. There was also a World War II bayonet, a gummy-looking Penthouseand a pile of dunning notices from the National Rifle Association for unpaid dues. Moffitt was certain he had hit pay dirt in the bottom drawer, beneath a tangle of frayed socks, where he uncovered five crisp tickets from the Florida Lotto.
But none of the sequences matched JoLayne's winning numbers, and the date of the drawing was wrong: December 2.
That's tomorrow, thought Moffitt. Unbelievable – the $14 million they stole from her wasn't enough. The fuckers want more.
He pocketed the tickets and, with some dread, moved to the bathroom. A colony of plump carpenter ants had taken over the sink, demonstrating a special fondness for Bodean James Gazzer's toothbrush. Moffitt dove into the medicine chest and emptied the pill bottles. Several had been prescribed to persons other than Mr. Gazzer, who'd undoubtedly stolen them or forged the scrips. Moffitt took his time with a dispenser of Crest and a tube of hemorrhoid cream, which he flattened under a shoe and then opened with a wire cutter.
Nothing.
The vanity held an empty box of Trojan nonlubricated condoms, which intrigued Moffitt. Bodean James Gazzer's apartment showed no signs of a woman's presence – certainly no woman who was worried about catching a disease. Maybe Gazzer was gay, the agent thought, although it seemed unlikely, given the homophobic tendencies of gun nuts. Also, the pornographic videos stacked near the TV set bore heterosexually oriented titles.
Maybe the loon wore rubbers when he jacked off. Or maybe he used them with hookers. In any event, he'd been a busy boy.
The answer to the riddle of the Trojans turned up in a plastic trash can: five foil condom wrappers and a razor blade. Moffitt aligned them on the toilet seat. The condoms were inside the packages, and Moffitt cautiously removed them with a tweezers. Each of them bore visible nicks or slices, which presumably was why they'd been discarded.
Moffitt concentrated on the bright wrappers. Clearly they hadn't been torn open in the ordinary haste of lust. Instead they'd painstakingly been cut along one edge, undoubtedly with the razor blade. Even with such care, Bodean James Gazzer had damaged all five rubbers.
The sixth must have been the winner. Moffitt was pretty sure he knew where it was and what was hidden inside it.
"Fucker," he said aloud.
Mr. Gazzer must be quite the optimist, the agent reflected. Why else would he care whether the condom in which he'd concealed the lottery ticket was usable?
On his way out of the apartment, Moffitt encountered a stout rat gorging itself in the mounds of sugar and cereal on the dinette. His first impulse was to shoot it, but then he thought: Why do Gazzer any favors? With luck, the critter was rabid.
By nature Moffitt was not a mischievous person, but he was inspired by the shabby trappings of hate. He had a nagging image of Bodean Gazzer and his sadistic partner – one would be stretched out in his underwear on the futon, the other might be slouched at the dinette. They'd be slugging down Budweisers, laughing about what they'd done to JoLayne Lucks, trying to remember who'd punched her where. The look in her eyes. The sounds she made.
Moffitt simply could not slip away and allow such shitheads to go on with their warped lives, exactly as before. After all, how often did one get the opportunity to make a lasting impression upon paranoid sociopaths?
Not often enough. Moffitt felt morally obligated to fuck with Bodean James Gazzer's head. It took only a few extra minutes, and afterwards even the rat seemed amused.
Sinclair was overcome the instant he touched the cooters: a warm tingle that started preternaturally in his palms and raced up both arms to his spine.
He was sitting cross-legged in Demencio's yard, on the lip of the moat. The daily visitation was over, the pilgrims were gone. Sinclair had never handled a turtle before. Demencio said go ahead, help yourself. They don't bite or nothin'.
Sinclair picked up one of the painted cooters and set it delicately in his lap. The bearded face gazing up from the grooved carapace was purely beatific. And the turtle itself was no less exquisite – bright gemlike eyes, a velvety neck striped in greens, golds and yellows. Sinclair reached into the water and picked up another one, and then another. Before long, he was acrawl with baby turtles – rubbery legs pumping, tiny claws scratching harmlessly on the fabric of his pants. The sensation was hypnotic, almost spiritual. The cooters seemed to emanate a soft, soothing current.
Demencio, who was refilling the moat with "holy" water, asked Sinclair if he felt all right. Sinclair spontaneously began to tremble and hum. Demencio couldn't make out the tune, but it was nothing he was dying to hear on the radio. Turning to Joan and Roddy: "I'd say it's time to take the boy home."
Sinclair didn't want to go. He looked up at Roddy. "Isn't this amazing?" Thrusting both hands high, full of dripping turtles: "Did you see!"
Demencio, sharply: "Be careful with them things. They ain't mine." That's all he'd need, some city dork accidentally smushing one of JoLayne's precious babies. Say adiosto a thousand bucks.
Demencio was tempted to turn the hose on the guy – it had worked like a charm on Trish's tomcat. Sinclair's face pinched into a mask of concentration. His head began to flop back and forth, as if his neck had gone to rubber.
"Nyyah nurrha nimmy doo-dey,"he said.
Roddy glanced at his wife. "What is that – Spanish or somethin'?"
"I don't believe so."
Again Sinclair cried: "Nyyah nyyah doo-dey!"It was a mangled regurgitation of a newspaper headline he'd once written, a personal all-time favorite: nervous nureyev nimble in disney debut.
The translation, had Demencio known it, would have failed to put him at ease. "That's it," he said curtly. "Closing time."
At Roddy's urging, Sinclair returned the twelve painted turtles to the water. Roddy led him to the car, and Joan drove home. Roddy began stacking charcoal briquettes in the outdoor grill, but Sinclair said he wasn't hungry and went to bed. He was gone when Joan awoke the next morning. Under the sugar bowl was his journalist's notebook, opened to a fresh page: