Lucifer's Lottery

replied, “Well, son, first off, you’re young. Second, I can tell by your face you ain’t dumb enough to drive drunk or fall off a dang balcony—”

Wow. I guess that’s a compliment.

“—and third, your buttons are all buttoned up.” She pointed a sun-withered finger. “That tells me you was in the army or marines.”

“You got me,” Gerold admitted. “Army. Got out a year or so ago and put in physical therapy.”

When Gerold had gotten off the Greyhound, he’d taken a cab to Lake Misquamicus, having flipped himself into the cab seat while the cabbie stowed his wheelchair in the trunk. Upon arrival, he wheeled toward the dock, marveling at the sight of the silverish lake. This’ll kick ass! Over the great reflective expanse of water, not one other boat could be seen. Privacy . . . So the Fates had granted his wish after all. He’d be able to kill himself here and no one could interfere.

The bait shop proprietor was probably in her late fifties but looked ten years older from being in the sun for —more than likely—her entire life. She was very slim, tattoo-dotted, and still bore some vestige of bygone good looks even with the wrinkles, sun blemishes, and veininess. A far cry from the young and spritely bikini girl in the ad; however, this woman was wearing a bikini—a raving, metallic candy-apple red—that was absolutely minuscule. She’s almost too old to be wearing it, but . . . more power to her for doing it anyway, Gerold reasoned. Her perfectly straight hair shined perfectly white to the small of her back; the bikini top satcheled a sizable bosom, obviously implants dating back to the ’70s.

“And you’ll be pleased to hear this, hon,” she said, grinning behind the counter. “Here, there’s no charge to veterans for bait!”

“I appreciate it,” Gerold said, managing not to laugh. Now THERE’S a gesture for servicemen. Free worms, chum, and dead shrimp.

“And rod rentals and Jet Skis are half off,” she added. “But I don’t suppose you’d be able to Jet Ski by yourself.” Then her eyes glittered. “But I’d be happy to take you out myself and you can hold on to me.”

“Thanks, but I came here to rent a rowboat and drop a crayfish trap, that’s all.”

“Oh, dandy!” She slapped a frozen bag of shrimp on the counter, then rang up Gerold’s other purchases: a small wire crayfish trap, a Sterno cooker and stand, and a metal pot. “Crawdads in Lake Misquamicus are the best in the state, some of ’em almost big as lobsters.”

“That’s what I’m looking for.”

“How long you wanna rent the boat till, sweetie?”

“Um, well, probably till late if that’s all right.”

“Sure is. Some folks rent a boat and fish all night and through to sunup.”

“Ring me up for that, please,” Gerold said.

“Oh, you don’t gotta pay for the rental till ya come back in.”

Gerold felt a twinge of deceit. He wanted to pay in advance, now, so he wouldn’t be gypping her. After all, he wouldn’t be coming back, would he? Not in the rental boat at any rate.

It would probably be the county sheriff’s department that brought his body back in . . . if they ever found it.

“Aw, just let me pay it all up front, keeps things easier. Oh, and some bottled water and a cooler.”

The woman winked. “Comin’ right up, handsome.” She hitched up her overly burgeoned top and retrieved the items; then he paid up and wheeled himself outside.

A long wooden dock reached out into the silver ripples. At the end, several rowboats rocked in the water; the white-haired woman jumped down into the last one and snapped in a special seat with a back on it.

“What’s that?” Gerold asked.

“A seat for folks so afflicted. Ya can’t row if ya can’t sit up straight, and you can strap yourself in. Makes it safer.”

“Cool,” Gerold approved, not that safety was an issue now.

“Now lemme help ya get in, hon—”

“I got it,” he said and expertly flipped himself out of the chair. His arm muscles bulged when he lunged forward once on his hands, then shimmied himself into the handicapped chair.

“You’re one strong fella!” the lady exclaimed.

Yeah, but only from the waist up.

The woman stowed his cooler and other items, her zero-body-fat physique exemplified each time she bent over. When one of her implants slid up, Gerold marveled at the briefly betrayed tan line: a patch of lambent white blocked off against the iced-tea-colored tan. Within the white patch, the tiniest pink sliver of nipple could be seen. Wow, Gerold mused. Suddenly he found the vision of the lissome older woman densely erotic, and it occurred to him that such a sight—one of his last among the living—was a wonderful thing.

Had she caught him looking? At once her grin seemed sultry, and when she noticed that a wedge of breast had slipped out from the bra, she seemed to take her time correcting it.

“I guess I’m all set,” Gerold said.

“Not just yet,” she corrected, then startled him when she walked right over to him and leaned over. Suddenly her top-straining implants were nearly in his face. “Just lean forward a bit, sweetie.”

Now her barely covered crotch was nearly in his face, but he understood when she put his arms through a life vest and tightened the straps. “Misquamicus ain’t a very big lake, hon, but a good wind can cause a mighty rough chop.”

The ironic fact amused Gerold: She’s putting a life vest on a guy who’s going to commit suicide.

She placed a small object in a side bin. “And here’s an emergency radio just in case. I’ll check in with ya so often, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“You’ll find the best crawdaddin’ right dead center of the lake. It’s deeper and there’s lots of crannies down there where they like to hide.”

“Dead center. Gotcha.”

Her tanned legs flexed when she climbed back on the dock. She put on sunglasses, grinning up to the sky, her perfectly flat stomach beginning to shine with sweat. “Nice slow, sunny day like this? I think I’ll lay out here a while and catch some rays—”

Gerold gulped.

—and then she took off her top, just like that.

Holy moly . . .

She stretched out in a lounge chair facing Gerold’s position in the seat. All at once, the flawless snow-white breasts centered by dark nipples blared at him within the demarcation of tanned skin.

She grinned, Gerold’s own astonished face reflecting in her glasses.

“Uh, oh, sorry,” he murmured after another moment of staring.

“Hon? A gal my age’s got no problem bein’ looked at by a nice fella . . .”

Gerold raised his oars, tried not to continue staring, then just thought, To hell with it, and kept looking. “Um, I have a question, though—”

She giggled. “Yes. They’re implants, I gotta admit.”

Gerold laughed. “That wasn’t the question but . . .” He tried to focus his thought. “A minute ago, you said Lake Misquamicus wasn’t a big lake.” He shrugged and glanced behind. “Looks big to me. Real big.”

“Aw, there’s at least a dozen lakes in Florida bigger’n this. The biggest, a’course, is Lake Okeechobee, second biggest in the whole country. You never been there?”

It was impossible not to keep stealing glances. “No, but I’ve heard of it.”

“Over a trillion gallons of water in Okeechobee—”

The statement snapped Gerold’s stare. “A trillion? That’s . . . unimaginable.”

“Lotta water, sure. Hard to even reckon that much water.”

I better start rowing, Gerold told himself. This woman’s hooters are wringing me out. But the sudden question snapped to mind. “Any idea how many gallons in