Carl Hiaasen (25 page)

Inside the Honda, JoLayne Lucks turned down the radio and asked: “How did you know they’d run?”

Tom Krome said, “Because these are not brave guys. These are guys who beat up women. Running away is second nature.”

“Especially with the ‘Black Tide’ on their tails.” JoLayne chuckled to herself. She and Tom had arrived an hour earlier and peeked in the apartment window, to make sure it was the right place. That’s when they’d seen Moffitt’s menacing valentine on the wall.

Now, pointing at the truck in front of them, JoLayne said: “Think they’ve got my ticket on ’em?”

“Yep.”

“Still no game plan?”

“Nope.”

“I like an honest man,” JoLayne said.

“Good. Here’s more: I’m not feeling so brave myself.”

“OK. When we get to Oz, we’ll ask the wizard to give you some courage.”

Krome said, “Toto, too?”

“Yes, dear. Toto, too.”

JoLayne leaned over and put a lemon drop in his mouth. When he started to say something, she deftly popped in another one. Krome was hopelessly puckered. He didn’t know where the pickup truck was leading them, but he knew he wasn’t turning back. Bachelorhood in the Nineties, he thought. What a headline Sinclair could write:

T
he farther they got from Coconut Grove, the stronger grew Chub’s conviction that he would never see his treasured Amber again. He was seized by a mournful panic, a talon-like snatch of his heart.

Neither of his companions noticed. Shiner was preoccupied with the mysterious “Black Tide,” and Bodean Gazzer was brimming with theories. Both men were shaken by the scene inside the ransacked apartment, and chatting about niggers and communists seemed to steady their nerves. An even flow of conversation also preserved the illusion of a calm orderly flight, when in fact Bode had no plan beyond running like hell. They were being pursued; chased by an unknown evil. Bode’s instinct was to hide someplace remote and out of reach, and to get there as fast as possible. Shiner’s naive and breathless queries, which otherwise would have provoked the harshest sarcasm, now worked as a tonic by affirming for Bode his role as the militia’s undisputed leader. Although he hadn’t the foggiest clue who the Black Tide was, Bode gave the full weight of his authority to wild
speculation. This kept his mind busy and his spirits up, and Shiner hung on every word. Chub’s lack of participation was of small concern, for Bode was accustomed to his partner’s nodding off.

He was therefore flabbergasted to feel the gun barrel at the base of his neck. Shiner (who’d detected Chub’s arm slipping behind the seat and figured he was just stretching) jerked at a sharp noise near his left ear—the click of the hammer being cocked. He turned only enough to see the Colt Python pointed at the colonel.

“Pull over,” Chub said.

“What for?” Bode asked.

“Yer own good.”

As soon as his partner stopped the truck, Chub eased down the hammer of the gun. “Son,” he said to Shiner, “I got another mission for you. Provided you wanna stay in the brotherhood.”

Shiner flinched like a spanked puppy; he’d thought his place in the White Clarion Aryans was solid.

“It’s no sweat,” Chub was saying. “You’ll dig it.” He stepped out of the pickup and motioned with the gun for Shiner to do the same.

Being half drunk and exhausted did not affect Bodean Gazzer’s low threshold of annoyance. Chain of command obviously meant nothing to Chub; the goon operated on blood impulse and reckless emotion. If it continued, they’d all end up in maximum security at Raiford—not the ideal venue for a white-supremacy crusade.

When Chub reentered the truck, Bode said, “This shit’s gotta stop. Where’s the boy?”

“I sent him back up the road.”

“For what?”

“To finish some bidness. Let’s go.” Chub, laying the revolver on the front seat between them; Shiner’s spot.

“Well, goddamn.” Bode could hear the kid’s golf spikes clacking on the pavement.

“Jest drive,” Chub said.

“Anywheres in particular?”

“Wherever you was goin’ is fine. Long as it ain’t too fur from Jewfish Creek.” Chub launched a brown stream of spit out the window. “Go ’head and ast.”

Bode Gazzer said, “OK. How come Jewfish Creek?”

“On account of I like the name.”

“Ah.” On account of you’re a certified moron, Bode thought.

By daybreak they were at a marina in Key Largo, picking out a boat to steal.

Tom Krome’s death was announced with an end-of-the-world headline in
The Register
, but the news failed to shake American journalism to its foundations.
The New York Times
didn’t carry the story, while the Associated Press condensed
The Register’s
melodramatic front-page spread to eleven sober inches. The AP’s rewrite desk circumspectly noted that, while the medical examiner was confident of his preliminary findings, the body found in Tom Krome’s burned house had yet to be positively identified.
The Register’s
managing editor seemed certain of the worst—he was quoted as saying Krome was “quite possibly” murdered as the result of a sensitive newspaper assignment. Pressed for details, the managing editor replied he was not at liberty to discuss the investigation.

Many papers across the United States picked up the Associated Press story and reduced it to four or five paragraphs. A slightly longer version appeared in
The Missoulian
, the daily that serves Missoula and other communities in the greater Bitterroot valley of Montana. Fortuitously, it was here Mary Andrea Finley Krome had hooked up with a little-theater production of
The
Glass Menagerie
. Although she was not a great fan of Tennessee Williams (and, in any case, preferred musicals over dramas), she needed the work. The prospect of performing in small-town obscurity depressed Mary Andrea, but her mood brightened after she made friends with another actress, a dance major at the state university. Her name was Lorie, or possibly Loretta—Mary Andrea reminded herself to check in the playbill. On Mary Andrea’s second morning in town, Lorie or Loretta introduced her to a cozy coffee shop where students and local artists gathered, not far from the new city carousel. The coffee shop featured old stuffed sofas upon which Mary Andrea and her new pal contentedly settled with their cappuccinos and croissants. They spread the newspaper between them.

It was Mary Andrea’s habit to begin each morning with an update of entertainment and celebrity happenings, of which several were capsulized in
The Missoulian
. Tom Cruise was being paid $22 million to star in a movie about a narcoleptic heart surgeon who must attempt a six-hour transplant operation on his girlfriend (Mary Andrea wondered which of Hollywood’s anorexic blow-job artists had won the part). Also, it was reported that one of Mary Andrea’s least-favorite television programs,
Sag Harbor Saga
, was being canceled after a three-year run. (Mary Andrea feared it wasn’t the last America would see of Siobhan Davies, the insufferable Irish witch who’d beaten her out for the role of Darien, the predatory textile heiress.) And, finally, a drug-loving actor with whom Mary Andrea once had done Shakespeare in the Park was under arrest in New York after disrobing in the lobby of Trump Tower and, during his flight to escape, headbutting the beefeater at the Fifth Avenue entrance. (Mary Andrea took no joy from the actor’s plight, for he had shown her nothing but kindness during
The Merchant of Venice
, when a disoriented june bug had flown into Mary Andrea’s right ear and
interrupted for several awkward moments Portia’s famous peroration on the quality of mercy.)

Having digested, and sagely commented upon, each item in the “People” column, Mary Andrea Finley Krome then turned to the weightier pages of
The Missoulian
. The headline that caught her attention appeared on page three of the front section:
NEWS REPORTER BELIEVED DEAD IN MYSTERY BLAZE.
It wasn’t the slain-journalist angle that grabbed Mary Andrea so much as the phrase “mystery blaze,” because Mary Andrea adored a good mystery. The sight of her estranged husband’s name in the second paragraph was a complete shock. The newspaper drifted from Mary Andrea’s fingertips, and she emitted an oscillating groan that was mistaken by fellow coffee drinkers for a New Age meditative technique.

“Julie, you OK?” asked Lorie, or Loretta.

“Not really,” Mary Andrea rasped.

“What is it?”

Mary Andrea pressed her knuckles to her eyes and felt genuine tears.

“You need a doctor?” asked her new friend.

“No,” said Mary Andrea. “A travel agent.”

Joan and Roddy got a copy of
The Register
at the Grab N’Go and brought it to Sinclair at the shrine. He refused to read it.

“You’re mentioned by name,” Joan beseeched, holding up the newspaper for him to see, “as Tom Krome’s boss.”

Roddy added: “It explains how you’re out of town and not available for comment.”

“Nyyah nimmy doo-dey!”
was Sinclair’s response.

The yammering sent a sinusoidal murmur through the Christian tourists gathering along the narrow moat. Some knelt, some stood beneath umbrellas, some perched on folding chairs and
Igloo coolers. Sinclair himself lay prone at the feet of the fiberglass Madonna.

Joan was so concerned about her brother’s behavior that she considered notifying their parents. She’d read about religious fanatics who fondled snakes, but a turtle fixation seemed borderline deviant. Roddy said he hadn’t heard of it either. “But personally,” he added, “I’m damn glad it’s cooters and not diamondbacks. Otherwise we’d be coffin-shopping.”

Sinclair had cloaked himself toga-style in a pale bedsheet, upon which a confetti of fresh lettuce was sprinkled. With surprising swiftness the apostolic turtles scrambled from their sunning stones to ascend the gleaming buffet. Zestfully they traversed Sinclair from head to toe, while he cooed and blinked placidly at the passing clouds. Cameras clicked and video cameras whirred.

Trish and Demencio monitored the visitation from the living room window. She said, “He’s really something. You gotta admit.”

“Yeah. A fruit basket.”

“But aren’t you glad we let him stay?”

Demencio said, “A buck’s a buck.”

“He must’ve snapped. Stripped a gear.”

“Maybe so.” Demencio was distracted by a sighting of Dominick Amador, clumping unscrupulously among the pilgrims.

“Sonofabitch. He got him some crutches!”

Trish said, “You know why?”

“I can sure guess.”

“Yeah, he finally got his feet drilled. I heard he paid the boy at the muffler shop, like, thirty bucks.”

“Psycho,” said Demencio.

Then Dominick Amador spotted him in the window and timorously waved a Crisco-filled mitten. Demencio did not return the greeting.

Trish said, “You want me to chase him off?”

Demencio folded his arms. “Now what—who the hell’s that?” He pointed at a slender person in a hooded white robe. The person carried a clipboard and moved with clerical efficiency from one tourist to the next.

“The lady from Sebring Street,” Trish explained, “the one with the Road-Stain Jesus. She’s working on a petition to the highway department.”

“Like hell. She’s workin’ on my customers!”

“No, honey, the state wants to pave over her shrine—”

“Is that my problem? I got a business going here.”

“All right,” Trish said, and went outside to have a word with the woman. Demencio had always been leery of his competition—he liked to stay ahead of the pack. It bothered him when Dominick or the others came snooping. Trish understood. The miracle racket was no picnic.

And the queer histrionics of the visiting newspaperman had made Demencio edgier than usual. He could cope with hydraulic malfunctions in a weeping statue; a flesh-and-blood lunatic was something else. For the time being, the recumbent and incoherent Sinclair was drawing plenty of customers. But what if he freaked out? What if his marble-mouthed gibberish turned to violent rant?

Demencio fretted that he might lose control of his shrine. He sat down heavily and contemplated the aquarium, where the unpainted baby turtles eagerly awaited breakfast. JoLayne Lucks had phoned to check on the smelly little buggers, and Demencio reported that all forty-five were healthy and fit. He hadn’t told her about the apostle scam. JoLayne had promised she’d be home in a few days to collect her “precious babies.”

They’re precious to me, too, thought Demencio. I’ve got to milk ’em for all they’re worth.

When Trish returned he said: “Let’s do the rest.”

“What?”

“Them.”
He nodded at the tank.

“How come?”

“More painted cooters, more money. Think of how happy Mister Born Again’ll be.” Demencio cut a glance toward the front window. “Crazy dork can bury himself under the damn things.”

Trish said, “But, honey, there’s only twelve apostles.”

“Who says it’s gotta be just apostles? Go find that Bible. All we need is thirty-three more saint types. Most anybody’ll do—New Testament, Old Testament.”

How could Trish say no? Her husband’s instincts on such matters were invariably sound. As she gathered the brushes and paint bottles, she showed Demencio the front page of
The Register
, which had been given to her by Joan and Roddy. “Isn’t that the fella went to Miami with JoLayne?”

“Yeah, only he ain’t dead.” With a forefinger, Demencio derisively flicked the newspaper. “When she called up this morning, this Tom guy was with her. Some phone booth down in the Keys.”

“The Keys!”

“Yeah, but don’t go tellin’ the turtle boy. Not yet.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Trish said.

“He finds out his man’s still alive, he might quit prayin’. We don’t want that.”

“No.”

“Or he might stop with them angel voices.”

“Tongues. Speaking in tongues,” Trish corrected.

“Whatever. I won’t lie,” Demencio said. “That crazy dork is good for business.”

“I won’t say a thing. Look here, he’s mentioned in the same article.”

Demencio skimmed the first few paragraphs while he struggled
to uncap a bottle of thinner. “You see this? ‘Assistant Deputy Managing Editor of Features and Style.’ Hell kinda job is
that?
Ha, no wonder he’s rolling in the mud.”