Lucky Comet
It is cold, and the smell of new money is in the air.
I knock and hear shuffling, through the peep hole they see me in my dark suit. They open the door and the young man looks at me, Playstation 4 controller in hand, "Go away." he says as he begins to shut the door. I quickly flick a thick business card into the closing gap where it catches his arm and falls to the floor. "Hey!" he protests.
Protest all you want young man. You stopped closing the door.
"Emma Claire Darling," I say dead pan. "Those cards cost my $18 a piece. Best if you pick that up and give it to her. She is expecting me."
The young man bends down and picks up the card, flipping it in his hand. "You paid too much, sucker." And the door shuts on me, shutting me out of the warm draft. I wait a moment and hear into the apartment. I hear the Playstation un-pause and am disappointed. This happens occasionally and always with the young people. They think they are so smart.
Into my pocket I pull my black box, a small plastic component box found in any hobbyist electronics store, a rubber antenna poking out the top, a red button on the face. I press the red button pointing the antenna into the apartment.
A little physiology and physics for you fans. Young people can hear sounds at a far greater range than us older folk. The little hairs in the ears, loud music aside, still can pick up even the most annoying, high pitched squeal, say at ten kilohertz. What is this like? Imagine a mosquito traversing your room as you lay in bed, the noise is everywhere at once, the sound becoming that of fingernails on chalkboard.
As to the physics, pound a crystal with enough energy and it vibrates. This is how RFID works. Now, pound a crystal that is tuned to vibrate at 10kilohertz and from outside the building I can stand in the cold and start to drive the victim batty with discomfort.
If a solid tone doesn't work I can begin depressing in cycles, a sort of Morse Code of high pitched pain. They have no idea it is coming from me. They just know that they are being tormented. They may turn the volume up on the TV, but nothing can stop that thin needle of sound piercing.
They shut off the TV and I stop the sound. I imagine them looking at the TV in confusion. More Morse Code, some old mariner dit dah's from a past life I imagine. Finally the young person relents bringing my business card, which holds the crystal in its thick weave, to its intended.
I anticipate The normal response I imagine: "Why did you leave them outside?! Invite him in!"
The door swings open to a defeated guardian of the household, the lottery winner standing in the living room smiling at me.
"Come in Mr. Axe. Excuse my grandson, please. Have a seat? Would you like something to drink?" I walk in, welcoming the warmth from my extended stay on the unprotected porch.
"Emma, dear," I say taking her hand. "It is time we settled our business. In private I prefer," nodding to the young man.
She looks to her grandson and shoos him up the stairs. He looks dejected, and possibly angry. I am also cautious as well. For this job I did no prior research. This was a blind bid on my part. Sloppy, I know. Emotionally attached you could say.
Emma leads me into the kitchen where wonderful smells cling to the walls as if commanded to bring peace to anyone who entered.
How could I not love Emma? Research had brought me to her town, following a family whom I believed was my next job. Stopping at a local gas station to check a map of the area I noticed the car, a late 60's Dodge Comet. A personal fan of the Dart I admired the ride from afar as it pulled up to a pump and Emma stepped out. I couldn't dare guess her age, nor her weight, both settling into a comfortable mid-late number. Her flannel jacket, surely acquired through frequent thrift store rendezvous'. Walking to the attendant she digs out paper money from a long forgotten styling of purse. She is met by another customer, a thin man looking lost in life, walking out the door who did not hold the door for her. She ignored his rudeness and smiled at the young man behind the counter as she purchased gas and a small pack of gum.
Back outside, as she pumped the fuel for the Comet, the thin man walked near her car to his when he slipped on ice, bracing himself on a door handle while twisting his knee. In a flash Emma shut off her fuel and ran to the man, helping regain his footing.
I watched this in amazement. Holding no grudge she took hold of him, opened his door and sat him in his driver seat. She then went and finished pumping his gas, stored the pump handle and replaced his gas cap. She talked with him further to be sure he was alright. She finished pumping her fuel as the thin man drove off.
I watched this, forgetting completely about my target family. I liked this woman. She was an unprejudiced decision maker unafraid of fashion mistakes and drove a kick ass car. She was my new job.
I followed her that day as she ran her errands: grocery store, pharmacy and Target. As she entered each store coupons began to appear out of old pockets. I knew, even after my job was complete, she would still be clipping coupons. This was my kind of lady.
The first time I approach a target is always the most exciting for me. I have done this nearly one hundred times, and it is never dull. I approach a perfect stranger with a small slip of paper and a one dollar bill. "These are the next winning lottery numbers," I tell them. When they take the gift in weary hand I produce my business card, Henry Axe, Windfall Consultant. I explain my role is to provide a road to a new life, not necessarily a better life I stress, but a new life. They look around for friends or family as if being pranked, then tighten their purse or jackets against their body in a defensive manor. I am not to be trusted. I am most likely a charlatan. A flim-flam artist.
Sometimes I am met with silence, other times anger. Sometimes hope where yes, it is too good to be true but that is all that is left to hang on to. No matter the response I tell them, "Here are the numbers and here is a dollar. You have nothing to lose."
"What's your angle?" Emma asked, eying me with distrust. "Why don't you just play the numbers yourself?"
"All I ask is that you take the lump sum and pay me 5% gross." I could see I did not answer her question. "This way I win every lottery without drawing attention to myself."
Usually it takes some convincing. I cannot be purchase the ticket myself, that would put me on video purchasing. As you may imagine I have enough legal issues when those I cannot convince call the authorities.
With Emma the veil of mistrust began to drop when I mentioned I enjoyed her car. Turns out that was our emotional bond and she happily took the numbers and dollar along with my business card.
"What would force me to pay you if I do win?" she asked.
"Nothing. You may choose to pretend you never met me and came up with the numbers all your own. But deep down, in that place where only your voice is heard, you will know the truth. I gave you a gift. My karma is my own. Yours is, well, your own."
I read in the newspaper that she did in fact win the twelve million dollar prize, but they did not mention her by name. It would be a month before she made herself public. I would give another week before I stood at her door, so rudely greeted by her grandson.
As I sat at her kitchen table she brought me a cup of coffee and a small plate of fresh cookies. "Still have that Comet?" I asked.
Smiling as she sat across from me, "My new Cadillac is nice, but I'll never get let my baby go."
"Is it all you expected it to be?"
I could see a tinge of sadness at the corner of her eyes. "I lost my daughter to the cancer several years ago. My grandson you met, William, he lives with me now. His father is...difficult. He means well, but has not matured as men should."
"How is William holding up?"
"He was troubled prior to winning. Struggling with grades. Now I fear he thinks he may have a free ride. I don't want to spoil him, you know? But I want him to enjoy his youth. Does that make sense?"
"Perfectly," I replied. I had only met Emma once before and here she was opening up family secrets over a cup of coffee. This is a behavior not uncommon in my job yet it continued to surprise me. They had no one to turn to. Whether it be paranoia or mistrust they found themselves incapable of confiding in someone they knew. It was as if they could only share the secret with someone who gave them secret in the first place. "Do you still have my card?"
She pointed that it was pinned to a wall near other notes of import.
"That number," I continued. "Is my lawyer. Any time you wish to talk they will route the call to me. He also has the phone numbers of the others."
"Others?"
"The other winners I have," stuck on the right word. "Helped. They have all gone through what you are now and someday someone may call you for help."
"I don't know what help I can provide, Mr. Axe."
"You will. It just takes time."
Out front a noise rose, turbo diesel barely muffled. Through the window I noticed the shine of new pearl paint and untarnished chrome wrapping a very large pickup. The engine shuts off and a single door slams. I look to Emma who does not hide her fear. "My son-in-law," she says quietly. "William must have called him."
The front door opens to reveal a large frame of a man. I ponder my mistake, allowing emotions to dictate my job and not following my strict protocols. Had I done my homework I would have seen that this man is a controller, someone who may intimidate or use leverage to for his personal gain. It is he that controls the family, whether the family wants it or not; and with the windfall of millions to his inheritance he cannot allow any influence beyond his own to sway that cash from the winner.
This is completely understandable. From the perspective of a family member: Emma has her checkbook out and was begun writing me a check for over $275k dollars. I am taking money from his family. Food from his child's mouth.
This places me in a very precarious and actionable position. As with all my jobs I ask that they tell no one of how this came to be. Ever. To the outside world, including friends and family, I am just a windfall consultant.
As the son-in-law approaches the kitchen where I have stood to greet with respect, Emma is shuffling to hide her checkbook. Neither her nor I are in a comfortable position.
"Mother," stated flatly. "Who is this?" His eyes dart from me to her to her check book. Spinning the book with his fingers his eyes widen at the large number. Looking to Emma I could see she was powerless. Picking up my business card he read it, his lips moving subtly motions as he attempts to understand. "A consultant? We don't need you. There's the door," stepping to the side in the small kitchen area.
I assess the situation and nod to Emma. "Ms. Darling, I prefer our business handled with discretion. I will bid you good day."
A strong finger found my sternum. "You bid her farewell, forever. We don't need your consulting."
I smiled at his ignorance, which in hindsight was not a good choice. "My consulting has already been provided. I'm here only to gather my fee."
"And what exactly did you consult on Mr.," reading my card. "Axe," sarcastically.
"That is between myself and my client."
He turned to his mother-in-law who was still sitting, "Please Bill. Mr. Axe will leave and that will be that."
Bill looked at the check again and opened his phone. "You don't waste any time, do you?" I asked before I could think twice. The strong finger pushed me back into the chair and I sat there, wondering how I had completely lost my self discipline.
He dialed 911 to explain there was a con-artist grifting his mother. Because her town is so small the police were well aware of the address for the new favorite citizen, response was fast and over whelming.
The responding officers and their sergeants tracked cold through the house as Emma and I sat with our coffee. I produced my identification to the first officer as others were talking with Bill. He stood amongst them, struggling for control of the conversation, his intimidation striking a wall of non-response from the officers. It was rather enjoyable to watch.
"Emma," I said quietly while an officer was querying dispatch with my drivers license number. "I'm going to be taken away very soon. You may tell Bill everything, if you like." I figured I had broken enough of my rules; why not one more?
"Where are they taking you?"
I smiled at her as the officer approached me motioning me to stand. A quick pat down and search and then the cuffs on my wrists behind my back.
"Wait!" Emma called out, standing. "What are you doing?"
"The state police list Mr. Axe as a person of interest ma'am. Please sit down."
"Mother," Bill called from the living room. "Sit down. He's a grifter."
Led by the officer past Billy I was brought near the front door and motioned to sit on a small bench. “There are no outstanding warrants, but the state police want to see you. They are on the way now. Sit here quietly or you'll sit in the back of my squad, which is not very warm or comfortable.”
I nodded my compliance.
“Aren't you going to read him his rights?” Bill asked loudly.
“Sir, please sit on the couch quietly,” the officer said. This was a very interesting young man. He spoke without raised emotion or worry. I found it enjoyable to watch Bill succumb to his will.
From my vantage I could not see Emma in the kitchen, only Bill on the couch and his son sitting at the top of the stairs looking at me. What have I done to this family? What pain have I brought to this kind woman? In questioning my decisions I thought of the young man on the stairs. Prior to my meddling, while struggling, he was learning the consequences to his actions on his own. Character through struggle, right?
This is the basis of my protocol. Finding those families strong enough to endure the pressure of instant wealth. To understand it is a tool and not a pleasure, which is a reward from work. This I have taken from this family. For this I am sorry.
The trooper arrived in short time, his uniform crisp and perfect unlike those of his street brethren. He stood before me, my identification and business card in his well manicured hand.
“We have been looking for you, Mr. Axe.”
“I have not been that hard to find. I'm in the book.” This is true for what is left of the yellow pages there is still a small block advertisement under Wealth Management. I'm sure it was small waste of money, but the romantic in me did not wish to remove it.
“Mind telling me how you met Ms. Darling here?”
“I believe you would get a better answer from her, sir.”
“I believe I want your answer before I ask her, sir.”
“I am afraid I would like to withhold any answers until my attorney is present.”
“You aren't under arrest, Mr. Axe.”
“These cuffs say otherwise,” I said back.
He motioned to my officer to uncuff my wrists. This has happened a few times in the past and am always surprised at how sore my wrists and shoulders are from the ordeal.
Emma was standing in the kitchen watching me. I smiled but I believe she may have read it as shame.
“I can follow you to your office for any questions you may have, which will allow time for my attorney to arrive,” I said to the trooper. “I would come in on my free will.”
The trooper nodded then asked me to sit as he joined with the officers in the center of the room. Bill had stood only to be pointed at by one of the officers, sitting me back down. The lead officer then approached Emma, “Ma'am, since you are stating you invited him into your home, we are not going to press charges...”
“What about that check she was writing?” Bill protested.
The officer breathed a calming breath. To Emma, “There are some unanswered questions that the state police will be taking up at their command, but unless you wish to press any charges...”
“No, officer. No charges please.”
“Yes!” Bill yelled, standing up. “He was conning her out of a quarter of a million dollars!”
“Officer, you have been very kind and I am sorry for the trouble.”
“This is no trouble ma'am.”
“May I ask, before you leave, and the trooper and Mr. Axe, allow me to talk in private with my son in law?”
An odd request, I thought. Looking at the officers I could see they probably felt the same.
Bill walked into the kitchen and Emma shut the door, the officers walking away from the door to offer privacy. Whispers could be heard as I sat, each officer occasionally looking at me. Muffled arguing, words unclear, but Emma holding her ground. Perhaps seeing the officers handle her son-in-law gave her courage and resource to do the same.
The door slid open to Bill who was looking at me. “Can you do it again?” he asked, his voice stressed with an edge of anger.
“Yes,” I replied flatly.
I stood and walked across the room, the small sea of blue parting before me. As I walked into the kitchen I turned to the trooper. “I will be right back.”
Bill slid the door shut and told me to sit. I stood and spun a ladder back chair to him offering him a seat. Emma stood next to him motioning for him to sit as well. He sat like a good puppy, and as such I gave him his reward.
“I can give you the winning numbers for this weeks twelve million dollar jackpot.”
“How?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why don't you just buy the ticket?”
“This way I win every week.”
“How do you mean?”
“When you win you agree to receive in the lump sum, and from that I get 5% gross.”
“Gross?”
“Before taxes. Here's how it breaks down. You win twelve million, take home a check for six million, pay the tax on six million, which is about 2.5million, which write me a check for the 5% of the 6 million, which is $300,000 and you deposit into your bank about 4.1 million dollars.”
“So I go from 12 million to 4 million, just like that?”
“No, Bill. You go from spending one dollar to depositing 4.1 million dollars.”
“What's the catch?”
“Just Two. My cut and you tell no one what I've done. Ever.”
Bill looked to Emma, “Is he serious?”
“Bill,” Emma said sitting down. “He gave me the right numbers. He has given others the right numbers...”
“How do you do it?”
“You won't know,” I say sitting down as well. “Nobody does. In order for the process to continue to work requires that no one know. Do you get me?”
“You give me the numbers and I win it all?”
“I can't guarantee that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bill, the winnings are split between all winners. I can't tell you will be the only winner, only that the numbers I give you will be the winner.”
“So I may be winning a lot less?”
This monkey wasn't getting it. “Bill. If someone else picks the winning numbers then after lump sum, my cut, taxes, you will be depositing about 2 million. That's 2 million dollars that you don't have right now.”
“What if we wait a few weeks and let the lottery roll over?”
My patience was running thin. “Bill, I don't have those numbers. Only the next winning numbers.”
“How can you not have those?”
“Two in the bush. Take the money, Bill.”
“I don't get what you mean.” He was started to sound defeated and angry.
“I am offering you, right now, the next winning lottery numbers. If you accept them they come with two rules. Tell no one and pay me 5% gross from the lump sum.” I could imagine his small mind computing for the best angle. There was none. He nodded and I handed him my card and a slip of paper with the numbers. “Play them smartly,” I said. He had no idea what I meant.
Through the sliding kitchen door I found the officers waiting. “Trooper, shall I follow you?” He nodded and we headed for the door, never to return to that home.
I told Bill to play the numbers smartly. You heard me say that. If you have a winning number, why do you only buy one ticket? Seems the smart thing to do is buy two tickets, or three, so that if you wind up splitting with another winner, your cut is 2/3's, or 3/4's.
Of course Bill didn't expect what really hit him. It seems a state trooper “accidentally” purchased ten tickets of the winning combination, driving Bill's winnings quite low. I never bothered calling on him for my 5%.
Truth is, I never bother returning any of his phone calls either. He is quite angry with me. At least that is what Emma tells me when we meet for the occasional Saturday drive in her Comet. She tells me William is doing better in a charter school and Bill is still furious about her placing the bulk of her fortune into a trust that he can't touch. And at me of course.
As she drives I sit back and listen, my arm out the window on a warm spring day. When she has shared all that needs to be shared we let the road talk to us. Over lunch in some country diner I start talking about my new targets and ask for her opinion. Between sips of Coke she asks pointed questions about family members and personalities. She really is very good at this.