Carl Hiaasen (43 page)

“My roommate,” Moffitt said.

“Well, when you see him,” said the deputy, “could you ask him to give us a holler?”

“Sure thing.” Moffitt thinking: So the assholes ran to the Keys.

Immediately he began calling marinas, working south from Key Largo and asking (in his most persuasive agent-speak) about unusual rentals or thefts. That’s how he learned about the Whaler overdue in Islamorada, rented to a “nigrah girl with a sassy tongue,” according to the old cracker at the motel dock. The Coast Guard already had a bird up, so Moffitt made another call and got cleared to tag along. He was waiting at Opalocka when the chopper came in for refueling.

Ninety minutes later they’d spotted her—JoLayne with her new friend, Krome. Tooling along in the missing skiff.

Watching through the binoculars, Moffitt had felt sheepish for worrying so much about her. But who in his right mind wouldn’t?

After the helicopter dropped him off, Moffitt drove to Homestead to locate the house trailer from which a man known to his landlord as “Chub Smith” was being evicted. It was a dented single-wide on a dirt road way out in farm country. Inside, Moffitt came across piles of old gun magazines, empty ammo boxes, a
WHITE POWER
T-shirt, a
FRY O.J.
sweatshirt, a
GOD BLESS MARGE SCHOTT
pennant, and (in the bedroom) a makeshift forgery operation for handicapped-parking permits—the quality of which, Moffitt noted, was pretty darn good.

The mail was sparse and unrevealing, bills and gun-shop flyers addressed to “C. Smith” or “C. Jones” or simply “Mr. Chub.” Not a scrap of paper offered a hint to the tenant’s true identity, but Moffitt felt certain it was the ponytailed partner of Bodean James Gazzer. A clot of grimy long strands in the shower drain seemed to confirm the theory.

Parked outside the trailer was an old Chevrolet Impala. Moffitt made a note of the license tag before popping the trunk (where he found a canvas rifle case and a five-pound carton of beef jerky), checking under the seats (two roach clips and a mangled
Oui
magazine) and unlatching the glove box (the video cassette now playing in his VCR).

Moffitt turned off the tape player and opened a beer. He wondered what had happened while he was out of the States, wondered where the white-trash robbers were. Wondered what JoLayne Lucks and her new friend Tom had been up to.

He dialed her number in Grange and left a message on the machine: “I’m back. Call me as soon as you can.”

Then he went to sleep wondering how much he ought to ask, and how much he really needed to know.

Mary Andrea Finley Krome sparkled like a movie star.

That’s what everyone at
The Register
was saying. Even the managing editor admitted she was a knockout.

She’d gotten her short hair highlighted and her nails done, put on tiny gold hoop earrings, pale-rose lipstick, sheer stockings and a stunningly short black skirt. The coup de grâce was the rosary beads, dangling sensually from Mary Andrea’s fingertips.

When she entered the newsroom, the police reporter turned to the managing editor: “Tom must’ve been nuts to walk out on
that.”

Maybe, thought the managing editor. Maybe not.

The elegant widow walked up to him and said, “So, where are they?”

“In the lobby.”

“I just came through the lobby. I didn’t see any cameras.”

“We’ve got ten minutes,” the managing editor said. “They’ll be here, don’t worry.”

Mary Andrea asked, “Is there a place where I can be alone?”

The managing editor glanced helplessly around the newsroom, which offered all the privacy of a bus depot.

“My office,” he suggested, unenthusiastically, and headed downstairs for a Danish. When he returned, he was intercepted by an assistant city editor.

“Guess what Mrs. Krome is doing in there.”

“Weeping uncontrollably?”

“No, she’s—”

“Doubled over with grief?”

“Get serious.”

“Rifling through the desk. That’s my bet.”

“No, she’s rehearsing,” the assistant city editor reported. “Rehearsing her lines.”

“Perfect,” said the managing editor.

When they got to the lobby, crews from three local television stations were waiting, including the promised Fox affiliate. A still photographer from
The Register
arrived (properly sullen about the assignment), boosting the media contingent to four.

“Not exactly a throng,” Mary Andrea griped.

The managing editor smiled coldly. “It is, by our modest standards.”

Soon the room filled with other editors, reporters and clerks,
most of whom didn’t know Tom Krome very well but had been forced to attend by their supervisors. There were even clusters from Circulation and Advertising—easy to spot, because they dressed so much more neatly than the newsroom gang. Also among the audience were curious civilians who had come to
The Register
to take out classified ads, drop off pithy letters to the editor or cancel their subscriptions because of the paper’s shameless left- or right-wing bias.

One person missing from the award ceremony was the publisher himself, who hadn’t been especially shattered by the news of Tom Krome’s probable incineration. Krome once had written a snarky article about a restricted country club to which the publisher and his four golfing sons belonged. After the story appeared, the membership of the country club had voted to spare the sons but expel the publisher for not firing Tom Krome and publicly apologizing for exposing all of them to scorn and ridicule (Krome had described the club as “blindingly white and Protestant, except for the caddies”).

The managing editor would have loved to use that line (and a dozen other zingers) in his tribute to Krome, but he knew better. He had a pension and stock options to consider. So instead, when the TV lights came on, he limited himself to a few innocuous remarks, gamely attempting to invest the first-place Amelia with significance and possibly even prestige. The managing editor of course invoked the namesake memory of the late Ms. Lloyd, noting with inflated irony that she, too, had been cut down midcareer in the line of journalistic duty. Here several reporters exchanged doubtful glances, for the prevailing gossip held that Tom Krome’s death was in no way connected to his job and was in fact the result of imprudent dating habits. Fueling the skepticism was the conspicuous absence of Krome’s own editor, Sinclair, who normally wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to snake credit for a writer’s good work. Obviously something was
screwy, or Sinclair would have been in the lobby, buoyantly awaiting his turn at the lectern.

The managing editor was aware of the rumors about Tom’s death, yet he’d made up his mind to venture out on this limb. One reason was his strong belief that local authorities were too incompetent to sort out the true facts (whatever they were) about the fatal blaze at Krome’s house. And in the absence of competing explanations, the managing editor was willing to promote his newspaper’s first Amelia as a posthumous homage to a fallen star. If, come spring, Krome’s tenuous martyrdom still hadn’t been shot down in a hail of embarrassing personal revelations, the managing editor might just try to float it past a Pulitzer committee. And why the hell not?

“My regret—
our
regret,” he said in conclusion, “is that Tom couldn’t be here to celebrate this moment. But all of us here at
The Register
will remember him today and always with pride and admiration. His dedication, his spirit, his commitment to journalism, lives on in this newsroom….”

Inwardly the managing editor cringed as he spoke, for the words came out corny and canned. It was a tough audience, and he expected to hear a muffled wisecrack or a groan. Quickly he pushed on to the main event.

“Now I’d like to introduce someone very special—Tom’s wife, Mary Andrea, who came a very long way to be with us and share some memories.”

The applause was respectful and possibly heartfelt, the most vigorous burst erupting (out of gung-ho reflex) from the crisp-shirted advertising reps. Slightly more reserved was the newsroom crew, although the managing editor snapped his head around upon hearing a crude wolf whistle; one of the sportswriters, it turned out. (Later, when confronted, the kid would claim to have been unaware of the occasion’s solemnity. Bearing late-breaking news of a major hockey trade, he’d been
hurrying through
The Register’s
lobby toward the elevator when he had spotted Mary Andrea Finley Krome at the podium and was overcome by her rocking good looks.)

As she stepped to the microphone, the managing editor presented her with the standard slab of lacquered pine, adorned by a cheap gold-plated plaque. An appalling etching of the late Amelia J. Lloyd, full-cheeked and chipper, was featured on the award, which Mary Andrea enfolded as if it were a Renoir.

“My husband…,” she said, followed by a perfect pause.

“My husband would be so proud.”

A second burst of applause swept the lobby. Mary Andrea acknowledged it by hugging the Amelia to her breasts.

“My Tom,” she began, “was not an easy man to know. During the last few years, he threw himself into his work so single-mindedly that, I’m sad to say, it pushed us apart….”

By the time Mary Andrea got to their imaginary backstage reunion in Grand Rapids (which, she’d decided at the last moment, sounded more romantic than Lansing), the place was in sniffles. The TV cameras kept rolling; two of the crews even reloaded with fresh batteries. Mary Andrea felt triumphant.

Twenty seconds, my ass, she thought, dabbing her cheeks with a handkerchief provided by the managing editor.

Most surprising: Mary Andrea’s tears, which had begun as well-practiced stage weeping, had bloomed into the real deal. Talking about Tom in front of so many people made her truly grief-stricken for the first time since she’d learned about the fire. Even though she was largely fictionalizing their relationship—inventing anecdotes, intimacies and confidences never shared—the act nonetheless thawed Mary Andrea’s heart. Tom was, after all, a pretty good guy. Confused (like all men) but decent at the core. It was a pity he hadn’t been more adaptable. A damn pity, she thought, blinking away the teardrops.

One person who remained unmoved during the ceremony
was the managing editor of
The Register
. The other was Tom Krome’s lawyer, Dick Turnquist, who politely waited until Mary Andrea was finished speaking before he edged through the well-wishers and served her with the court summons.

“We finally meet,” he said.

And Mary Andrea, being somewhat caught up in her own performance, assumed he was a fan from the theater who wanted an autograph.

“You’re so kind,” she said, “but I don’t have a pen.”

“You don’t need a pen. You need a lawyer.”

“What?” Mary Andrea, staring in bafflement and dismay at the documents in her hand. “Is this some kind of sick joke? My husband’s dead!”

“No, he’s not. Not in the slightest. But I’ll pass along all the nice things you said about him today. He’ll appreciate it.” Turnquist spun and walked away.

The managing editor stood frozen by what he’d overheard. Among the onlookers there was a stir, then a bang caused by lacquered pine hitting terrazzo. The managing editor whirled to see his prized Amelia on the lobby floor, where the non-widow Krome had hurled it. Only inches away: a discarded rosary, coiled like a baby rattler.

The last conscious act of Bodean Gazzer’s life was brushing his teeth with WD-40.

In a survivalist tract he’d once read about the unsung versatility of the popular spray lubricant, and now (while exsanguinating) he felt an irrational urge to brighten his smile. Chub pawed through the gear and found the familiar blue-and-yellow can, which he brought to Bode’s side, along with a small brush designed for cleaning pistols. Chub knelt in the blood-crusted sand and tucked a camouflage bedroll under his partner’s neck.

“Do my molars, wouldya?” Groggily Bode Gazzer opened his mouth and pointed.

“Jesus Willy,” Chub said, but he aimed the nozzle at Bode’s brown-stained chompers and sprayed. What the hell, he thought. The fucker’s dying.

Bode brushed in a listless mechanical way. He spoke from the uncluttered side of his mouth: “You believe this shit? We just lost twenty-eight million bucks to a Negro terrorist and a damn waitress! They got us, brother. NATO and the Tri-Lateral Negroes and the damn com’nists … You believe it?”

Chub was in a blinding misery, his bandaged shoulder afire. “You know … you know what I
don’t
believe?” he said. “I don’t believe you still won’t say ‘nigger’ after all she done to us. Goddamn, Bode, I wonder ’bout you!”

“Aw, well.” Bodean Gazzer’s eyelids drooped to half-staff. One hand flopped apologetically, splatting in a puddle of blood. His face was as pallid as a slab of fish.

“She shot you. She
shot
you, man.” Chub hunched over him.

“I wanna hear you say it. ‘Nigger.’ Before you go and croak, I want you to act like a upright God-fearin’ member of the white master race and say that lil’ word just once. Kin you do that for me? For the late, great White Clarion Aryans?” Chub laughed berserkly against the pain.

“Come on, you stubborn little prick. Say it: N-i-g-e-r.”

But Bodean James Gazzer was done talking. He died with the gun brush in his cheeks. His final breath was a soft necrotic whistle of WD-40 fumes.

Chub caught a slight buzz from it, or so he imagined. He snatched up the aerosol can, struggled to his feet and staggered into the mangroves to mourn.

T
he pilgrims were restless. They wanted Turtle Boy.

Sinclair wouldn’t come out until he had a deal. Shiner’s mother sat beside him on the sofa; the two of them holding hands tautly, as if they were on an airplane in turbulence.

The mayor, Jerry Wicks, had rushed to Demencio’s house after hearing about the trouble. Trish prepared coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Shiner’s mother declined the pancakes in favor of an omelette.

Demencio was in no mood to negotiate, but the crazy fools had him pinned. Something had gone awry with the food-dye formula and his fiberglass Madonna had begun to weep oily brown tears. Hastily he’d hauled the statue indoors and shut down the visitation. Now there were forty-odd Christian tourists milling in the yard, halfheartedly snapping photos of baby turtles in the moat. Sales of the “holy water” had gone flat-line.