Lucky You (31 page)

One moment Bode Gazzer had the boat, the next he was being heaved in the drink. He’d been outrun, naturally; the curse of short legs and tar-gummed lungs. Thank you, Mom and Dad. Thank you, Philip Morris.

Who else could he blame?

Chub, for being stoned, blind-horny and incompetent.

The government, for allowing Negro terrorists to purchase Lotto tickets.

And his own bad fortune, for unknowingly robbing and assaulting a card-carrying member of the feared Black Tide, whatever the hell that was; a woman who obviously used her NATO cohorts to track the White Clarion Aryans to the remotest of islands so she could pick off his troops one by one, like baby harp seals.

Not me, Bode vowed, submerging in the grasp of the Negro woman’s white accomplice. Nosir, you ain’t leavin’ me out here to starve with that sorry-ass Chub.

Major, my ass. Major fuckup is more like it.

Bode battled with no style but loads of determination. The heavy shit-kicker boots were an encumbrance, filling rapidly with saltwater—he might as well have strapped cinder blocks to his feet. Nor was the sodden camo suit an ideal choice for swimwear, but Bode coped as well as he could. Having been choked two or three times before, in prison fights, he recognized the onset of oxygen deprivation.

The white guy was stronger than Bode Gazzer expected, so Bode undertook a strategy of mad pawing and thrashing. The effect was to muddy the bay bottom so thoroughly that Bode initially failed to see the stingray lying there, as flat as a cocktail tray.

Like most criminals who relocate to South Florida, Bodean Gazzer had spent little time familiarizing himself with the native fauna. He was keenly aware that lobsters had a weakness for lobster traps, but otherwise his knowledge of marine wildlife was sketchy. A minimal amount of scholarship—say, a visit to the Seaquarium—would have provided two lifesaving facts about the common southern stingray.

One: It doesn’t actually sting. The detachable barb on the end of its tail, although coated with an infectious mucus, is used defensively as a lance.

Two: Should one encounter a ray dozing in the shallows, the worst possible thing to do is kick it.

Which is what Bodean Gazzer (mistaking it for an extremely large flounder) did. The agony he experienced was the result of the stingray barb penetrating deep flesh. The blood he saw in the water jetted from his own femoral artery.

Once Bode poked up for air, he saw the white guy wading doggedly in pursuit of the boat, which was drifting away. Bode aimed himself toward dry land but discovered he couldn’t stand upright, much less walk. A chill shook him to the marrow, and suddenly he felt woozy.

What now? he thought. Then he keeled sideways.

“Wake up,” JoLayne said to the moaning redneck.

“It might be too late,” Tom Krome told her.

“No, it’s not.”

Bodean Gazzer cracked his eyelids. “Get the fuck away.”

“Told you,” JoLayne said.

“Get away!”

“No, I’ve got a question. And I’d like an honest answer, Mr. Gazzer, before you die: Why’d you pick me? Of all people, why me? Because I’m black, or because I’m a woman—”

Tom said, “He’s out of it.”

“Hell I am,” the redneck murmured.

“Then please answer me,” JoLayne said.

“It wasn’t none a them reasons. We picked you on account a you won the damn Lotto. It just worked out you was a Negro—hell, we didn’t know.” Bode Gazzer chuckled weakly. “It just worked out that way.”

“But it made it easier, didn’t it? That I was black.”

“We believe in the s-s-supremacy of the white race. If that’s what you mean. We believe the Bible preaches genetic p-p-purity.”

They’d hauled him up on shore and peeled off his hunting camos. Once they saw the gushing leg wound, they knew it was over.

The redneck said, “You tell me I’m dyin’—I look dumb enough to fall for that?” His eyelids closed. JoLayne cupped his cheeks and urged him to stay awake.

“Please,” she said, “I’m trying to understand the nature of your hatefulness. Let’s sort this out.”

“Oh, I got it. You ain’t gonna shoot me, you’re gonna talk me to death.”

“What did I ever do to you?” she demanded. “What did any black person ever do to you?”

Bodean Gazzer grunted. “Prison once, there was a Negro stole the magazines out from under my whatchacallit. My bunk. Plus some NRA decals.”

Tom said, “He’s going into shock.”

JoLayne nodded disappointedly. “I wish I understood—there was no cause for all this. Man doesn’t even know me, comes to my house and does what he did—”

” ‘Nother time they got my car stereo.” Bode’s voice trailed. “Happened in Tampa, either them or Cubans for sure … “

Tom said, “It won’t be long, Jo. Let’s go.”

She stood up. “Lord have mercy,” she said to the dying man. “There’s nothing I can do for you.”

“No shit.” The redneck tittered. “Nothin” anybody can do. I’m on God’s shit list, that’s the story my whole damn life. Numero uno on God’s shit list.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Gazzer.”

“You ain’t gonna shoot me? After all this?”

“Nope,” said JoLayne.

“Then I sure don’t understand.”

Tom Krome said, “Maybe it’s just your lucky day.”

The helicopter pilot decided to make one more pass and call it quits. The ride-along said he understood; the Coasties were on a bare-bones budget like everybody else.

Search conditions were ideal: a cloudless sky, miles of visibility and a light clean chop on the water. If the lost boat was anywhere on Florida Bay, they probably would’ve found her by now. The pilot was certain of one thing: There was no sixteen-foot Boston Whaler near Cotton Key. Either the woman who’d rented it had gotten lost in the foul weekend weather or she’d lied to the man at the motel marina.

Flying at five hundred feet, the pilot took the chopper on a sinuous course from the Cowpens along Cross Bank toward Captain Key, Calusa, the Buttonwoods and Roscoe. Then he arced back across Whipray Basin toward Corinne Key, Spy and Panhandle. He was coming up fast on the Gophers when he heard his spotter say: “Hey, we’ve got something.”

It was an open skiff, zipping through a stake channel on Twin Key Bank. The Coast Guard pilot throttled down and put the bird in a hover.

“Whaler sixteen?”

“Roger,” said the spotter. “Two aboard.”

“Two? Are you sure?”

“That’s a roger.”

The ride-along said nothing.

“They OK?” the pilot asked the spotter.

“Seem to be. Heading for Islamorada, it looks like.”

The pilot leaned toward the jump seat. “What do you think, sir?”

The ride-along had brought his own binoculars, weatherproof Tascos. “A little closer if you can,” he said, peering.

Perched in the chopper door, the spotter reported it was a man and a woman. “She’s waving. He’s giving us a thumbs-up.”

The Coast Guard pilot said, “Well, Mr. Moffitt?”

“That’s her. Definitely.”

“Good deal. You want us to hang by?”

“Not necessary,” the agent said. “She’s as good as home.”

27

Shiner never contemplated stealing the Lotto ticket from Amber and cashing it for himself. He was too infatuated; they’d spent so much time together, he felt they were practically a couple. Moreover, he was by nature an accomplice; a follower. Without someone to boss him around, Shiner was adrift. As his mother often said, this was a young man who needed firm direction. Certainly he hadn’t the nerve to travel alone to Tallahassee and attempt to claim the lottery jackpot. The idea was petrifying. Shiner knew he made a poor first impression, knew he was an unskilled and transparent liar. The vile tattoo could be concealed, but how would he explain his corkscrew thumbs and the skinhead haircut? Or the crankcase scar? Shiner couldn’t conceive a circumstance in which the State of Florida willingly would hand him $14 million.

Amber, on the other hand, could pull off anything. She was smooth and self-confident, and her dynamite looks sure couldn’t hurt. Who could say no to a face and a body like that! Shiner figured the best thing to do was concentrate on the driving (which he was good at) and let Amber handle the details of collecting the Lotto winnings. Certainly she’d cut him in for
something—
probably not fifty percent (on account of the kidnapping and then what happened on the island with Chub), but maybe four or five million. Amber did need him, after all. It would be foolish to turn in the lottery ticket without first destroying the videotape from the Grab N’Go, and only Shiner could take her where it was hidden. He resolved to be the best damn chauffeur she ever saw.

“Where’s this trailer?” she asked.

“We’re almost there.”

“What’s all that, corn or something?”

“The colonel said corn, tomatoes and I think green beans. You grow up on a farm?”

“Not even close,” Amber said.

Shiner thought she seemed a little cranky. To loosen her up, he sang a few lines from “Nut-Cutting Bitch,” tapping a beat on the dashboard and hoping she’d join in. He gave up when he ran out of lyrics.

Amber blinked impassively at the passing crop fields. “Tell me about the black girl,” she said. “JoLayne.”

“What’s to tell.”

“What does she do?”

Shiner shrugged one shoulder. “Works at the vet. You know, with the animals.”

“She got any kids?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Boyfriend? Husband?” Amber, biting her lower lip.

“Not that I heard of. She’s just another girl around town, I don’t know much about it.”

“Do people like her?”

“My Ma says so.”

“Shiner, are there many black people where you live?”

“In Grange? Some. What’s ‘many’? I mean, we got a few.” Then it occurred to him that she might be considering a move, so he added: “But not many. And they stick pretty much to theyselves.”

Showing good sense, Amber thought.

“You all right?”

“How much farther?”

“Just up the road,” Shiner said. “We’re almost there.”

He was relieved to see his Impala next to the trailer, where he’d parked it, although he’d apparently left the trunk ajar. Dumb-ass!

Amber said, “Nice paint job.”

“I done the sanding myself. When I’m through, it’ll be candy-apple red.”

“Look out, world.”

She stood and stretched her legs. She noticed an opossum curled on the trailer slab; the mangiest thing she’d ever seen. It blinked shoe-button eyes and poked a whiskered pink snout in the air. When Shiner clapped his hands, it ambled into the scrub. Amber wished it had run.

She said, “I can’t believe anybody lives like this.”

“Chub’s tough. He’s about the toughest I ever met.”

“Yeah. Look where it got him—a dump.” Amber meant to shatter any notions Shiner might have about inviting her inside. “So where’s the tape?” she asked impatiently.

He stepped to the Impala and opened the passenger-side door. The glove compartment was open, and empty.

“Oh shit.”

“Now what?” Amber leaned in to see.

“I can’t fucking believe this.” Shiner wrapped his arms around his head. Someone had been inside his car!

The videotape was gone. So was the bogus handicapped parking emblem, which Shiner had hung from the rearview. Also missing was the Impala’s steering wheel, without which the car was scrap.

“It’s them again. The goddamn Black Tide!” Shiner gasped out the words.

Amber looked inappropriately amused. He asked her what was so damn funny.

“Nothing’s funny. But it
is
sort of perfect.”

“Glad you think so. Jesus, what about the Lotto!” he said. “And what about my car? I hope you got Plan B.”

Amber said, “Let’s get going.” When he balked, she lowered her voice: “Hurry. Before ‘they’ come back.”

She made Shiner drive, an enforced distraction. Soon he blabbered himself into a calm. In Homestead she instructed him to pull over by a drainage canal. She waited for a dump truck to pass, then tossed Chub’s Colt Python into the water. Afterward, Shiner stayed quiet for many miles. Amber knew he was thinking about all that money. She was, too.

“It wasn’t meant to be. It wasn’t right,” she said, “not from any angle.”

“Yeah, but for fourteen million bucks—”

“Know why I’m not upset? Because we’re off the hook. Now we don’t have to make a decision about what to do. Somebody made it for us.”

“But you still got the ticket.”

Amber shook her head. “Not for long. Whoever came for that video knows who really won the lottery. They
know,
OK?”

“Yeah.” Shiner went into a sulk.

She said, “I’ve never been arrested before. How about you?”

He said nothing.

“You mentioned your mom? Well, I was thinking about my dad,” Amber said. “About what my dad would do if he turned on the TV one night and there’s his little blond princess in handcuffs, busted for trying to cash a stolen Lotto ticket. It’d probably kill him, my dad.”

“The rabbi?”

She laughed softly. “Right.”

Shiner wasn’t sure how to get back to Coconut Grove, so Amber (who needed to pack an overnight bag, check in with Tony and arrange for her friend Gloria to cover her shift at Hooters) told him to stick with U.S. 1, even though there were a jillion stoplights. Shiner didn’t complain. They were stopped in traffic at the Bird Road intersection when the car was approached by an elderly Cuban man selling long-stemmed roses. Impulsively Shiner dug a five-dollar bill from his camos. The old man grinned warmly. Shiner bought three roses and handed them to Amber, who responded with a cool dart of a kiss. It was the first time he ever got flowers for a woman, and also his first experience with a genuine Miami Cuban.

What a day, he thought. And it still ain’t over.

The videotape gave Moffitt a headache. Typical convenience-store setup: cheapo black-and-white with stuttered speed, so the fuzzy images jerked along like Claymation. A digitalized day/date/time flickered in the bottom margin. Impatiently Moffitt fast-forwarded through a blurry conga line of truckers, traveling salesmen, stiff-legged tourists and bingeing teenagers whose unwholesome diets and nicotine addictions made the Grab N’Go a gold mine for the Dutch holding company that owned it.

Finally Moffitt came to JoLayne Lucks, walking through the swinging glass doors. She wore jeans, a baggy sweatshirt and big round sunglasses, probably the peach-tinted ones. The camera’s clock flashed 5:15 p.m. One minute later she was standing at the counter. Moffitt chuckled when he saw the roll of Certs; spearmint, undoubtedly. JoLayne dug into her purse and gave some money to the pudgy teenage clerk. He handed her the change in coins, plus one ticket from the Lotto machine. She said something to the clerk, smiled, and went out the door into the afternoon glare.

Moffitt backed up the tape, to review the smile. It was good enough to make him ache.

He’d left Puerto Rico a day early, after the de la Hoya cousins wisely discarded their original explanation of the three hundred Chinese machine guns found in their beach house at Rincon (to wit: they’d unknowingly rented the place to a band of leftist guerrillas posing as American surfers). Attorneys for the de la Hoyas realized they were in trouble when they noticed jurors smirking (and, in one case, suppressing a giggle) as the surfer alibi was presented during opening statements. After a hasty conference, the de la Hoyas decided to jump on the government’s offer of a plea bargain, thus sparing Moffitt and a half dozen other ATF agents the drudgery of testifying. Once the case was settled, Moffitt’s pals headed straight to San Juan in search of tropical pussy, while Moffitt flew home to help JoLayne.

Who was, naturally, nowhere to be found.

Moffitt had known she wouldn’t take his advice, wouldn’t back off and wait. There was nothing to be done; she was as stubborn as a mule. Always had been.

Finding her, if she was still alive, meant finding the Lotto robbers whom she undoubtedly was tracking. For clues Moffitt returned to the apartment of Bodean James Gazzer, which appeared to have been abandoned in a panic. The food in the kitchen was beginning to rot, and the ketchup message on the walls had dried to a gummy brown crust. Moffitt made another hard pass through the rooms and came up with a crumpled eviction notice for a rented trailer lot in the boonies of Homestead. Scratched in pencil on the back of the paper were six numbers that matched the ones on JoLayne’s stolen lottery ticket.

Moffitt was on his way out the apartment door when the phone rang. He couldn’t resist. The caller was a deputy for the Monroe County sheriffs office, inquiring about a 1996 Dodge Ram pickup truck that had been found stripped near the Indian Key fill, on the Overseas Highway. The deputy said the truck was registered to one Bodean J. Gazzer.

“That you?” the deputy asked on the phone.

“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 Opa-Locka 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 pony tailed 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
Out
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 grace 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?”