ry-mouthed, Richard Haig looked at the ticket in his hand, looked at the Thrifty Grocery sales paper, then the ticket again. He blinked, convinced he missed the fine print that saying he won twelve dollars' worth of ketchup or some other crap prize.
But numbers don't lie. 37-16-26-982-B. The winning Mighty Dolla numbers. The number on the sales paper and the number on his ticket matched. Richard had checked a dozen times; he had won.
The sales paper still listed the Mighty Dolla prize as $20,000. No hidden fine print or disclaimers. Not credit toward groceries, or stock futures, or U.S. Savings Bonds. Cash money. Jesus Christ. Richard swallowed hard and ran his fingers through his thin hair, unable to believe his absurd luck.
The Mighty Dolla sweepstakes were run by the Thrifty Grocery chain of supermarkets, and they gave you a ticket whenever you bought ten or more dollars' worth of groceries. Scratch off the gray stuff under the smiling monkey, and if the numbers matched with the number the store published monthly in the sales paper, you won that month's prize. Usually it was something like an expenses-paid Vegas weekend or a lifetime supply of produce, but Richard really lucked out this time.
Well, lucky, if you didn't consider the fact that Richard was a convicted felon who had skipped parole, and could face a possible trip back up the river if he turned in his winning ticket.
Richard pulled a few jobs back several years back with some friends of his, Earl Ray and Mike Shaw, ripping off car radios. Eventually they got caught (Richard was convinced to this day that it was Earl's busybody ol' lady that turned them in) and in '94 were sent up the river for about half a year with three years' probation. That was in Dade County, Florida, last year. After giving the road crew the slip, Richard moved to Shiver Pines, Mississippi, and had lived there quietly for the last two years.
Richard had a slight problem. He couldn't just waltz up to the store and ask for his money. He would probably have to sign God knows how many papers and forms. If he didn't want his picture or address in the sales paper or in the local newspaper, they would at least print his name. The IRS would want a piece of his pie, and if they knew where to find him it wouldn't take a hell of a lot of work for the boys in Dade to hunt him down. It wouldn't do any good to collect the money on the run, either; he knew that they wouldn't just give the money to you all at once in bills, they would send it to a little at a time you through the mail in checks. Between supplying Thrifty Grocery the addresses for the checks and the trail of check stubs, Richard would be counting his money behind bars in no time. Assuming of course that they would send money to a parole-skipping felon in the first place.
Richard looked at his winning ticket, the shiny cardboard rectangle with red and white lettering already slightly smudged by his sweaty thumbprint. He promptly dropped the ticket onto the table, not wanting to deface it in any way; if he was going to be cheated out of his twenty grand, it wouldn't be by some anal-retentive manager who wouldn't accept his ticket because it was damaged or something. Richard had heard of shit like that happening to�
Richard reached for his cup of instant coffee without taking his eyes off the ticket, deep in thought. He overreached the handle and put his fingers in the near-boiling liquid. He yelled and pulled his hand back, knocking the cup over and spilling the dark contents all over the table. Cursing, he got up to go to the sink and put cold water on his hand when he suddenly remembered what was on the table.
He spun and lurched for the ticket in the same awkward motion, twisting his left ankle as he whirled around. He slammed his spread palm into a coffee puddle on the table to catch himself, nearly collapsing the rickety aluminum and particle board object. Coffee splashed everywhere, drops pelting his shirt and face.
And all he could think about was the damned ticket.
In an angry panic Richard wiped his face with his sleeve (beaning himself in the nose as he did) and looked frantically for his winning ticket, hoping that it somehow survived. Chess, the big rust-colored Manx he had adopted, was already halfway across the room, alert and ready to run. The commotion must have scared the piss out of the poor tom, who had been dozing peacefully only ten feet away from Richard just a second ago.
Not too concerned about the cat now, Richard located the ticket on a relatively unsplattered area of the table. Nearly shaking with anticipation, he wiped his hand on his jeans, cautiously grabbed the small piece of laminated cardboard, and appraised the damage done.
None. Not a single drop of coffee.
Richard sighed in relief, and thought, With the money this ticket'll give me I can buy an oak table to replace this cheap piece of crap.
But quickly he realized that he may very well never see a red cent of that money. He could just as well have let the coffee spill all over it, or use the damned thing to wipe his ass.
But where there was a will, there was a way. So best to keep it safe, just in case.
He walked into his bedroom, limping slightly, and rummaged around in his army-issue canvas bag until he found a small dollar store photo album. He tucked the ticket behind a picture of his bitch sister Bernice (why do I keep her ugly picture anyway?), closed it, and tossed it onto the bed. There. He would have to try pretty damned hard to destroy his meal ticket now.
Breathing deeply and slowly, Richard decided that he was way too stressed, and he would shower and change clothes. Let the Buddhists have their meditation, a good shower and clean clothes against his skin were enough for Richard.
And leave the ticket out here, all alone?
After some thought, he made rounds and locked both doors and all the windows in his little shanty just in case somebody decided to rob it while he was showering. As if it would do a lot of good, he thought to himself; if somebody wanted to get in here, they could easily enough. Richard had to break in out of necessity for about a month when he lost his key a while back.
He came back into his bedroom and grabbed the photo album. In in a sudden fit of paranoia, Richard considered burying the thing in the litterbox. Dismissing the idea, he decided to hide it in Chess' bed, a stained reddish-orange throw pillow in an RC Cola box. He shoved it between the pillow and the bottom of the box, prompting a curious look from the Chess, already lying on his pillow again.
Richard scratched Chess behind the ears and uttered a brief apology. He took a change of clothes into the bathroom and closed the door.

Chapter Two ->