Even When You Win... Read online

  I also wanted to talk with Jack about Ed Sweet’s dilemma. Jack is a voracious magazine reader who seems to have limitless retentive powers. I wanted to know what he knew about the whole “You may have already won” give-away industry.

  “You mean they actually awarded a prize?” Was his first reaction to my story about Ed Sweet.

  “Don’t they usually make the award?”

  “Odds are really against it.”

  “How so?”

  “They take a mailing list for, say, the entire country, perhaps a hundred million households, okay?”

  I gave him no encouragement; I knew he didn’t need it. I’d heard him go into pontification mode before, and as this question had found an area of familiarity, he was, by nature, forced to lecture on it.

  “Then, they randomly draw one of those addresses as the grand prize winner; if their game has tiers of winners, they draw them too. The odds against winning I’ve seen on these kinds of deals are in the neighborhood of three hundred billion to one.”

  “Why? Your sample was only a hundred million.”

  “Yeah, but remember, the winner is already selected before they send out the first mailing. Realize this, if the typical two percent respond, that would still mean two million people opened the envelope, looked at the ads, played the little games, ponied up a stamp, and sent the entry back – that would be steep odds on its own, but nothing compared to the chances that the pre-ordained winner has already self-eliminated by not being among the two percent...”

  “So they never have to pay out a prize...”

  “Hardly ever; the odds are ridiculously in their favor.”

  “So, when they lose, where does the money come from?”

  “All those ‘must have’ items in the mailers are paid advertisements – the sponsors know they’re buying a real audience, and they pay big money to gain entry into those households that do play.”

  “But a million dollars? And five grand a week for life?”

  “Chump change when you figure that they’ve been collecting without paying for thirty years or more... The bent noses in Vegas know nothing promotes gambling better than a big winner... they’ll recoup this prize and much more from the smiling faces of Ed Sweet and his family.”

  “I’m not sure how smiling those faces are right about now.” I told him about Ed’s call.

  When I finished, Jack sat quietly and considered what he’d heard. I knew better than to interrupt that process, so I went to his kitchen and found a glass and filled it with water from his tap. When I returned, he seemed to rouse himself with a shake. “I can’t imagine his agony.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It has to be one of his children or a spouse or maybe even a relative of a spouse, but someone in his immediate family has turned his dream into a nightmare... can you imagine anything more awful?”

  I didn’t have anything to say to that.

  Chapter 5

  Elliotsville, Missouri, is one of those “you can’t get there from here” places that makes air travel to a large city and then a multiple-hour drive in a rental the line of least resistance, so that’s what we did.

  We landed in St. Louis about noon local time on Monday, June 2, and pulled into the town built around the Chariton River just after four on a typically sultry June day.

  The town was originally named Elliotsville Crossing because the river’s wide stretch of shallow water made it a convenient place for those early westward emigrants to pause before or after crossing this tributary of the Missouri River.

  For many of those poor folks of Scotch-Irish descent fleeing the seemingly endless hard scrabble life in the southern Appalachian Mountains, this pleasant valley among rolling hills of hardwoods must have looked like heaven.

  Jan had spent the days of preparation for this trip immersed in research on the locale neither of us had been to before.

  “This place was settled, for the most part, by poor people of Scotch and Irish ancestry,” she told me from the handful of typed notes she’d accumulated.

  “These people were descendants of the poor and outlaw classes that Europe shipped out as either prisoners or indentured servants.

  “Newspaper articles over the years have described the people as clannish and territorial. The feuds of their fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers may have started in the early eighteen-hundreds, but they are held as closely today as the King James Bible in these parts.”

  “Sounds lovely,” I said as I guided our rented Expedition through a series of curves. Out my window, when I dared glance, was a pleasant vista of what was locally known as the ‘Chariton bottom.’

  “Sounds more like a tough nut to crack for a couple of Yankees,” she said quietly. “I think we’re going to be hard pressed to find people willing to talk to us about the Sweets.”

  “Maybe, maybe not; Ed and Rita have only lived here for thirty-five years. They may still be outsiders and worthy of gossip.”

  I tapped the brake and let the vehicle coast down as we approached a speed limit sign just in front of the city limits sign noting the population of 11,440 souls.

  Ed had been hostile to the idea that we stay in a motel rather than with him and Rita, but I had patiently explained that if I were to be of any help to him, I’d have to be able to come and go without much thought of hospitality.

  He had begrudgingly suggested the Village Inn Motel, and Jan had made the reservations.

  The Inn had seen better times, but it was plain that the owners had not forgotten their calling when it came to cleanliness or friendliness, complete with Southern courtesy.

  We met Beulah, the day manager and desk clerk, and she was a beaming thirty-something dynamo of good cheer and efficiency. We were checked in and settled into a large, two-room unit with a king bed in one room, and a sofa and the rest of the living quarters in an adjacent room.

  Jan, true to her nature, tested the quality of the shower before she showed her approval by opening her luggage and unpacking.

  I had grabbed all the local tourist propaganda, the local newspaper and its companion “shopper” out of the lobby kiosks. Armed with these, I sprawled on the couch and started getting up to speed on current events.

  Jan finished her nesting chores and came to sprawl with me, “What’s first on the agenda?”

  “A walk around town, I think.”

  “Right now? It’s awful sticky out there.”

  “We can wait until the sun gets lower, but we need to develop a feel for this place and the humidity isn’t likely to abate anytime this month; we’re still in the Midwest.”

  “Can I look at the shopper while you’re in the newspaper?”

  “Of course.”

  We lay there reading for some time when I heard her whisper, “A dollar goes a long way in real estate around here.”

  “No surprise there,” I grunted. “The biggest private-sector employer left town. You can probably buy recreational vehicles, houses, cottages, – hell, we’ll probably find GOB sales by the dozens around this town.”

  “Oh, that’s so sad. I remember when we had going-out-of-business issues to cover as news. They’re just heart breaking. I can’t imagine how the Fiske decision hit this place.”

  We continued to read and absorb until I’d gotten through everything available. I stood, stretched and then rubbed my hands together, “Let’s walk!”

  We strolled, actually. Walking to me is something completely different and involves lots of sweat and concentration. It also involves sprinting, stretching and focusing on the art and craft of t’ai chi chuan, the ancient form of karate that had been a fundamental part of my training as a covert warrior back in my youth.

  T’ai chi taught me the forms and beliefs that allow me to control my breathing, my pulse, and my anxieties in moments when a false step or failure to react could mean the difference between life and death.

  While many observers, and especially proponents of more combative forms of martial arts,
deride t’ai chi as “dancing,” I had learned from experience that constant practice of the demanding forms had given me a survivor’s edge too often not to be part of my everyday life.

  After a day of travel I wanted the release of a real walk, but with Jan at my side, her long-legged stride matching mine perfectly, we strolled through downtown Elliotsville.

  “We’re too late for the GOB sales,” she whispered after we made our way through an entire block of empty store fronts.

  “It’s been a while,” I admitted. “Only the strong survive this kind of deal. What we’ll see here is the viable core.”

  We saw a coffee shop promoting free wifi along with baked goods, lunches, high speed copies, document scanning and classes on the mysteries of Windows 8, Facebook and firewall protection.

  “You might be able to schedule yourself into a class on Windows 8, Stanton,” Jan said as she elbowed my ribs.

  I chuckled, but her comment was well-aimed at my continued whining at why Microsoft felt the need to invent a new Windows product that took guys like me who had grown up with their software and turned us into mumbling haters in one day.

  “I wouldn’t have a problem,” I said defensively for the umpteenth time, “if they’d just printed a User Manual like they always had before...”

  The local newspaper and the Chamber of Commerce were the only two occupied store fronts in the next block. “It’s family-owned,” Jan chirped. “Or at least they have the brains to keep the corporate logo out of their window.”

  “It’s a family group,” I said. “I saw the masthead when I was reading it. It’s not the greatest small town read I’ve ever encountered, but I’ll bet that staff has been decimated or worse by the economic downturn they’ve been covering.”

  Jan kept walking but turned around as she did, looking up and down the street. “There’s no traffic.”

  “Pretty quiet, but it’s afternoon and hotter than blazes. Muggy, too.”

  “But no traffic; not light traffic. How bad is it here?”

  “Let’s go inside the ‘Square Peg’ and see,” I said with a smile as I held the heavy front door into the bar open for her to walk through.

  It was very dark after the sunlight, but our eyes quickly adjusted. A woman who had been cleaning tables ambled over to the bar and waited as we looked around and made our way to her.

  “Hey,” she said with a smile, “I’m Peg, what can I do for you two?”

  I was eying the four draught taps for a familiar name, and then remembered where I was, “Jan? Beer?”

  “Gin and tonic?” She directed at the woman.

  “Sure,” she said and turned to me with a question in her eyes.

  “Bud,” I said. “No glass.”

  “Comin’ right up.”

  She was short, probably a hundred pounds overweight. She wore her blonde hair cut just below her ears, but she moved like a dancer in a hurry. Her every movement was graceful and quick. I watched her mix Jan’s drink, grab my bottle out of a cooler, hip it shut as she popped the cap in a fixed opener, and head back to us, all, it seemed, as if choreographed to some inaudible musical score. The phrase “ball of energy” was stuck in my mind.

  “Four-fifty,” she said as she placed our drinks on the coasters she’d left with us.

  I put a five on the bar, and she took it carefully – quick but with her it didn’t seem like she snatched it. She just didn’t seem to have any movement that wasn’t in a hurry.

  “Why is this place called The Square Peg?” Jan asked after her first sip.

  The woman let her head fall sideways to her shoulder as if it gave her a better angle to observe the question.

  Her hand with the five in it slowly waved at the entire room, indicating what she was talking about, “This is my place, and it’s on the square, right?”

  I nodded, and smiled. “Square Peg; I love it.”

  We sat quietly over our drinks, and she eventually came back to see if we needed further assistance.

  “So, Peg,” Jan began, “How’s business?”

  She did that thing with her head again. “You lookin’ to own a bar or something?”

  I could feel Jan tense. “No, nothing like that, Peg,” I said. “We’re strangers, and we heard about the Fiske closing, saw a lot of empty store fronts and we’re just wondering how this is all playing out for the locals who are still here... that’s all, we’re being nosy, I suppose, but we didn’t intend to pry...”

  She visibly relaxed and smiled, “I guess I came back pretty sassy. I’ve heard that question all too much over the past three months. What brings you folks to Elliotsville?”

  “Just visiting friends, the Sweets; you know them?”

  “Sure, in passing. Ed and his bunch used to stop by on Friday nights from time to time. I don’t know them all that well. His wife...” I could see her dredging her memory... “Rita, I think...” we nodded, and she continued, “She’s a school teacher, been at the elementary school forever... people who know her rave about her like she’s some kind of saint, but I’ve never met her myself.

  “Have you folks known them long?”

  “I was in high school with Ed,” I said, telling the truth without answering her question.

  “He came out of this whole Fiske mess smellin’ like a rose,” she said with sardonic smile.

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “You know; he was a bigwig with Fiske, and they cut him off without so much as a howdaya do, and then he ups and wins some kind of huge sweepstakes and is set for life.” She shook her head, “Just goes to show you how things go, you know?”

  “So that’s pretty much common knowledge around here?” Jan asked.

  “Oh, hell ya!” Peg grinned. “Those sweepstakes people showed up with radio, television, newspaper – the whole she-bang. It made the nightly news on all the networks. Ed’s a nice guy, and everyone here was pretty happy for him, but jealous at the same time, you know?”

  We both nodded and shook our heads at the idea of it all.

  “So, when do the drinkers show up these days,” I said by way of changing the subject.

  “Oh, they were already in, the few of them who still have jobs, after work. We still have a few card players after dinner, but weeknights it’s pretty slow here. On weekends we still have sand volleyball out back, and live music on Saturday nights. We do all right, but it’s not like it used to be.

  “But, what the hey? This is home, and it’s just me to worry about. I have help on weekends, but the rest of the time I pretty much go solo... open at noon, close at one a.m. and hang a sign ‘taking care of business, back in a minute,’ when I need to hit the john or go to the store.

  “It’s working. You know these things all pass. Whole town’s looking to recruit a new business, something’ll turn up. Until then, we need to take care of folks who show up... you know, show them how friendly and open we are.”

  Jan reached out and gave Peg’s hand a pat, “You’ve done your share today, Peg. We’ve got to go now, but we’ll be back again before we leave town. Thank you.”

  Peg rewarded her with her best smile, and it was a good one, “Have a great stay.”

  We walked out of the bar and continued our stroll, looking at the Elliotsville that was left and wondering how a town could ever recover from this.

  Chapter 6

  Ed had told us that Rita got home from summer school a little after four, and that dinner would be about six. Jan interpreted that to mean we could show up anytime after five, and I wanted it to be closer to six.

  Ed’s house was located on a side street that connected two busier streets three blocks apart with only four homes on it. The uninterrupted connector didn’t attract much traffic, it seemed. In the heat of early summer, at least, it seemed to be a quiet, country lane with plenty of mature trees, privacy hedges and wide open spaces between the homes.

  From the street, the Sweet’s home had the appearance of a house that had gone through several expansions over tim
e. The obvious main part of the building, and perhaps the original footprint, was two stories high. There was a simple two-step concrete entrance to the front door which presented two conservative windows, each heavily draped, on either side of a wide front door. The second floor displayed four such windows.

  To the right of the main structure, seemingly telescoping out from the rear of the main structure was a garage with one regular door and two standard vehicle doors with plenty of space on either side of both doors. The driveway which led to the garage also had a diversion which led to a concrete pad boasting two boats on trailers, one flat-bottomed jon boat; the other a deep v-hull, center-console runabout. Both boats were under covers that appeared to have been built for them.

  When we rang the doorbell, Ed opened it as if he’d been standing just inside, awaiting our arrival.

  “Jim, Jan!” His grin was genuine, and anyone watching would have thought we were the oldest and best friends he had. “Come on in!”

  He held the door wide, and we walked into a formal living room that, by it’s neat and orderly appearance, didn’t get all that much use.

  “Rita’s on the back porch; I should have warned you to come around to the back. We don’t miss many opportunities to sit out there.”

  As he talked, he led us from the living room to a short hall. I saw a bathroom and another door that I took to be a bedroom off to the left, and through a formal dining room that also had an arched passage into what I expected would be the kitchen.

  I wasn’t surprised then as we walked on and found the kitchen on our right, but the size of the kitchen took me off stride. It was huge. There were two refrigerators and an upright freezer on one wall next to the passage to the dining room. An island with an institutional-sized double sink braced the long wall of the room where I could see a stove top with six burners. Two ovens, one below the cook top and one above were directly opposite the island. Cupboards and what appeared to be closet doors flanked the cooking area from floor to ceiling.