Jack Daniels and Tea by Phyllis Smallman Page B

cold.
    After the interview with the police, the detective offered to have someone take me home but somehow it felt better to be back behind the bar.
    Inside the party was over and the bar was almost empty. I went to clear the last of the tables.
    I slid a tray of empty glasses onto the bar and then I reached down and picked up the crumpled lotto clipping from the floor. I glanced at the numbers before dropping the piece of newspaper in the trash
    Charlie Reese hadn’t had a heart attack, just a shock.
    I mixed a couple of drinks, made change and wiped down the bar as the night faded away. And then, while Mark locked up, I slipped into the office to make a couple of calls.
    â€œCharlie,” I said after he growled hello, “I’m going to need a piece of that ticket.”
    There was silence at the other end. Too long a silence for me to believe his next words. “What ticket?”
    â€œDon’t kid a kidder, Charlie. Doc played the same Lotto numbers every week. His own special numbers…2-11: his birthday, 10-09: his wife’s and 09-55: his anniversary. Easy to prove. Funny thing is, those numbers meant something to me as well. My birthday, my mom’s birthday and the day a hurricane wiped out my grandma’s house. Doc and I had a laugh over sharing those dates. You would have gotten away with it if I hadn’t known Doc’s numbers. I’m probably the only one who does.
    â€œYou’re crazy.”
    His outrage almost convinced me.
    â€œYou trying to tell me you haven’t got the winning ticket, Charlie?”
    Silence.
    â€œYou see the problem, Charlie? If you collect on that ticket you make my story. I can tie those numbers to Doc and someone is bound to have seen you talking to him. ‘Course you could just rip it up and waste thirteen million dollars. Wouldn’t you just rather share it with me?”
    It was almost morning. Part of the parking lot was still cordoned off but the police had left. I went to the emergency exit and checked the alley. All clear. I slid a block of wood between the door and the jamb so Charlie could get in. Then I put the Cotter key in the locking mechanism so the door couldn’t lock behind him.
    Praying this wouldn’t turn out to be another of my not so good ideas, I went to wait for Charlie in the darkened bar. Only three pot-lights, above glass shelves of booze, relieved the eerie gloom. I wanted to turn on the lights but if Dutch’s was lit up after closing time it would draw attention. Attention that I didn’t want. So I waited in the dark while my courage melted away like the ice in a forgotten drink.
    Somewhere between determination and bolting, I heard his heavy tread coming down the corridor from the back. I slid off the edge of the barstool.
    Charlie stepped through the door. We stared at each other awhile. Finally he asked, “So, you think you’ve got it all figured out?”
    â€œDoc always played the lottery. Every week. Always checked his ticket at the bar but not tonight. Tonight he forgot. He was a little unsteady from the extra ice tea so he gave you the ticket and you did it for him, didn’t you?”
    Charlie stalked towards me, eyes locked on mine. I eased away.
    â€œThirteen million.” My voice cracked. “Who could resist? Not me. I think we should just write my name across the ticket with yours. Then we’ll cash it together. No one the wiser.”
    â€œYou stupid, bitch! Do you think I’m going to trust you?”
    â€œCan you afford not to? Florida has the death penalty.”
    â€œAnd you’ll just keep quiet for part of the take?”
    â€œIf I collect on the ticket I’ll be as guilty as you.”
    Anger hissed out of him, “No dumb bitch is going to shake me down.”
    He lunged for me but I’ve been ducking male hands since I was twelve. It’s an art form with me.
    Circling a table, synchronized as if tied by invisible bonds, we