The Lottery Fixer – A Memoir by Kyle Keehan
A firsthand account of global lottery deals, power structures, and the realities behind high-stakes international business.
Most people see the lottery as a game of chance.
What they don’t see is the system behind it—the people who build it, manage it, and quietly influence outcomes at scale.
The Lottery Fixer is a firsthand account of what happens inside that system written by Kyle Keehan.
The Lottery Fixer is a memoir based on over two decades of Kyle Keehan's experience working in the global lottery industry, where billions of dollars move through complex systems designed to appear simple on the surface.
From high-level negotiations with government officials to navigating the realities of operating in emerging markets, the book pulls back the curtain on how large-scale lottery programs are actually built—and the unexpected forces that shape them.
This is not a theoretical look at the industry. It is a direct account of the environments, decisions, and personalities that define it.
About The Book
International deal-making across multiple continents
The structure and mechanics behind large-scale lottery systems
Political influence and real-world power dynamics
High-stakes negotiations and unexpected outcomes
The human side of global business operations
What You'll Find Inside
Guyana (From The Lottery Fixer)
I booked a flight from Barbados to Georgetown on BWIA. First class, of course. Bulkhead seat. Frequent international travelers will understand the religion of the bulkhead—you're first off the plane, first through the jet bridge, first in the immigration line. Over the course of a year spent flying forty weeks, that adds up to hours of your life back. I treated every airport like a time trial. I moved through terminals like I was on fire and everyone else was standing in my way.
I boarded the plane, settled into my seat, and glanced across the aisle.
Sitting in seat 1A was President Cheddi Jagan.
Holy shit.
I sat with that for a moment. Two years of trips. Two years of meetings that went nowhere. Neil's catastrophic performance in the Minister's office. Months of phone calls and patience and frustration. And now the President of Guyana was sitting four feet away from me in a regional jet with nowhere to go for the next hour and a half.
This was it. The final shot.
I waited until we were airborne. Captive audience. Nowhere to escape to, no next meeting to rush off to, no assistant to run interference. Then I stood up and crossed the aisle.
His bodyguard gave me the full once-over—the slow, professional assessment that ends with a decision. He decided I wasn't a threat. Smart man. I introduced myself to the President, told him why I was coming to town, and dropped a few names he'd recognize. Local names. People he trusted. He nodded slowly and said, "I've been hearing things."
Good things, I hoped. I kept going.
I told him I'd been trying to get the lottery project across the finish line for over two years and couldn't get there. I mentioned several CARICOM Prime Ministers I'd worked with—men he knew and respected—and suggested he call any one of them directly to check me out. I wasn't asking him to take my word for anything.
Then I closed with the money argument. It always worked, because it was always true.
I told him it was a genuine shame how long this had taken—that his country had been leaving millions of dollars on the table while his ministers shuffled paper and protected their turf. I told him that within days of launching, his treasury would see real revenue. Not eventually. Not after some lengthy ramp-up period. Days. And not a single cent would come from raising taxes or asking anything more from his citizens. We would make one hundred percent of the investment. We'd hire the staff, train them, build the infrastructure, and start putting money into government bank accounts before the ink was dry on the license.
Zero risk to the government. Zero.
He listened. He nodded slowly. Then he asked, "How long will you be in the country?"
"Two days," I said.
"Okay," he said.
I left it exactly there. No overselling. No victory lap. Just a clean close and a return to my seat.
In this excerpt from The Lottery Fixer, Kyle Keehan recounts a pivotal moment involving the President of Guyana.
El Salvador (From The Lottery Fixer)
It all started when I walked out of customs at the San Salvador airport, and there was José—slim build, maybe five-foot-six, groomed to a shine, and dressed like a private banker on his lunch break. He spotted me immediately and grabbed my bag without asking. This wasn’t unusual. The local fixers of the world always liked to play host, especially when there was a cut in the deal for them.
We stepped out into the thick Salvadoran heat, and right outside the sliding glass doors—like, right outside—sat a van. José tossed my bag in the back, slid the door open, and I jumped in. Sitting beside me was a guy in military gear who looked like he hadn’t smiled in fifteen years. In the front passenger seat, another equally grim character. And then José walked around and got in the driver’s seat himself.
That was my first red flag.
Privileged government kids in countries like this do not drive to and from the airport, especially in a van. Ever. That’s what drivers and cousins and disposable henchmen are for. I found it very strange that he was driving, but quickly figured it out when the second red flag surfaced shortly thereafter.
Every window in the van—including the windshield—was tinted so dark you could barely see out. I’m talking blackout levels. There was only a narrow horizontal strip across the middle of the windshield to give the driver some visibility. That wasn’t aesthetic. That was tactical. The moment we pulled away from the airport, the guy sitting next to me—let’s call him Scary Dude—casually reached under his seat, pulled out a pistol and a sawed-off shotgun, and placed them both across his lap like a picnic blanket. I didn’t move. I could tell the guy up front was also carrying, and I was now sitting in what might as well have been a rolling bunker.
Second red flag.
I now understood why José was driving. He probably wasn’t very good with guns and needed his guys ready to pull the trigger rather than follow the driving directions on a MapQuest printout. I leaned forward and asked José, only half-joking, “We gonna be alright?” He smiled without looking back and said, “Nothing to worry about.” “Nothing to worry about” is the universal local fixer line. I’ve heard it in ten different accents. It always means the exact opposite.
In this excerpt, Kyle Keehan arrives in El Salvador for what should have been a routine trip—until it clearly isn’t.
Kyle Keehan is an executive leader with over 30 years of experience in the global lottery industry and digital commerce.
He has worked directly with government organizations and international partners to design and scale lottery systems that generated billions in revenue.
The Lottery Fixer is based on his firsthand experience operating at the center of those environments.
About Kyle Keehan
The Lottery Fixer is an original memoir written by Kyle Keehan