Carl Hiaasen (28 page)

Finally the stolen boat came free of the grassy bank. Chub boosted himself aboard and manically stripped off his pants to attend to the stinging.

That’s when he remembered it.

The ticket
.

“Jesus!” he cried hoarsely. “Jesus Willy Christ!”

His right thigh was bare and dripping wet. The jumbo Band-Aid had fallen off. The Lotto ticket was gone.

Chub uttered an inhuman croak and sorrowfully toppled back into the water.

B
odean Gazzer was obsessed with the specter of the Black Tide. He could recall no mention of the group in the stacks of white-supremacist pamphlets he’d collected.

Black Panthers, MOVE, Nation of Islam, NAACP—Bode had read extensively about them. But nothing called the Black Tide.

Whoever they were, they’d been through his apartment. Negroes, almost certainly! Bode thought he knew why he’d been singled out: They’d learned about the White Clarion Aryans.

But how? he asked himself. The WCA had been together scarcely one week—he hadn’t even composed a manifesto yet. His pulse fluttered as he mulled the only two possible explanations: Either the Negro force possessed a sophisticated intelligence-gathering apparatus, or there was a serious leak within the WCA. Bode Gazzer regarded the latter as almost inconceivable.

Instead he would proceed on the assumption that the Black Tide was exceptionally cunning and resourceful, probably connected
to a government agency. He would also presume that no matter where the White Clarion Aryans took up hiding, the devious Negroes would eventually track them down.

That’s all right, Bode thought. He’d have his militia ready when the time came.

Meanwhile, where was that fucking Chub with the boat?

Panic nibbled at Bode Gazzer’s gut. The idea of deserting his trigger-happy partner began to make some sense. Bode had, after all, fourteen million bucks tucked in a condom. Once he cashed the lottery ticket, he could go anywhere, do anything—build himself a fortress in Idaho, with the mother of all hot tubs!

Lately Bode had been thinking a lot about Idaho, lousy winters and all. From what he’d heard, the mountains and forests were full of straight-thinking white Christians. Recruiting for the WCA would be so much easier in a place like that. Bode was thoroughly fed up with Miami—everywhere you turned were goddamn foreigners. And when you finally came across a real English-speaking white person, there was a better than even chance he’d turn out to be a Jew or some ultraliberal screamer. Bode was sick and tired of walking on eggshells, whispering his true righteous beliefs instead of declaring them loud and proud in public. In Miami you always had to be so damn careful—God forbid you accidentally insulted somebody, because they’d get right in your face. And not just the Cubans, either.

Bodean Gazzer felt sure the minorities out West were more docile and easily intimidated. He decided it might be a good move, providing he could adjust to the cold weather. Even in summer camos, Bode Gazzer thought he could fit right in.

As for Chub, he probably wouldn’t go over big in Idaho. He’d probably spook even decent white people away from the Aryan cause. No, Bode thought, Chub belonged in the South.

And it wasn’t as if Bode would be leaving the man high and dry. Chub still held the other Lotto ticket, the one they’d taken off the Negro woman in Grange. Hell, he’d be rich enough to start his own militia if he wanted. Be his own colonel.

Bode checked his wristwatch. If he left now, he could make Tallahassee before midnight. This time tomorrow, he’d have his first Lotto check.

Unless they got to him first—the vicious bastards who’d ransacked his apartment.

Ironically, that’s when a crazy stoner like Chub was most useful—in the face of violence. He didn’t spook easily, and he’d do just about anything you told him. He’d be damn handy to have around if shooting started. It was something to consider, something to mark on the positive side of the Chub ledger. An argument could be made for keeping the man nearby.

Pacing the boat ramp, Bode sweated through his Timber Ghost jumpsuit. The weekend road traffic zipped past, Bode feeling the curious eyes of the travelers on his neck—not all were tourists and fishermen, he felt certain. Undoubtedly the Black Tide enlisted many watchers, and they’d be scouting for a red Dodge Ram pickup with a
FUHRMAN FOR PRESIDENT
sticker (which Bode Gazzer had tried unsuccessfully to scrape off the bumper with a penknife).

That’s when he’d decided to haul out the AR-15. Let the fuckers see what they’re up against.

He laid a chamois across the hood of the truck and disassembled the semiautomatic exactly as Chub had taught him. He hoped the Black Tide was catching all this. He hoped they’d come to the conclusion he was mentally deranged, displaying an assault rifle in broad daylight along a U.S. government highway.

When it was time to put the AR-15 back together, Bodean Gazzer ran into difficulty. Some parts fit together, some didn’t.
He wondered if he’d accidentally misplaced a screw or two. The pieces of the gun were slick and oily, and Bode’s fingers were moist with perspiration. He began dropping little things in the gravel.

In exasperation, he thought:
How hard can this be? Chub can do it when he’s drunk!

After half an hour, Bode angrily gave up. He folded the chamois cloth around the loose components of the rifle and set the bundle in the bed of the pickup truck. He tried to act nonchalant, for the benefit of the spying Negroes.

He got behind the wheel and cranked the AC up full blast. He scanned the bottle-green water in all directions. A low-riding fishing skiff crossed his view. So did a pretty girl, cutting angles on a sailboard. Then came two hairy fat guys on Jet Skis, jumping each other’s wakes.

But there was no sign of Chub in the stolen boat. Sourly Bode thought: Maybe the dickhead’s not coming. Maybe he’s ditching
me
.

Five more minutes, he told himself. Then I’m gone.

On the highway, cars streamed southbound as if loaded on a conveyor belt. Staring at them made Bode drowsy. He’d been up for almost two days and in truth was physically incapable of driving to Cutler Ridge, much less Tallahassee. He would’ve loved to take a nap, but that would be suicide. That’s when they’d make their move—the Black Tide, whatever and whoever it was.

When Bode closed his eyes, a question popped belatedly into his brain: What the hell do they want?

He was not too exhausted to figure it out. They seemed to know everything, didn’t they? Who he was, where he lived. They knew about the White Clarion Aryans, too.

So surely they also knew about one, if not both, of the lottery
tickets. That’s what the greedy bastards had been searching for inside his apartment!

Bodean Gazzer was snapped alert by the icy realization that the only stroke of good fortune he’d ever experienced was in danger of being ripped from his grasp. Alone on the road, with the AR-15 in pieces, he was a sitting duck.

Impulsively Bode dug into his pants for his wallet, took out the Trojan packet, peeked inside. The Lotto coupon was safe. He put it away. He didn’t need to look at his watch to know five minutes was up. Maybe Chub had bailed. Or got busted by the marine patrol. Or found some fiberglass resin to sniff, fell off the boat and drowned.

Adiós, muchacho
.

Bode’s heart was hammering like a rabbit’s. Recklessly he gunned the truck across Highway One and fishtailed into the northbound lane. With trembling fingers he adjusted the rearview mirror, something he should’ve done the night before. With only a Molson truck on his bumper, Bode was breathing easier by the time he reached Whale Harbor. Crossing the bridge, he glanced along a broad tree-lined channel to the west. As if seized by a cramp, his foot sprang off the accelerator.

A blue-and-gray speedboat was snaking down the waterway. The driver’s ponytail flapped like a gray rag in the breeze.

“Aw, hell,” Bodean Gazzer said. He made a U-turn at the Holiday Isle charter docks and hauled ass back to the ramp.

The grocery store was a treat; everyone friendly, helpful. Not so at the motel marina. The man in charge of the boats—old fart, pinched gray face with a yellow three-day stubble—was clumsy with edginess and indecision. Clearly he’d never done business
with a solitary black woman, and the prospect had afflicted him with the yips.

“Is there a problem?” JoLayne Lucks inquired, knowing full well there was. She drummed her daunting fingernails on the cracked countertop.

The dock guy coughed. “I’ll need your driver’s license.”

“Fine.”

“And a cash deposit.” More coughing.

“Certainly.”

The dock guy gnawed his lower lip. “You done this before? Mebbe you wanna try a water bike ’stead.”

“Lord, no.” JoLayne laughed. She spotted a calico cat curled beside the soda cooler. She scooped it off the floor and began stroking its chin. “Poor lil princess got ear mites, don’t ya?” Then, addressing the dock guy: “Chlorhexidine drops. Any veterinarian carries them.”

The old man fumbled his pen. “Ma’am, is the boat fer fishin’ or divin’ or what azackly? How fur you gone take it?”

JoLayne said, “I was thinking Borneo.”

“Now, don’t you get huffy. It’s jest the boss owner makes me do all this shit paperwork.”

“I understand.” Tacked to a wall of the shack was a marine chart of Florida Bay. JoLayne surreptitiously scanned it and said: “Cotton Key. That’s as far as I’m going.”

The dock guy looked disappointed as he wrote it down on the rental form. “They’s a grouper hole out there. I guess the whole damn world knows.”

JoLayne said, “Well, they won’t hear it from me.” The cat jumped from her arms. She opened her purse. “How about a tide table,” she asked, “and one of those maps?”

The dock guy seemed pleasantly surprised by the request, as if most yahoo tourists never thought to ask. JoLayne could see his estimation of her rise meteorically. In his scarlet-rimmed
eyes appeared a glimmer of hope that the motel’s precious sixteen-foot skiff might actually be returned in one piece.

“Here go, young lady.” He handed her the chart and the tide card.

“Hey, thanks. Could you warm up the boat for me? I’ll be there in a jiff—I’ve got ice and food out in the car.”

The dock guy said OK, which was a good thing because JoLayne didn’t know how to start a cold outboard. The old man had it purring by the time she stepped aboard with the grocery bags. He even held the lid of the cooler while she stocked it. Then he said, “’Member. Back by sunset.”

“Gotcha.” JoLayne examined the controls, trying to recall what Tom had told her about working the throttle. The old guy hobbled out of the boat and, with a creaky grunt, pushed it away from the pilings. JoLayne levered the stick forward.

The man stood on the dock, eyeing her like a bony old stork. “Sunset!” he called out.

JoLayne gave him a thumbs-up as she motored slowly away, aiming the bow down a marked channel. She heard the dock guy call to her once more. A funereal droop had come to his shoulders.

“Hey!” he cried.

JoLayne waved; the robotic sort of wave you got from the girl on the homecoming float.

“Hey, what about some b-bait!”

JoLayne waved some more.

“The hell you gone catch fish without no bait?” he shouted at her. “Or even a damn rod and reel?”

She smiled and tapped a forefinger to her temple. The old guy sucked in his liver-colored cheeks and stomped into the shack. JoLayne accelerated as much as she dared in the bumpy chop and then concentrated on not crashing. The chief hazards were other recreational vessels, a large percentage of which
seemed to be piloted by lobotomized young men holding beer cans. They regarded JoLayne as if she were an exotic squid, causing her to conclude that not many African-American women were seen along on the waters of the Florida Keys. One witty lad even sang out: “Are you lost? Nassau’s
thataway!”
JoLayne congratulated herself for not flipping him the finger.

To avoid being noticed by Bodean Gazzer, Tom had arranged to meet a safe distance from the gravel ramp where the pickup truck was parked. He’d pointed out a break in the mangroves, a bare gash of rocky shoreline on the ocean side of the highway. A deepwater cut strung with red-and-blue lobster buoys would help JoLayne locate the place.

She navigated with excessive precision, cleaving two of the bright Styrofoam balls on her way in. Krome was waiting by the water’s edge, to catch the bow. After patiently untangling the trap ropes from the skeg, he climbed in the boat and said, “OK, Ahab, scoot over. They’ve got a ten-minute head start.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“JoLayne, come on.”

She said, “The shotgun.” Expecting another argument.

But Tom said, “Oh yeah.” He jumped out and dashed across the road. In a minute he’d returned with her Remington, concealed in a plastic garbage bag. “I really
did
forget,” he said.

JoLayne believed him. She had one arm around his shoulders as they headed across the water.

According to Chub’s orders, Shiner wasn’t supposed to talk to Amber except to give directions. He found this to be impossible. The longest and closest he’d ever been with such a beautiful girl was a thirty-second elevator ride with an oblivious stenographer at the Osceola County Courthouse. Shiner burned to hear everything Amber had to say—what stories she
must have! Also, he felt crummy about poking her with the screwdriver. He longed to reassure her that he wasn’t some bloodthirsty criminal.

“I’m in junior college,” she volunteered, sending his heart airborne.

“Really?”

“Prelaw, but leaning toward cosmetology. Any advice?”

Now, what was he supposed to do? For all his crude faults, Shiner was essentially a polite young fellow. This was because his mother had flogged the rudeness out of him at an early age.

And it was rude, his mother always said, not to speak when one was spoken to.

So Shiner said to Amber: “Cosmetology—is that where they teach you to be a astronaut?”

She laughed so hard she nearly upended her bowl of minestrone. Shiner perceived that he’d said something monumentally stupid, but he wasn’t embarrassed. Amber had a glorious laugh. He’d have gladly continued to say dumb things all night long, just to listen to that laughter.