Carl Parson sat at a wide table just outside the Grand Ballroom of the Fraternal Order of the Loyal Muskrat's Lodge. Flanking him on either side were huge signs in gaudy font that read, Win $250,000! And in smaller print, One Ticket is ALL You Need!
Mabel Whittaker hobbled up to the table as quickly as her arthritic legs would carry her, a limp $10 bill flagging from the same grip that held the top of her cane. For the past three days, the lines had snaked out the door of the lodge as people anxiously awaited their chance to buy a ticket for the quarter-million dollar giveaway. But today, on the eve of the drawing, there were only a few people milling about.
"One please," Mabel said, plunking down her bill.
Carl tore one of the golden tickets off the pad and handed it to Mabel. "Are you sure you only want one?" he asked, grinning the grin of a snake-oil salesman.
Mable smiled back. "One ticket is all you need," she said, aiming a wrinkled finger at one of the signs. "Besides, I'm feeling lucky!"
That evening, Carl burst through his hotel room door with a bottle of champagne and a grin big enough to be seen from a satellite. Dakota sprang from the bed and wrapped her arms around him, giggling all the while. The couple hadn't been together long, but from the moment they met two weeks ago in New Jersey, they had been inseparable.
"You're not going to believe this!" he said. "I just made a deposit and so far, we've made over $300,000 in this town!"
He howled and she joined in. "Let's go out and celebrate!" she said.
"Babe, you know the rules. We can't be seen in public together. It could compromise everything."
"Oh, yeah. I forgot."
Overflowing with good looks, Dakota wasn't the brightest bulb in the pack. For the past couple of weeks, he had to constantly remind her that their success depended on her keeping a low profile. And if the bank balance was correct, this would be the most success Carl had had since he began this scam.
Carl took Dakota by the arm and led her to the small table in the corner of the room. This was the first time he'd run the scam with a partner, and he wanted to make sure there were no slip-ups.
"Now let's go over this one more time to make sure we've got it down pat. Tomorrow night, I'll give my spiel about someone walking out with a quarter of a million dollars. Then, I'll palm this ticket stub," he said, taking a strip of golden paper with red numbers printed on it out of the inside pocket of his blazer, "and reach my hand into the drawing bowl where all the other stubs are. When I pull it out, I'll read the numbers and you'll say... " Carl paused, but Dakota was looking at him with suspense in her eyes as though she was hearing this for the first time. Exasperated, Carl said, "You're line, babe!"
"Oh! I win! I win!" she grinned.
"You have to remember that. It's very important."
"Don't worry! You can count on me!"
"Do you have the ticket?" he asked.
"Yep." She produced the winning ticket and waved it in front of his face.
"Good. And if all goes well, we can set up shop in Michigan next week."
"Sounds like a plan," she said, reaching over to kiss his balding crown.
The following evening the Muskrat's Lodge was electric with anticipation. When Carl took the stage, the audience erupted like he was a bona fide celebrity. He carried a metal briefcase and a giant glass bowl filled with golden stubs to a table center stage. He positioned them with ceremonious flair then clicked off the case's locks and opened it to reveal bricks of crisp, green cash – the $250,000. He quieted the excited throng with a wave of his hands and went into a tension building speech about how much $250,000 can change your life.
"And now for the drawing!" he said. The crowd roared. There were people in the front row with golden tickets fanned out in their hands like playing cards. Along the aisles, eyes were as wide and as white as cue balls. Carl had them in the palm of his hand. As he reached into the bowl and swished around the mass of golden stubs, he also had the winning number in his palm.
Like a true showman, Carl yanked his hand out of the bowl and held it high over his head. "In this hand," he declared, "I have the winning number!" The crowd responded with a collective gasp.
Carl read the numbers on the stub agonizingly slow. The closer he got to the end of the sequence, the more moans of disappointment sounded off in the room. "And the final number is.... three!" he said.
The room fell silent.
"Someone must have the winning number!" He was beginning to get nervous. Had Dakota forgotten again?
Then suddenly, "Oh! I win! I win!" came from the rear of the ballroom.
"Come on up!" Carl grinned.
The crowd burst into applause. Carl looked down, expecting to see his slinky partner sashaying toward him. Instead, he was overwhelmed by a wave of dread. Mabel Whittaker, arthritic legs and all, was making her way to the stage.
As the crowd cleared, Carl sat on the edge of the stage comparing the numbers on the ticket to those on the stub time and again. There was no doubt about it. Mabel Whittaker had the winning ticket.
With tears in his eyes, he handed her the case of cash. She shook his hand and said, "I told you I felt lucky!"
A pair of Fraternal Muskrats helped Mabel to her old Chevy. She thanked them and drove off as Carl stood in the doorway of the lodge on weak knees, wondering what could have gone wrong.
A few blocks away, Mabel pulled over at a gas station. The passenger door opened and a tall blond scrunched in.
"Grandma," Dakota said, "if we can get to Vegas by next Tuesday, I heard there's another guy starting the same scam.
Mabel smiled. "I'll drive the first leg."
