The Jackpot Read online

  In the apartment's lone closet, Julius found an old duffel bag, in which he had carried home his belongings from Red Onion. He discovered four dollars in the side pocket. From the drawers, he plucked boxer shorts and socks, three pairs of pants and three shirts. Next, he hit the bathroom, grabbing shampoo, soap, a can of shaving cream and a handful of disposable razors. Julius' budget did not allow for the battery-powered razor with the cartridges that ran two dollars a pop. At least his old budget did not.

  He hit the kitchen last, where he found a bag of stale Doritos in the pantry and a can of Diet Pepsi in the off-again-on-again refrigerator. Useful. Julius wasn't much of a home cook. Groceries were expensive, so he was better off buying a two-dollar sandwich each night. On a good night, there would be leftovers after one of the many functions at the offices of Willett & Hall, the super-sized law firm that Julius cleaned every evening from five until ten. On those nights, he might bring home a bag of chicken tenders or turkey-and-Swiss-cheese rollups. Sometimes the doggy bags would last two or three nights. Those, indeed, were the salad days.

  There was one more item Julius considered taking. It was in the closet, tucked under a loose floorboard, in a shoebox lined with old socks. A black nine-millimeter pistol, which Julius had purchased four years ago from a dealer who did business in the complex. Upon his first conviction for burglary when he was twenty-one, Julius had forever lost his right to legally possess a firearm. But this was Carrolton Oaks, where reality often butted heads with the stated goals of the criminal justice system.

  But could he afford to get stopped with a gun? He could just picture getting stopped by an overzealous officer, getting arrested for loitering or trespassing or whatever it was police used to sweep the streets clean of people who looked like him. Then what? His personal effects inventoried? The ticket? He couldn't take the chance, could he?

  He pried up the warped slab of pine and flipped the box's flimsy lid aside. The weapon was wrapped in a soft white hand towel. It felt good in his hand, and he instantly felt safer, even when he knew the feeling was illusory, like a puff of breath on a chilly night. With his lips pressed together, he made his decision. He carefully replaced the gun back in the box and under the wood, took one last look at his apartment and ducked out into the cold, clear night.

  * * *

  Even on his better days, Leroy Marshall was not a particularly happy or forgiving individual. And today had not been one of his better days. Rhonda had been nagging him all day to find a job, and the baby hadn't stopped howling since dinnertime. To make things worse, cash had been very tight lately, and he still had two grand he needed to kick up to his main supplier, the vig on a loan he took out to get him through a particularly barren stretch. Kids needed so many diapers, he couldn't believe it. That baby went through ten a day.

  That and formula. He never did understand why Rhonda hadn't breastfed her, considering that breast milk was free. All he could remember was that she kept saying how tired she was when they came home from the hospital, give her a bottle. Within a week, her milk dried up, and all of a sudden, they needed a hundred a month for formula! Food stamps barely covered the expense, and that didn't leave a whole hell of a lot for Daddy to eat.

  The thing was, see, he wasn't even a hundred percent sure Angel was his goddamn kid.

  So when he got the sense that Julius had won some cash, and Leroy was all about instinct, he didn't hesitate. Mr. Julius didn't have extra mouths to feed. Mr. Julius had a steady job. He didn't need the money as badly as Leroy did. He wondered how much Julius had won. Five grand? Maybe ten! He had to get his hands on that ticket, and he didn't care what he had to do to get it. Plus, there was the matter of the old man getting the drop on him, and that could not go unpunished.

  After Julius left the apartment, Leroy scurried down the hallway to the bedroom, which he occasionally shared with Rhonda and which served as the home to a cache of weapons. On the way, he called his brother Tommy from his cell. Tommy lived in the next building over and was blindly loyal to his brother, like a dependable yellow lab.

  "Yo," said Tommy, picking up on the first ring.

  "Meet me behind Julius' building," barked Leroy. "Three minutes. Bring the chrome."

  "The fuck you say."

  "Just do it."

  Leroy hung up the phone without another word and stepped into the bedroom. He knew his younger brother wouldn't dare cross him, and that when he got there, Tommy Marshall would be behind the building and loaded for bear.

  The bedroom was sparsely furnished, but piles of dirty clothes and empty fast-food bags made it seem even smaller than it really was. The walls were a dingy white and hadn't seen a paint job since the original construction thirty years earlier. A dirty queen-sized mattress, which may or may not have been the site of Angel's conception, lay in the corner. A cheap particle-board chest of drawers against the opposite wall served as home to random urban detritus, including four empty bottles of St. Ides malt liquor, and three half-smoked jumbos, which were marijuana cigarettes generously laced with cocaine. Leroy found his spare nine-millimeter pistol in a grease-stained food bag, and he tucked it into the waistband of his pants.

  "Where you goin'?" Rhonda asked when he returned to the living room.

  "Out."

  "No, you ain't," Rhonda said, climbing up off the couch and intercepting Leroy at the door like a bouncer at a nightclub.

  "Bitch, get out my face," said Leroy. The chivalrous drug dealer clamped his hand around Rhonda's small face and shoved her hard against the wall. Her head thumped against the drywall, cracking the cheap plaster, and she crumpled to the floor.

  "Fuck you! I hate you!"

  Rhonda touched the back of her head, where she felt the warm oiliness of fresh blood.

  "Shut the fuck up," Leroy said, "or I bust you up for real next time."

  * * *

  Leroy slinked down the stairs to the courtyard, his pistol close to his side. They had to act quickly. Leroy knew there was no one in the apartment complex Julius trusted enough to bunk in with until he could cash the ticket, so he wouldn't be long for the Tree tonight. If he got out with the ticket, they'd never find him in time. It wasn't like he worked for the CIA. Couldn't exactly call in a satellite or some shit like that.

  The Tree got dark and shadowy at night, and even longtime residents got nervous when they went out, simply to take out the trash or head out for an overnight shift. You never knew if there would be a stray bullet out there with your name on it. Like roaches, the dealers and the hookers operated in the nooks and crannies of the complex. A healthy drug and sex business flourished in the Tree, drawing customers from the run-down neighborhoods that orbited the apartment complex. Although the cold had drawn many of the usual vendors inside tonight, some hard-core entrepreneurs were starting to filter out into the dark cold. It was important not to disappoint the customer. That's how you got ahead in any business.

  This section of the complex was designed in a horseshoe pattern with three long buildings forming a U around a center courtyard area. Leroy's apartment was in one leg of the U, and Julius' was in the opposite leg. A breezeway cut through each building, allowing for pedestrian ingress and egress from the courtyard. Many residents, the ones who worked hard and came home and locked their doors at night, often asked management to block off the breezeways because of the criminal elements that flowed through them each night like viruses. These requests fell on deaf ears because at the moment, management existed in the form of Devon "Pumpkin" Patch, a wiry thirty-year-old who took a cut of every drug deal that occurred on the property in exchange for looking away and keeping police away.

  Leroy slipped across the courtyard and through the breezeway in Julius' building. An old dog searching for his dinner on the far side of the corridor glanced up at Leroy, who kicked the mutt aside with his boot. The dog grunted, unsurprised. It wasn't the first time this human had kicked him. Leroy was not a friend to animals. He found his brother Tommy waiting about twenty yards down the sid
e of the building, in the shadow of a Dumpster, which provided some cover from the biting wind.

  "Yo," said Tommy.

  "Listen good now," Leroy said. "We go in strong and nobody get hurt."

  "Whatever you say."

  "You fuckin' listenin' to me?"

  "Yeah, yeah," Tommy said. "Whatta we doin', L?"

  "Just follow my lead."

  The pair eased away from the relative cover of the Dumpster and cut around the end of the building about twenty yards north. Pressing his body against the cold cinderblock, Leroy peeked around back into the courtyard. The stairwell to Julius' apartment was just a few steps away. They ducked under the stairwell and peered up through the open-air steps.

  "Go knock on his door," Leroy whispered. "See if he's home."

  "The fuck I do then?"

  "Never mind," said Leroy, immediately dismissing the idea. "Lemme think."

  While Leroy assessed the situation, the decision was made for him. In the still of the crisp air, he heard a door open softly above him. A moment later, he heard it click shut, just as softly. Footfalls on the concrete steps followed. Leroy's heart started pounding with glee. These were the footsteps of someone wanting to slip away into the night, like a teenage girl sneaking out of the house. They were moments away from getting the ticket. No one would get involved, lest they draw the ire of Leroy Marshall. He leaned over and tapped his brother on the small of his back, where Tommy had tucked away his .38. The men drew their weapons and waited for their prey.

  * * *

  Julius heard the frantic whispers just as his apartment door clicked shut behind him. Leroy. Probably had his dumbass brother Tommy with him. That did worry Julius a bit, as Tommy was just as likely to accidentally discharge his gun and kill someone as he was to do so intentionally. He thought about the gun under the floorboard, not ten yards away, and wished he had it now. Given their history, he didn't think Leroy would open fire on him. Not right away. First, Leroy would try to strong-arm him into relinquishing the ticket. If that didn't work, then things might get ugly.

  Julius paused at the landing, figuring his would-be robbers were waiting under the stairs. It was good and dark here, as the stairwell lighting had burned out years ago, and no one had ever bothered replacing it. He went over the number in his head again. Four hundred and fifteen million. He never even imagined one person could win so much money. Random thoughts spiked through his mind like sparks from a misfiring electrical transformer. Where the hell did they get that much money to pay off a prize so big? Did they give it to him all at once? In one check? In cash? The very idea of the money started to make his head spin, and it occurred to him he had the very pressing matter of staying alive to attend to.

  He considered his options. If he continued down the stairs, Julius faced an unpredictable confrontation with a young man who once shot a male friend in the hand for talking to Rhonda at a party without his permission. If he retreated to his apartment, he wasn't sure he could get to his gun in time, and it could very well become his tomb. He thought about the residents of the two other apartments on this floor. The first, the one closest to where he was crouched against the wall, was home to a frighteningly obese woman named Shanique and her three small boys. She was loud and fancied herself the leading socialite among the Tree's single women. Useless.

  Across the hall, however, Julius thought he could find some help. Older dude named Monk had lived there since Julius was a teenager. He was on disability, his left leg crippled a few years ago during a drive-by shooting. As fate would have it, Monk had identified Leroy Marshall as the triggerman. It was safe to say that Monk was not fond of Leroy. Crouching low and with his back pressed against the base of the wall, Julius shuffled across the landing and, using his foot, tapped softly on Monk's door.

  "Who the fuck is it?" barked Monk.

  Julius' heart sank. He'd forgotten how loud Monk was. No time to mess around.

  "Open up, it's Julius," he said.

  * * *

  "What is it?" asked Tommy, noticing Leroy stiffen visibly.

  "Fucker knows we're here," Leroy said. "I think he sneak into Monk's house."

  "What we do now?"

  "We go in now," Leroy said. "Monk just a little bitch. Won't do nothin'."

  * * *

  Monk opened the door a crack, an inky sliver just wide enough to let Julius in the apartment. Julius exhaled slowly, relieved to be in a safe haven, if only temporarily. Monk stepped back and gave Julius a long once over, wiping a hand across his clean-shaven skull. His skin was jet black, the blackest Julius had ever seen, a total absence of color, like a photo negative. His face was layered with thick wrinkles like a relief map, indicative of a life spent in the projects.

  "What the fuck do you want?" Monk asked once he had re-closed the door. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

  Julius looked around the dimly lit apartment, which was steeped in the unmistakable aroma of marijuana smoke and burning incense. He could not, for the life of him, imagine what exactly Monk was busy with. Based upon prior visits to Monk's apartment, Julius knew he was in the living room, as it were. Six-foot-high piles of newspaper littered the floor. The shell of a floor console television had been pushed up against the wall. A bizarre squawk erupted from the darkness. It sounded like a pterodactyl.

  "Sorry," Julius said. "I got a problem."

  "I got my own problems," said the wiry Monk. "I sure as hell don't need yours."

  Monk was fifty years old and lived in one of the most dangerous housing projects for a hundred miles in any direction. Indeed, Julius had no doubt that Monk did have his own problems. Not the least of which was that Monk was crazier than shit.

  "It's Leroy."

  Julius waited for it to sink in. If anyone in the Tree would help him deal with Leroy Marshall, it was Monk.

  "What do you need?" he asked.

  "They're downstairs," Julius said. "Him and Tommy, I'm guessing. I need to get out the Tree. Tonight."

  A knock at the door interrupted them.

  "Monk!" It was Leroy. "We know he in there. Just give him up, old man. You don't want no part of this."

  "Back bedroom," Monk said to Julius. "Fire escape ladder in the closet. You go out that window."

  "Whatcha gonna do?" asked Julius.

  "Oh, I got this," said Monk, making his way toward the gutted television chassis. "You get the fuck out of here."

  Julius slipped down the short hallway and ducked behind the door. In the dim light, he could just make out Monk's silhouette in the living room. It quickly became clear that he was loading a handgun.

  After a second knock at the door, Monk barked again. "Get the fuck outta here!"

  Julius suspected Monk's admonition was just as much for him as it was for Leroy and Tommy. Yet he couldn't tear himself away from what appeared to be the fulfillment of Monk's lifelong dream. As he watched, Monk climbed into the skeletal shell of the television and crouched down. Invisible.

  "Old man, don't fuck with me tonight," said Leroy. "This don't concern you."

  "Rhonda don't concern me neither, but I fucked her anyway," Monk said.

  With that, the front door to Monk's apartment blew inward like a roasted turkey leg ripped from its joint. It had, of course, failed under the thrust of Leroy Marshall's size twelve boot. It also represented the final link in a chain of events that had begun years ago.

  * * *

  Nearly three years to the day before he burst into Monk's apartment in his quest for Julius' lottery ticket, Leroy crossed paths with Monk for the first time. Monk's little brother Jimmy owed Leroy two hundred dollars for unpaid crack bills. At the time, a rock went for ten bucks apiece, and Jimmy had racked up a twenty-rock tab. On the night in question, the night that had permanently braided the lives of Leroy Marshall and the man known only as Monk, Jimmy and Monk were smoking weed at the bus stop that served the Tree. Shortly before nine in the evening, Leroy cruised by in his two-door Ford Bronco and sprayed the bus stop with the full clip from
a MAC-10 machine gun. Three rounds plowed through Jimmy's skull, killing him instantly; four more peppered Monk's left flank and leg, leaving him with a permanent limp.

  Monk unequivocally identified Leroy as the shooter. He memorized the license plate of the Bronco, which indeed was registered to Leroy. There was precious little forensic evidence, but after satisfying itself with his ability to perform on the stand, the prosecution built its case against Leroy around Monk's testimony. They happily charged Leroy with first-degree murder, attempted murder, and two counts of use of a firearm. They prepared the case exquisitely, leaving nothing to chance. Almost nothing.

  Given Monk's commitment to the case, his preparation for trial, his obsession with seeing his brother's killer brought to justice, what the prosecutor did not anticipate, what he could never have imagined (or maybe he didn't want to), was that Monk would develop a bad case of nerves on the morning of trial. To soothe those jangled nerves, Monk downed half a bottle of gin and smoked a jumbo about thirty minutes before he was scheduled to testify. And when he got on the witness stand just after lunch on the second day of trial, his nerves indeed had settled. He smiled at the jury, and he laughed at inappropriate moments. He couldn't remember the time or location of the shooting, he identified his brother Jimmy as Jason, and he denied he had been shot during the incident.

  Sensing that disaster was at hand, the prosecutor asked for a mistrial, but the judge denied his request, ruling the witness' obvious intoxication was not grounds for mistrial but instead would go to the weight that the jury would award the testimony. The prosecutor was granted permission to treat the witness as hostile, which only served to make Monk even more disposed to the giggles. He didn't grasp that the prosecutor, who had been so nice to him in the four months leading up to trial, was now supremely pissed at him.