The Ticket

By George Rolston

Life is difficult for illegal immigrants in the U.S.A.

Such was the situation for Manuel Contreras, a clerk in a convenience store in the NewYork neighborhood of Flatbush. He dreamed of winning the lottery, and he would study the winning numbers as he sat at the counter night after night. It distracted him from a fear that this would be the night when some thug would again rob the store, threatening or maybe even ending his life.

This night would be different for Manuel. He would see a chance to make his dreams come true.

And he would take it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WoolysWagon ePublishing
• Release date: Nov 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370284405

George Rolston

As a boy in wartime Britain, George attended one of Britain’s famous public schools but he was a bored student and it showed in his poor academic performance. He spent much of his time shooting rabbits in the fields and woods around his home to help feed the family. He enjoyed shooting and during his lifetime he became a champion shot, winning numerous cups. His interest in writing originated right at home from his father who wrote histories of the local area. George enjoyed hearing his father’s stories of local life. But writing, for George, took a back seat as he entered national service in Libya, then attended law school at the University of London. He married and moved to Canada and re-qualified as a lawyer and qualified as a registered patent and trade mark agent. He opened his own practice in 1967. His work involved writing on a daily basis as he wrote long documents, and legal arguments. But it was all facts. It became mechanical, a formula which he repeated over and over. George is also interested in sailing and has sailed in various events. While in college he received his first job offer through a random meeting aboard a sailboat, in France. His University Professor thought he was not up to it. “Too intellectual,” he said. As usual, bored George’s marks had been poor. But he declined the Professor’s advice and took the job. Another interest was skiing and as an adult he became a ski instructor in his spare time. He is a long time member of the Canadian Ski Instructor’s Alliance. George would write during his vacation time on the beach. He didn’t want to just read, so he would buy some school exercise books and pens and just write. He found working as a lawyer just didn’t satisfy him and he longed to create something with his time. “Ideas are all around you,” says George. “Just read the newspapers, truth is stranger than fiction. Just pick your news item and turn it into fiction. Lie under a palm tree, in the Caribbean, close off the left side of your brain and let the creative side take over. Then just scribble down what comes out. Trouble is, I scribble very fast and the hardest part is trying to read my scribbles later to dictate the text. He taught himself how to write dialog as it suited his style more than the narrative approach. “Listen to people talking,” he says. ”It takes practice copying the phrases, but don’t be afraid to try something different. It sounds more creative.” George once sent off a query letter to a dozen publishers. He was actually surprised when only one accepted his spy novel’s outline. But he never finished it. He has published numerous legal papers in Canada, the U.S.A and Britain. “The Ticket” is his first published fiction novel. George Rolston still resides in Canada and is father to four children. Still practicing as a patent agent at the age of 85, and finally seeing his first novel published, he has this advice for writers. Don’t discuss your plots with anyone else, ever. They will always discourage you. Read good authors and read bad authors. Compare. Then try it yourself. Try my book. If you can do better, go ahead. It’s fun.”

Book preview

Chapter One

Manuel Contreras stood staring at the store counter. It was after eleven at night. A thin mist lay in the street, with drizzle falling gently. A pickup drove by, splashing muddy water from the potholes.

Not much chance of customers tonight, he thought. At least he would probably not be held up by some hop head.

An ambulance in the distance was sounding its sirens. Probably another fight somewhere he thought.

Manuel had been studying lists of lottery ticket winning numbers for the last six months. He loved number patterns: 4, 12, 16, 20, 24; 8, 18, 26, 32, 40, 48. The repetitions, the intricate weaving of number threads fascinated him. He had never heard of Fibonacci. But if he had he would have understood the Fibonacci sequence like a dog following a scent. In spite of his slim build and medium height, he had an air of intelligence. He hated being alone in the store this late. He was no match for some of the customers.

And he hated New York. Why I had ended up here? he thought.

Cold, dark, wet, and miserable. Fall and winter seemed to go on forever. Never any sun to cheer him up. Summers were just humid, muggy, and unbearable.

He longed to get back to Mexico. Plenty of sun, and the heat was dry. He was used to that. But there was no money there, so he had made the long and dangerous trip to the border, and into the States, hoping to find his fortune.

Some fortune, he thought. A few dollars a week minding this grubby store.

How he could get anywhere, with nothing but this to keep him, he thought. Manuel went back to reading his list of number combinations for lottery winners.

He kept a list of the numbers of every winning ticket. He had studied them over and over. He searched for some logical combination. ‘Were there any numbers which came up more often than others? Were there any numbers that never came up at all?’  He read and re-read his lists.

No, he could not see any trend. He could not seem to pick out any that were always together. Nothing seemed to make sense. But he was convinced that if he really understood the logic of the numbers, he could find a way to pick a winner.

It was just a matter of time, he thought.

A stranger strolled into the store. He was big, tall, muscular, dark-skinned, a bit over-weight but carrying it well. He wore a blue cotton windbreaker with a faded Yankees logo, hood up over his head; jeans and construction boots.

Looks tough, thought Manuel. Anxiously he shifted his weight onto his other foot.

The right foot still hurt from his fall crossing the border into Arizona. It had been cloudy that night. There had been no moon. The patrol was close. He had to run, ignoring the pain and limp as a result of a bad fall, jumping into the bush. Yes. It had been close, but he had made it!

So now, here he was working the night shift for the Chinese owner of the Happy Garden Convenience Store in Flatbush. Paid weekly, grudgingly in cash, minutes deducted for washroom breaks. All he wanted was one big win on the lottery. Then he would be off back to the sun of Mexico.

He dreamed of the sun and heat, and the girls with their dark hair and flashing eyes. How they would run after him, if he came home a millionaire.

Just get me out of Flatbush, he thought. One decent win would do it. But his tickets never won anything. He was feeling he might never see home again.

Buenos noches, Señor, said Manuel.

He stood by the till nervously scanning the big customer. It was late. He had never seen this man before in the store.

Hi bud, busy tonight? the big man strolled casually up to the counter.

Manuel looked quickly down. The butt of his 38 caliber was there under the till, where he always hid it. He moved his right knee against the alarm bell, just in case. No one ever answered the alarm in this neighborhood. The police were too busy with crack addicts to bother with a simple store hold up.

Bud, if it’s not too much trouble, check this ticket for me. I can never read the things, said the stranger.

Manuel took the ticket. He read the six numbers. He had a photographic memory for figures. He had memorized every winning sequence of every ticket each week. Manuel tried to stay calm. His hands shook as he read the numbers again. Yes. This was it. The ten million dollar winner of last Saturday’s lottery. He had thought of this moment many times. Now! At last! He held the ticket.

It was his, for a moment.

Why not forever? he thought.

He was entitled to this for himself. What right had this big stranger to so much money? With this money, back in Mexico, he could live like a king.

He checked again. Yes, this was the winner. He looked to see if the man had signed the back of the ticket. No, it was blank. He placed it on the machine appearing to be uncertain. Then he picked up another ticket from the same lottery date. He checked that ticket, while sliding the winning ticket under a magazine.

He played with the cash machine and made it ring.

You got lucky. Ten dollars for you.

He opened the till and extracted ten dollars. He handed the ticket and the bill to the customer.

The big man smiled.

Oh well, next week ten million, he said casually.

Manuel was thinking hard. What if this man had a note of the numbers he had played? Some people played the same numbers each week. Birthdays, wedding days, all sorts of special dates. Maybe this man was one of those.

He might check his ticket when he got home. He would see that the numbers did not match the numbers he had played.

He would come back and who knows what he’d do! Demand his ticket.

Manuel could not bear to think of that. There was only one thing to do.

He made the decision in a flash.

He had never fired a gun in his life, but it was now or never.

Manuel gripped the butt of his revolver. He raised the revolver and fired three shots at point blank range. The big man staggered back, blood pouring from his chest. He flopped backwards on the ground, and fell gasping on his side. In a few moments, he was dead.

Manuel quickly locked the store. He took a kitchen knife from the drawer. He held the knife by the blade. He wiped the blade in the man’s blood. He squeezed the big man’s right hand and finger on the blade and the handle and then he wrapped the fingers and thumb around the handle. He then stuffed a bundle of small bills in the man’s left hand. Now he pressed the alarm button and waited. The cruiser would be along sometime. The longer the better, thought Manuel.

CHAPTER Two

Evening patrol was never a favorite of Officer Hank Markovitch. They took turns between days, evenings and late nights. The late nights were the worst. Drunken drivers. Vicious fights. Accidents with no witnesses. Markovitch got lost in his thoughts. Then the radio beeped at him.

Car 241, this is Control. There’s an alarm at Happy Garden Variety, 102, 9th Street and Cliff.

He grabbed the mike.

Car 241, we’re on our way. His partner, Dan McMann, swung the cruiser around and gunned down 24th Street.

It’s that variety store again, said Dan, Been held up three times last month. It’s a wonder no one’s been hurt yet.

Dan squealed to stop in front of the store, lights flashing. Hank reported in.

Car 241 at Happy Garden, 11:21 p.m. We’re going in. Send back up just in case.

Dan was out, gun drawn, at the door.

Manuel unlocked and let the two officers in.

What happened? said Hank.

This big guy came in, stuck a knife in my face and made me open the till. I took out some loose bills in one hand and my gun in the other. When he grabbed for the money, I shot him.

Dan went back to the cruiser.

We have a 99 here, no need for medics. Just send the coroner. We’ll need a crime scene team right away.

Neighbors were gathering in the darkened street. What happened? We heard some shots.

It’s all over, ma’am. Just go home and leave it to us please. It’ll be in the news tomorrow, said Dan.

A TV news crew arrived at that moment. A bored cameraman climbed out of the truck and started videotaping the scene outside. A reporter hurried toward the store.

No folks, no one goes inside until the crime techs get here, said Dan standing in the doorway.

He strung yellow tape from the storefront along the street lamps to keep the gawkers back.

Manuel sat, his head bowed, sobbing quietly into his hands.

Let’s check his I.D., said Hank, searching for a wallet on the dead man. Wow, this guy was doing well. There is three hundred and seventy-five dollars in cash right here. What else do we have?

Out came the life history. A wrinkled photo of a smiling colored woman holding a boy and a girl by the hand. It looked like Disney World. A Driver’s License gave his name and address.

Run the license through the computer to see what pops up, said Dan.

Hank came back from the cruiser. The guy is clean. No arrests, no tickets; owns the vehicle he drives, a 1996 Chevy van.

Here’s a credit card, Dan pulled it out and gave it to Hank. Scan that too.

Strange, said Hank. Small balance, and always paid on time. Ten thousand available and never used.

I wonder what he was doing this job for. Doesn’t look like he needed this kind of trouble, Hank questioned.

They stopped their search as the crime techs walked in. At that moment an unmarked police cruiser pulled up at the door.

Okay boys, I am taking this over now, said Detective Chuck Kazarian, give me a quick update.

Dan told him what had happened.

Thanks, said Chuck. Get me your full report in the morning.

While the photographer flashed his camera, and the techs drew, measured and collected items, Chuck sat down with Manuel.

Detective Kazarian introduced himself and started to question Manuel. Now, tell me about this.

Manuel decided to turn it on for the cops, give them a show…he started whimpering.

It seemed like a bad movie. He just took me by surprise. We’ve had three hold ups this month already. He was just one too many. I couldn’t take it anymore. That knife! All I could see was the knife pointed at me. I grabbed some bills and grabbed the gun. As he snatched the money, I just fired and fired.

Manuel began shaking and sobbing. The emotion was coming out of him pretty easily.

Where was he standing?  Kazarian questioned.

Right there in front of the cash register, Manuel pointed toward the cash machine.

Okay, what then? Kazarian asked. Manuel realized the detective was just aiming for a quick open and close case. Just go along with the logical story he thought.

Suddenly he raised the knife. Oh my God!!! He could have killed me. Then he said, give me the cash, Manuel looked into Detective Kazarian’s eyes earnestly. They all say that.

Yes, Kazarian nodded.

Then I opened the till. Usually they just reach over and grab. He just waited, holding that knife, Manuel paused for dramatic effect.

Detective Kazarian furiously took notes.

Then what?

I just lost it, Manuel admitted. This time, I thought, you won’t get away before the cops arrive. Wiping his face, Manuel looked down at the ground, shamefully. I just held the gun and kept pulling the trigger, like they do on T.V.

Ever fired a gun before? Chuck questioned with a stern expression.

Never! It’s horrible! But it was me or him, Manuel calmed down, but was careful not to show any relief on his face. He had to have the cops believe this story.

Pretty good shooting, three out of three. You’re a marksman, Kazarian seemed to be more interested in his skill rather than investigating the crime.

What happens now? asked Manuel slowly.

Seems like this case is pretty straight forward. Self-defense. The knife is right there. Of course, we’ll have to have a statement. Where do you live?

Manuel hesitated. This is getting more complicated, he thought to himself.

24781 South Street, North West, Apartment 101, Manuel rambled off his address.

You’re a long way from home, commented Detective Kazarian.

It makes no difference. I work all night. This place is open 24 hours, Manuel grimaced. It was the only place that would give him a job…but all that would be over, if he could just get through this line of questioning.

Who’s the owner? Detective Kazarian asked.

Lee Wong. He owns a few stores around here, Manuel answered. When would this be done? Manuel wanted to get the hell out of the place.

Got some I.D.? Kazarian asked.

This was it. The question that Manuel was dreading. Hoping, wishing that Kazarian would somehow forget to ask who he was. What a dumb idea, Manuel thought. There would be no way out of this one.

Don’t have a license. Can’t afford a car. Here’s my subway pass, he offered sheepishly.

Chuck studied it and handed it back. We’ll need something better than that. A passport maybe? You’ve got to have some sort of ID! Kazarian exclaimed. Unless…we should contact the owner of the store.

I’ll see what I can find when I get back home, Manuel said nervously.

You’ll have to close now, said Chuck. Our techs will have to spend a few hours here. We’ll take care of notifying Mr. Wong. You’re going home. I’ll drive you. We’ll have a chance to clear up some more information on the way.

Manuel had no choice. He dreaded the drive but had no excuse to refuse the offer. The ride home was a long one. The streetlights lit up the pavement as Kazarian made small talk. He felt like he’d been hard on Manuel who was an innocent victim, working in a miserable job with no options. He probably didn’t even have ID.

Get some sleep, said Chuck as he stopped the cruiser. I’ll come by and fetch you at noon for the statement.

Manuel got out of the cruiser and took a deep breath. It had been difficult keeping calm.

CHAPTER Three

Sophie Miller walked from room to room, switching off lights. Once again she checked the front door. Yes, it was locked. The porch light was on, though. She always liked to welcome Sam home no matter how late he had been working. She walked upstairs to their bedroom, loosened her thick dark hair and climbed into bed. It would be warm and inviting for Sam after a long day. And so would she, she thought happily.

That phone again, it never stops, she sighed, turning over in bed and flicking on the light. Yes, this is Mrs. Miller. Yes, Sophie Miller. Who is this? The Police? What is it? Its past midnight, I was just going to sleep.

It’s about your husband Ma’am, said Chuck gently.

What? What about Sam? Is he alright? Sophie immediately sat up in bed.

I’m sorry to say Ma’am that I have bad news. Your husband has been killed.

How? No! It can’t be Sam. He was working late on a job. He should be home by now. It must be a mistake! Sophie exclaimed.

No Ma’am. I am very sorry but we have his I.D. It is definitely your husband Sam Miller, Chuck said slowly.

Sophie started crying. She threw the phone down, put her face in the pillow and howled.

Chuck just listened. There was nothing he could do. It was only going to get worse for her. He could not bear to think of what she was going through. This was the worst part of his job. Chuck had never become used to breaking bad news to people, and but he knew what was the best way to deal with it.

~

Mrs. Miller, could I come by in a while and talk to you? Chuck asked.

Yes, yes, please. I want to hear what happened, Sophie said. She couldn’t drive. Couldn’t do anything but sob. How could this be happening?

Half an hour later Chuck eased the cruiser to a gap at the curb.

Car 329, I’m parked on Ellen Street at number 17. I am going to see Mrs. Miller, widow of the victim at Happy Garden.

Sophie opened the door. Dressed in beige linen pants and a blue blouse, she was an attractive African-American woman, of about 5’ 7", 140 pounds he guessed. She had wiped her face but it showed lines of grief she had never imagined possible.

Do come in. Will you have some tea, a piece of cake? I made it yesterday for Sam, she choked as she said it and burst into a flood of tears.

I am so sorry to have to bring you this news. Sit down and let me pour the tea, said Chuck.

She sat at his direction and sobbed. She then dried her face. Tell me what happened to Sam.

Your husband was shot in a variety store in Flatbush, about 11:30 p.m. last night, Chuck said matter-of-factly.

But how? Was it a hold up? Did he try and catch the thief? Sophie couldn’t believe her ears.

No Ma’am. The clerk was held up at the point of a knife, the clerk had a gun. He shot in self-defense, Chuck explained.

But how did Sam die? Sophie just didn’t understand what Chuck was saying. Her thoughts were coming fast, not able to process the idea of Chuck holding up a convenience store.

He was the one who was shot Ma’am, Chuck tried to be gentle.

What are you saying? Sam? Holding up a variety store in Flatbush? It’s ridiculous! she said in indignantly.

No Ma’am, that’s what happened. We found him lying on the floor with a knife in his hand, Chuck said.

That can’t be true! she cried. Sam was a success. He was foreman of a construction crew. They had a job in Flatbush and had to work late to finish up.

Who did he work for? asked Chuck.

Triple A Drywall. Their office is in Brooklyn. Here’s the phone number, she handed the detective a business card.

Thank you. I’ll be calling them. Can you think why he was in a variety store at that time of night? Chuck questioned.

He was probably thirsty. A can of pop maybe? Or perhaps he was buying a lottery ticket. He always tried to buy them far away from home.

How could she know why he stopped, so far from home, to rob a store? No. She started sobbing again at the thought. She had often said he had spent too much money on tickets and had never won anything.

But it’s just not possible. Sam had a good job. We have three children. He loved them. He used to coach soccer at the boys club. He read the lesson in church sometimes, Sophie sobbed again. Not any more, she thought. This could not be happening. Sam would never rob a store. It couldn’t be possible. Sophie would not believe it.

Mrs. Miller, we just don’t know any more. We got a call from the clerk in the store. He said there had been a hold up. When we got there Sam was lying on the floor. A knife was in his hand. The clerk showed us the gun he used. He said he had to shoot. It sounded like self defence, explained Chuck.

But Sam would never go and rob a store. He was a good man. He could not have had a knife. There must be some other explanation, said Sophie.

We did find a ticket in his pocket. It looked as if he had won ten dollars. We will let you have possession of it when you come down to the station.

I just don’t believe it, said Sophie. "You have to ask the clerk more questions. What did Sam say? What did he want in the store? Why would he