Lucky You (20 page)

“Once there were even flamingos,” she informed him. “Guess what happened to them.”

Krome didn’t respond. He was watching Bodean James Gazzer strip and clean a large semiautomatic rifle. Even from a distance of a hundred yards, the barrel glinted ominously in the noon sun.

“Tom, you don’t even care.”

“I like flamingos,” he said, “but what we have here is a rare green-breasted shithead. Broad daylight, he’s playing with guns.”

“Yes, I can see.”

Tom had rejected her latest plan, which involved ambushing Bodean Gazzer alone, jamming her twelve-gauge into his groin and demanding under threat of emasculation that he return the stolen lottery ticket.

Not here, Krome had told her. Not yet.

They were parked on a bleached strip of limestone fill, along a rim of lush mangroves. Not far away was a gravel boat ramp, blocked at the moment by Bodean Gazzer’s red pickup. The driver’s door was open and he stood in full view; neck-to-knees camouflage, cowboy boots, mirrored sunglasses. He had a chamois cloth spread on the hood, the assault rifle in pieces before him.

“Steel balls. I give him that,” Krome said.

“No, he’s just a fool. A damn fool.”

JoLayne feared a cop would drive by and see what Bodean Gazzer was doing. Once the idiot got himself arrested, the chase would be over. The thing would boil down to JoLayne’s word against the redneck’s, and he’d never produce the ticket.

A small black bird landed in the trees and began to sing. Krome said, “OK, what’s that one?”

“Redwing,” JoLayne answered stiffly.

“They endangered?”

“Not yet. Don’t you find it obscene—their presence in a place like this? They’re like …
litter.”
She was talking about the two robbers. “They don’t deserve this—to feel the sun on their necks and breathe this fine air. It’s completely wasted on men like that.”

Krome rolled down the car window and took in the cool salt breeze. In a sleepy voice he said, “I could get used to this. Maybe after Alaska.”

JoLayne, thjnking: How can he act so relaxed? She could no longer distract herself with the island wildlife, so unnerving was the spectacle of Bodean Gazzer toiling ritually at his gun. She couldn’t shake the memory of that awful scene in her house—not just the man’s punches and kicking, but his voice:

Hey, genius, she can’t talk with a gun in her mouth.

Talking to his filthy, ponytailed friend:

You wanna make a impression? Look here.

Snatching one of the baby turtles from the glass tank, putting it on the wooden floor, coaxing his ponytailed friend to shoot it. That’s what Bodean Gazzer had done.

Yet here he was, fit and free in the Florida sunshine. With a $14 million Lotto ticket hidden somewhere, possibly inside a rubber.

JoLayne said to Tom: “I can’t just sit here doing nothing.”

“You’re absolutely right. You should drive to the grocery.” Krome took out his wallet. “Then you should stop at one of those motels and rent a boat. I’ll give you some money.”

JoLayne said she had a better idea. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on the archpatriot.
You
go get the boat.”

“Too risky.”

“I can handle myself,” she insisted.

“JoLayne, there’s no doubt in my mind. I was talking about
me.
Dead persons should always keep a low profile—my face has been in
The Herald,
probably even on TV.”

She said, “It was a shitty picture, Tom. Nobody’ll recognize you.”

“I can’t take that chance.”

“You looked like Pat Sajak on NyQuil.”

“The answer is no.”

Tom didn’t trust her, of course. Didn’t trust her not to mess with the redneck. “This is ridiculous,” she complained. “I’ve never driven a boat.”

“And I’ve never fired a shotgun,” Krome said, “so we have something new to learn from each other. Just what every romance needs.”

“Please.”

“Speaking of which.” He got out, popped the trunk and removed the Remington. “Just in case.”

JoLayne said, “Bad news, Rambo. The shells are in my purse.”

“Just as well,” he said. “I figure we’ve got another forty-five minutes, maybe an hour. Ice is priority one. Get as much ice and fresh water as you can carry.”

“Forty-five minutes until what?”

“Until our sailor with the ponytail gets here,” Krome said.

“Is that so? When were you planning to clue me in?”

“When I was sure.”

JoLayne Lucks was determined to appear skeptical. “You think they’re going by sea.”

“Yup.”

“Where?”

“No idea. That’s why we need a boat of our own. And a chart would be good, too.”

Listen to him, thought JoLayne. Mr. Take-Charge.

She considered holding her ground, telling him off. Then she changed her mind. It did look like a grand day to be out on the bay, especially if the alternative was six more hours in a cramped Honda.

“How big a boat?” JoLayne asked.

Chub was almost at ease on the water. One of the few bearable memories of his childhood was the family ski boat, which the Gillespies had used on weekend outings to Lake Rabun. The young Onus’s pudginess had prevented him from developing into a first-rate water-skier, but he’d loved steering the boat.

The thrill returned to him now, at the helm of the
Reel Luv,
which he had hot-wired in the name of the White Clarion Aryans. With its twin Merc 90s, the stolen twenty-footer was much peppier than the boat Chub had captained as a boy. That was fine; he could handle the extra speed. What he couldn’t cope with was the irregular layout of Florida Bay, with its shifting hues, snaking channels and treacherous flats. It was nothing like Lake Rabun, which was deep and well-defined and relatively free of immovable obstacles such as mangrove islands. Chub’s somewhat rusty navigational skills were further tested by the impaired vision of his wounded left eye (covered by a new rubber patch, purchased for two dollars at an Amoco station) and by his relatively high blood alcohol.

It was only a matter of minutes before he beached the boat. The broad tidal bank was highly visible because of its brown color, which contrasted boldly with the azure and indigo of the deep channels. Also in evidence was a phalanx of wading birds, whose long-legged presence should have signaled the dramatic change of water depth. Chub didn’t notice.

The grounding was drawn-out and panoramic, the big outboards roaring and throwing great geysers of cocoa-colored silt. Chub was hurled hard against the console, knocking the wind out of him. The egrets and herons took flight in unison, wheeling once over the noisy scene before stringing out westbound in the porcelain morning sky. When the spewing engines finally died, the
Reel Luv
was at rest in approximately seven inches of water. The hull drew exactly eight.

As soon as Chub regained his breath, he got up and saw there was but one way off the shallows: Get out and push. Swearing bitterly, he pulled off his shoes and slipped overboard. Immediately he sank to his nuts in the clammy marl. With great thrashing he managed to position himself at the stern and lean his weight against the transom.

The boat actually moved. Not much, but Chub felt somewhat encouraged.

Every sloppy inch of progress was muscle-sapping, like trying to march in wet cement. The mud sucked at Chub’s legs, and his bare skin stung from the sea lice. Fastening to his arms and belly were tiny purple leeches, no larger than rice kernels, which he swatted away savagely. Additional concern was generated by an unfamiliar tingle in his crotch, and it occurred to Chub that some exotic parasite might have entered his body by swimming into the hole of his pecker. No other millionaire in the entire world, he thought rancorously, had these kinds of problems. He was thankful Amber wasn’t there to witness the degrading scene.

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.

18

Bodean 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.

Adios, 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 noisy 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.

JoLaync gave him the 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 alone on the waters of the Florida Keys. One witty lad even sang out: “Are you lost? Nassau’s
thatawayl”
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?”