Coffee at JJ's - Ch. 4: Lottery Fraud, Part 3

ONE SATURDAY Greg comes riding toward us on his bicycle, smiling and obviously anxious to tell us something important.

   "Good news," he says as he dismounts. "Lemme get a cup of coffee and I'll tell you how much we won."

   But no one is willing to wait. We jump up as a group and follow him into JJ's, a pack of wolves following the alpha male. "Tell us," Jake demands. "How much did we win?"

   "Yeah," Wallace adds. "How much?"

   "Hang on. Let me get my coffee."

   We stand there impatiently as Nancy, the lovely, diminutive woman who owns JJ's, pours a cup for Greg. We watch in surprise as she adds a small packet of Splenda to his coffee. Nancy is a pretty woman, married and in her thirties, from Thailand. She and her husband took over the operation of JJ's in March of this year, a month or so before I joined the group. Nancy stirs Greg's coffee as we watch impatiently.

   "Come on, man," Benny urges Greg. "Tell us. How much?"

   The suspense is almost palpable. Greg takes a sip from his cup and announces, "Nine dollars."

   "Each?" I ask.

   He shakes his head. "All together. It works out to forty-five cents for each of us."

   "Hey," Lorenzo says. "We're rich! Drinks on the house! For everyone!"

   Greg's eyes take on a pained expression. "You don't need to be sarcastic."

   "Sarcastic?" Lorenzo says, putting a hand to his heart. "Moi?"

   We go back to our tables outside, where the sarcasm escalates exponentially. Wallace says, "I know what I'm gonna do with my share. I'm gonna hire a financial planner. Have him put my share in stocks and bonds. All forty-five cents of it."

   "Not me," I tell him. "I'm going to buy my own country."

   "I'm buyin' a new house," Benny says. "—No. Two new houses. One for me and one for my wife. Hers'll be in New York. —Or maybe Australia."

   Frank, always a generous, kind-hearted man, declares, "I'm leaving my share to charity in my will. I'll just live off the interest."

   And that is the last time Greg tries to tell us we've won such a paltry amount.

   "Buncha ingrates," he mutters gloomily, the pained look never leaving his eyes.

   Wallace tells him, "Just be glad forty-five cents can't buy a good hit-man."