experience in an even more aggressive line of work.
“Well, when the Thorazine wears off,” Gisele said as she bent down to examine Roddy’s eyes, “or whatever you’re on. Come join the party. The professor’s on his way here from St. Petersburg. Took the first flight out. He’ll be here tomorrow morning.”
Roddy’s head jerked like he’d been shocked by a Taser. “You g-gotta stop him,” he stammered.
“Why would I do that?” Warning sirens screamed in Gisele’s head. A wave of nausea washed over her.
“Kieran, you tell her.”
“We don’t as yit, and Aay emphasize yit”—Kieran’s thick brogue filtered through twisted, mud-colored teeth—“hive the winnin’ ticket.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Gisele shouted. “This guy purchased over fifty thousand tickets from us and you don’t ‘hive’ the ticket? I can’t believe this.”
“We just need some time, eh,” Roddy said, massaging his temples. “We’ve got confirmation that the tickets for your professor were purchased in St. Paul, but we just don’t have them in hand.”
“You have a shipping tracer on it, right?”
Roddy avoided eye contact with Gisele and jammed a knuckle in his mouth, obstructing a plausible response.
“The tickets were ripped off,” Kieran interjected. “Jamal, our ticket buyer’s dead.”
“Dead?” Gisele stared in disbelief.
“Mexicans,” Kieran confirmed. “We got a good look at one of ’em on the webcam we had installed at the Cash and Dash before it got poked in the eye with a shotgun.”
Gisele stalked around the room, pulling at her hair, and stopped in front of Roddy. “What’s to keep these Mexicans from cashing in the tickets?”
Roddy twisted in his chair. “If the thieves are smart enough to figure out they’re sitting on the winning ticket, they’ll probably try to cash it through a third party,” he mumbled, operating in the dark.
“Third party?” Gisele blurted, fighting the impulse to grab Roddy by the throat.
“Don’t be getting riled,” Kieran said dismissively. “I am on my way to take care of the situation and retrieve the tickets.” His lips curled in a hint of a dark smile. “I’m going to cut the balls off those bloody filchers.”
“Gisele, you’ve got to stall the professor,” Roddy said, squirming, his hands steepled. “Keep him from coming here.”
“Like, shoot down his plane? How in the hell do you stall someone who has just won $750 million dollars?”
Roddy looked to Kieran for a silent read before responding to Gisele. “Meet him at the airport and book him into a hotel, find something for him to do. Tell him it will take a couple of days before our agent can claim the prize on his behalf—ticket validation procedures or some such shit. Hopefully, we’ll have the situation under control by then.”
“Please don’t screw this up,” pleaded Gisele. “The professor’s not your run-of-the-mill schmuck, someone you can blow off. He won’t be put off for long. You and the leprechaun here better fix this now!”
“Bugger off.” Kieran tossed her a hard look.
Gisele bolted from Roddy’s office, skidded down the stairs two at a time, and charged through the exit. The sunlight flashed like a trip flare, causing her to shield her eyes with a crooked salute. Gisele spotted Claude, the ticket manager, leaning against the side of the building, a cigarette pinched between his thumb and index finger.
“Bonjour, ma jolie l’une. Is there a fire?”
“Not yet.” Gisele caught her breath. “Can I bum one from you?” She fumbled the cigarette into the flame cupped in Claude’s hand. “Jesus, you smoking rope?” she coughed out.
“Brunes Gitanes. Very hard to get, but satisfying, don’t you think?”
“I hate to burst your bubble, Frenchy.” Gisele took up a position on the wall like a bird on a wire. “Gitanes are now made in the Netherlands.”
“What a pity,” he said, as though seriously wounded.
“Well, when the Thorazine wears off,” Gisele said as she bent down to examine Roddy’s eyes, “or whatever you’re on. Come join the party. The professor’s on his way here from St. Petersburg. Took the first flight out. He’ll be here tomorrow morning.”
Roddy’s head jerked like he’d been shocked by a Taser. “You g-gotta stop him,” he stammered.
“Why would I do that?” Warning sirens screamed in Gisele’s head. A wave of nausea washed over her.
“Kieran, you tell her.”
“We don’t as yit, and Aay emphasize yit”—Kieran’s thick brogue filtered through twisted, mud-colored teeth—“hive the winnin’ ticket.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Gisele shouted. “This guy purchased over fifty thousand tickets from us and you don’t ‘hive’ the ticket? I can’t believe this.”
“We just need some time, eh,” Roddy said, massaging his temples. “We’ve got confirmation that the tickets for your professor were purchased in St. Paul, but we just don’t have them in hand.”
“You have a shipping tracer on it, right?”
Roddy avoided eye contact with Gisele and jammed a knuckle in his mouth, obstructing a plausible response.
“The tickets were ripped off,” Kieran interjected. “Jamal, our ticket buyer’s dead.”
“Dead?” Gisele stared in disbelief.
“Mexicans,” Kieran confirmed. “We got a good look at one of ’em on the webcam we had installed at the Cash and Dash before it got poked in the eye with a shotgun.”
Gisele stalked around the room, pulling at her hair, and stopped in front of Roddy. “What’s to keep these Mexicans from cashing in the tickets?”
Roddy twisted in his chair. “If the thieves are smart enough to figure out they’re sitting on the winning ticket, they’ll probably try to cash it through a third party,” he mumbled, operating in the dark.
“Third party?” Gisele blurted, fighting the impulse to grab Roddy by the throat.
“Don’t be getting riled,” Kieran said dismissively. “I am on my way to take care of the situation and retrieve the tickets.” His lips curled in a hint of a dark smile. “I’m going to cut the balls off those bloody filchers.”
“Gisele, you’ve got to stall the professor,” Roddy said, squirming, his hands steepled. “Keep him from coming here.”
“Like, shoot down his plane? How in the hell do you stall someone who has just won $750 million dollars?”
Roddy looked to Kieran for a silent read before responding to Gisele. “Meet him at the airport and book him into a hotel, find something for him to do. Tell him it will take a couple of days before our agent can claim the prize on his behalf—ticket validation procedures or some such shit. Hopefully, we’ll have the situation under control by then.”
“Please don’t screw this up,” pleaded Gisele. “The professor’s not your run-of-the-mill schmuck, someone you can blow off. He won’t be put off for long. You and the leprechaun here better fix this now!”
“Bugger off.” Kieran tossed her a hard look.
Gisele bolted from Roddy’s office, skidded down the stairs two at a time, and charged through the exit. The sunlight flashed like a trip flare, causing her to shield her eyes with a crooked salute. Gisele spotted Claude, the ticket manager, leaning against the side of the building, a cigarette pinched between his thumb and index finger.
“Bonjour, ma jolie l’une. Is there a fire?”
“Not yet.” Gisele caught her breath. “Can I bum one from you?” She fumbled the cigarette into the flame cupped in Claude’s hand. “Jesus, you smoking rope?” she coughed out.
“Brunes Gitanes. Very hard to get, but satisfying, don’t you think?”
“I hate to burst your bubble, Frenchy.” Gisele took up a position on the wall like a bird on a wire. “Gitanes are now made in the Netherlands.”
“What a pity,” he said, as though seriously wounded.
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