Lucky You (23 page)

“As you know,” Bode began, “we’re here on this island because something—somebody—calls themselves the Black Tide is out to destroy us. I got no doubt it’s a Negro operation, a pretty slick one, and I expect they’ll find us eventually. We come all the way out here to regroup, get our weapons in tiptop shape and make a stand.

“Now, I believe with all my Christian heart we’re gonna prevail. But to whip these black bastards we gotta be prepared, and we gotta be a team: armed, disciplined and well-regulated. Pretty soon ‘Merica’s gonna come under attack—I don’t need to tell you about that. The New World Tribunal, the communists, NATO and so forth. But this here’s our first big test, this Black Tide … now what?”

The Hooters girl had raised her hand.

“You got a question?” Bode Gazzer said, perturbed.

“Yeah. Where do you guys see this going?”

“Pardon?”

“The plan,” Amber said. “What’s the long-range plan?”

“We are the White Clarion Aryans. We believe in the purity and supremacy of the Euro-Caucasian people. We believe our Christian values been betrayed and forsaken by the United States government … “

As he spoke, Bodean Gazzer glowered at Chub. How were they going to win a race war with a damn waitress hanging around?

Chub wasn’t annoyed by Amber’s interruption; he was too busy trying to cop a peek up her shorts. Shiner, by contrast, was painfully attentive. Taking Amber’s lead, he raised his right arm and waved at Bode.

“What!”

“Colonel, you said Euro something … “

“Euro-Caucasian.”

“Could you ‘xplain what that is?” Shiner asked.

“White people,” Bode Gazzer snapped. “White people whose folks come from, like, England or Germany. Places such as that.”

“Ireland?” asked Amber.

“Yeah, sure. Denmark, Canada … you get the goddamn idea.” He couldn’t believe these nimrods—the concept of ethnic purity wasn’t that complicated.

Then Shiner said: “They got white people in Mexico.”

“Bullshit.”

“Guy used to work days at the Grab N’Go. Billy was his name. He looked awful white, Colonel.”

Bode was steaming. He walked over to Shiner and kicked him in the side of the head. Shiner cried out and toppled across Amber’s lap. Chub looked on, abject with envy.

Leaning over, Bode took Shiner by the chin. “Listen, you pimple-faced little shitweasel. Ain’t no such thing on God’s earth as a white Meskin named Billy or Hay-zoos or any other damn thing. They’s no white Cubans or Spaniards, neither.”

“But Spain
is
in Europe.” Amber, calm as you please, stroking Shiner’s bestubbled scalp.

Chub, who was tired of being left out, declared: “She got a point there.” Then, turning with a smirk toward the girl: “And here’s a man won’t even say the word ‘nigger.’ “

Bodean
Gazzer
took a deep breath and walked a slow circle around the campfire. He had to cool off; he had to be the calm, clear-thinking one.

“When I talk about Euro-Caucasians,” he said, “I’m referrin’ to
white
white people, all right? That’s the easiest way to explain it. I’m talkin’ about Aryan ancestry, which is something all four of us share.”

Impatiently Chub said, “Get on with it.” To his immense relief, Shiner sat up, uncluttering Amber’s thighs. The glow of the flames gave a delicious sheen to her nylon stockings; it was all Chub could do to restrain himself from stroking them. It was, in fact, only a matter of moments before he tried.

When he did, Amber whacked him in the face. “Look what you did!” she exclaimed.

The aborted grope had snagged Chub’s hand in her hose. It was the crab claw, he was disheartened to see.

“What’s the matter with you!” Amber said, and took another swipe. She wanted the kidnappers to know she was a fighter and that every touch would cost them dearly. It was a cardinal rule of waitressing: Defend your dignity.

Chub knocked over his beer as he fumbled to disentangle himself. “
I’ll
do it,” Amber snapped.

In disgust Bode Gazzer spit a chunk of jerky into the campfire. Shiner was stunned by the scene. Amber’s fear of a rape no longer seemed farfetched; the same could not be said of Shiner’s gallant vow to protect her. Chub was so much stronger and meaner; short of killing him in his sleep, Shiner’s options were limited.

The crab pincers left a ragged hole in Amber’s nylons.

“Damn,” she muttered. Then to Chub: “Hope you’re happy, Romeo.” It was the sort of asshole stunt that boyfriend Tony might pull, pawing at her crotch in public.

Chub told her to chill. He dug in the cooler for another beer. Then he opened the chamois and tackled (with a scathing cackle) the reassembly of the AR-15. Bode pretended not to pay attention.

Amber picked up a flashlight and went into the woods to change clothes. She came out wearing one of Bode Gazzer’s camouflage jumpsuits; Mossy Oak.

Instantly a gloom settled over Chub. He pined for the cutoff T-shirt and the silky shorts. He tried to imagine Kim Basinger as a bear hunter and could not. Bodean Gazzer, however, found himself helplessly intoxicated by the flickering vision in mottled camos.
His
camos. The dainty white Keds added a devastating element.

“Meeting’s over,” he said, and sat down heavily.

Amber, who was soundly apprehensive, resolved not to let it show. She walked forthrightly up to Chub and said: “We need to talk.”

“Gimme a minute with this rifle.”

“No. Right now.”

She took his hand—the claw-hobbled hand!—and led him into the shadows of the mangroves. Shiner was dumbfounded. Was the girl crazy?

Bode Gazzer didn’t like it, either. He caught himself grinding his molars; the only thing that could make him do that was a woman. Don’t get stupid, he warned himself. It’s no time to grow horns. Yet he couldn’t stop thinking about her; about what the Mossy Oak jumpsuit would smell like after she removed it. Or after Chub tore it off, in which case Bode might have to blow the man’s brains out. Purely for the sake of maintaining discipline.

Twenty yards into the woods, Amber turned and put the flashlight on Chub’s face. She said, “I know what you want.”

“It don’t take a genius.”

“Well, this can go two ways,” she told him. “You can be a pig and rape me, and I’ll hate your guts forever. Or we can get to know each other and see what happens.”

With his good eye Chub squinted against the spear of light, trying to read Amber’s expression. He said, “I thought you already liked me jest fine. Seemed that way at the resty-rant.”

“Let me explain something: Just because I smile at a customer doesn’t mean I want to fuck him.”

The word rocked Chub on his heels.

“And if you rape me,” Amber said, “it will be the worst time you ever had with a woman. The
worst.”

“Wh-why?”

“Because I’m not moving a muscle, I’m not making a sound. I’m going to lie there like a cold sack of mud, bored out of my mind. I might even
time
you.” She held up her wrist, so he could get a glimpse of her watch.

Chub said, “Jesus Willy.” Feeling himself wither, he now wished he’d put on some pants.

“Or we can try to be friends,” Amber said. “Think you can handle that?”

“Sure.” His ears were buzzing. He slapped at them.

“Bugs,” Amber said. She shooed them away.

“Thanks.”

“We got a deal?” She held out her hand. Chub took it. Briefly he considered throwing her down and sticking it to her right there, but he decided against it. Fucking a cold sack of mud didn’t sound like much fun, even if the sack looked like a movie star. He thought: Hell, at least hookers
acted
like they were having a good time.

“What kinda guys you go for?” he asked. “Your boyfriend don’t seem all too polite, neither.”

Amber said, “Sometimes he’s not.”

“Then how come you stay with him? He rich?”

“He does all right.” A big fat lie.

“I bet I’m richer,” Chub said.

“Oh, sure.”

“How does fourteen million damn dollars sound?”

The flashlight clicked off. In the shadows he heard Amber say, “You’re kidding.” The smell of perfume was stronger than before, as if she’d moved closer.

“No, I ain’t kidding. Fourteen million.”

Amber said, “I want to hear all about it.”

There was a break in the rolling clouds, and for a few moments Chub could see her eyes by the light of the stars. He felt himself twitching back to life; inadvertently his claw hand went to his groin.

She said, “Maybe tomorrow we can go for a walk. Just the two of us.”

“Fine by me.” The excitement made him light-headed.

The next time Amber spoke, it was a whisper: “Oh, I’ve got something for you.” She took his unwounded hand—the one clenched at his side—opened it gently and pressed something soft into the palm.

Even in the blackness Chub knew what it was.

Her orange Hooters shorts.

“A little token of our friendship,” she said.

21

Cold rain fell after midnight, slapping at the leaves. Bodean Gazzer was curled up beside the hissing embers, where he’d passed out from exhaustion. Chub was splayed in the cockpit of the
Reel Luv.
To his chest he clutched Amber’s waitress shorts, a beer bottle and a tube of poly-urethane marine adhesive he’d come across while rifling a hatch. He had gnawed off the plastic nipple and placed the glue inside a paper grocery bag, leaving space for his head. Amber doubted if the storm would rouse him; his snoring sounded like a locomotive.

Shiner was pulling guard duty, sopping and forlorn. Amber shook out the oilskin tarpaulin and draped it across the mangroves, for a lean-to. She tugged Shiner out of the rain and said: “You’re going to catch your death.”

“No, I can’t sit down.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“But the colonel put me on perimeter.”

“The colonel’s out like a light. Relax,” Amber said. “What kind of gun is that? It’s ugly.”

“TEC-9,” said Shiner.

“I’d be scared to even hold it.”

“Piece a crap.”

“Sure beats the screwdriver.”

Shiner said, “I like the AR-15 better.” The wind snapped the corners of the tarp. “God, this weather sucks. You hear that?”

“It’s just the waves.”

“I hope.” Through the trees he could make out the shape of the boat at the waterline. Chub had anchored it in a skinny channel that ran along the shore of the island.

“It’s, like, zero visibility,” Shiner remarked.

Amber blinked the flashlight in his face. “Just in case,” she said.

“Don’t tell me you gonna make a run for it.”

She laughed emptily. “Where?”

“I’d have to stop you. That’s my orders.”

Amber said, “I’m not going anywhere. Tell me about the money.”

Shiner fell silent for a short while. Then he thought he heard a helicopter. “The NATO troops got Blackhawks. They’s lined up on the beach at Andros Island, is what Colonel Bode says.”

Water streamed off the tarp in sheets. Amber said, “There are no helicopters coming tonight, all right? Not in this shitty storm. Maybe submarines, but no helicopters.”

“You think this is funny?”

“Oh yeah. Getting kidnapped, that really cracks me up.”

Shiner asked, “What’d Chub want? Before, when you guys went in the woods.”

“What do you think.”

“He dint try nothin’, did he?”

“Yeah, he tried something. He tried to tell me he was a millionaire.”

“The brotherhood, he means.”

“No. Him personally,” said Amber.

“I don’t think so.” Shiner looked troubled.

“Fourteen million dollars is what he said. That’s the same money you helped to steal, right?” Amber poked his arm. “Well?”

Again Shiner turned away, toward the boat. “Did he take your pants? He said he took your pants.”

She could scarcely hear him above the wind and the shake of the trees. Shiner said, “He showed ‘em to us. Them orange ones.”

“He didn’t
take
anything. I gave him the damn shorts.” Amber put the light on his face. “Don’t worry, it’s all right.”

“You say so.”

“I’m a big girl.”

“Yeah, but he’s crazy,” Shiner said.

A string of cold drops landed on Amber’s forehead. Glancing up, she noticed a shiny bulge in the skin of the tarpaulin, where the water had puddled on the other side.

She told Shiner: “Watch out, it’s dripping on your Tex.” Turning the flashlight on the gun.

“It’s T-e-c, not T-e-x.” He dried the stubby barrel on one of his sleeves.

“You still worried about helicopters?”

“Naw,” Shiner said.

“The money?”

“Right.” He sniffed sarcastically.

“Where’d you guys get so much?” Amber asked. “Rob Fort Knox or something?”

“Try a lottery ticket.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It was easy.”

“Well, tell me about it,” Amber said.

And Shiner did.

Tom Krome couldn’t get to sleep in the slashing storm. The shadows swayed in the wind, and it got chilly without a fire. He and JoLayne bundled beneath the boat canvas, raindrops popping on the stiff fabric.

“I’m freezing,” she said.

“This is nothing.”

JoLayne briskly rubbed her hands on the knees of her jeans.

Tom said, “Incredible. It was sunny all day.”

“Florida,” she said.

“You like it down here?”

“I like what’s left.”

“Ever been to Alaska?”

“Nope,” she said. “They got black folks up there?”

“I’m not sure. Let me get back to you on that.”

They took out the marine chart and tried to figure out where they were. Tom guessed it was one of three keys in the middle of Florida Bay—Calusa, Spy or Pearl. They wouldn’t know for sure until they got enough daylight to see the horizon.

“Not that it really matters. They’re all uninhabited,” Tom said.

JoLayne nudged him. A tall, long-necked bird was perched regally on the stern of the Whaler. It cocked its head and studied them with blazing yellow eyes. Rain dripped off the tip of its lancelike beak.

“Great blue,” JoLayne whispered.

The bird was really something. Tom said, “Hey, big guy. What’s up?”

The heron took off, croaking and bellowing across the treetops.

JoLayne said, “He’s pissed. We must be in his spot.”

“That, or something spooked him.”

They listened for movement in the mangrove. The shotgun was positioned under the canvas at JoLayne’s feet.

She said, “I don’t hear a thing.”

“Me, neither.”

“They’re not exactly Green Berets, these guys. They won’t be sneaking around in this weather.”

“You’re right,” said Tom.

To pass the time until the skies cleared, they compared futures. He told her his plan to move to Alaska and write a novel about a man whose wife wouldn’t divorce him, no matter what he did. JoLayne said she liked the premise.

“It could be very funny.”

“Funny wasn’t the direction I was going,” Tom said.

“Oh.”

“I had a darker tone in mind.”

“I see. More Cheever than Roth.”

“Neither,” he said, “I was thinking along the lines of Stephen King.”

“A horror story?”

“Sure.
The Estrangement.
What do you think?”

JoLayne said, “Scary.”

She told him her idea to make a nature preserve of Simmons Wood. She intended to speak to a lawyer about inserting a conservation easement in her deed, so the property could never be developed.

“Even after I’m dead,” she said. “That’ll fix the greedy bastards.”

“Will you stay in Grange?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether there’s any other black folks in Alaska,” she said. “Doesn’t have to be many—one would be fine, as long as it’s Luther Vandross.”

“Might as well aim high,” Tom said.

“Hey, I’m inviting myself, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

He wondered if she was serious. It sounded like it.

“Try to control yourself, Tom.”

“I was just thinking it’s too good to be true.” He slipped an arm around her.

“You mean it?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“Let’s say I do. Say we both mean it,” JoLayne said. “What happens if we don’t find the lottery ticket? If we’re broke and bummed out.”

“We’ll go anyway. Don’t you want to see a grizzly before they’re all gone ?”

JoLayne loved the thought of a northern wilderness, but she wondered about the redneck quotient. Alaska was almost as famous for its shitkickers as for its wildlife.

Tom said, “And the place is loaded with eagles, according to what I’ve read.”

“That would be something.”

She fell asleep with her head against his shoulder. He remained awake, listening for intruders. With his free arm he moved the Remington closer. A cool gust made him shiver. Sixty-three degrees, he thought, and already my bones are cold. Perhaps the Kodiak scenario needed more thought. Also, he’d gotten the impression JoLayne wasn’t bowled over by his idea for the divorce novel. He had a feeling she was humoring him.

He was tinkering with the plot when he was startled by flapping behind him—the stately heron, returning. This time it stood on the bow of the boat. Tom Krome saluted. The bird paid no attention; a small silvery fish wriggled in its beak.

Nice work, Krome thought, especially in a deluge.

Then the heron did something unexpected. It let go of the fish, which bounced off the slick deck and landed on the grass-covered beach. The bird made no move to retrieve its meal. Instead it froze like an iron weather vane, its head erect and its snakelike neck extended.

Uh-oh, Krome said to himself. What does it hear?

He didn’t have to wait long. Between the stutter of the gunshots and the woman’s scream, the great blue flared its wings and took off. This time it flew away from the island, into the teeth of the squall, and this time it made no sound.

Amber had never witnessed gunfire.

She’d heard it before, of course; everyone who lived in Dade County knew the sound of a semiautomatic. Yet she’d never actually seen a flame-blue muzzle flash until Shiner cut loose with the TEC-9. Her shriek was involuntary but hair-raising, cutting like a sickle through the respective stupors of Bodean Gazzer and Chub. Spewing curses, they lumbered bleary-eyed into the clearing—first Bodean Gazzer, brandishing the .380 stolen off the Colombian motorist; then Chub, in his droopy underwear, stoned and waving the Colt.

Shiner met them at the edge of the clearing. “I seen somebody! I did!” He radiated uncertainty and shame.

Bode snatched the TEC-9 and turned to Amber. “Tell the damn truth,” he said.

“There
was
something out there. I heard it.”

“A man? A critter?”

“I couldn’t say—it’s too dark.”

Chub said, “Un-fucking-believable.” He coughed up something that landed near Shiner’s feet.

The kid knew he was in trouble. After the earlier fiasco at the trailer, the colonel had given him a stern lecture about wasting ammo. “It was a human bean,” Shiner insisted in a mumble. “A nigger is what it looked like, a small un.”

Impatiently Bode Gazzer motioned for the flashlight. Amber handed it to him. He ordered everyone to stay put and stalked into the trees. Ten minutes later he returned to report finding no signs of a human prowler, Negro or otherwise.

“Figgers.” It was Chub growling. With a difficulty born of distaste and insobriety, he was attempting to insert his legs and arms into a set of Bode’s camos. His own clothes were soaked by the rain, and he was freezing his ass off in the Jockey shorts.

Amber saw Shiner’s stock sliding and tried to help. “It was making all kinds of noise. Right over there.” Pointing where Shiner had fired.

“Yeah, I bet it did,” said Bode Gazzer. From the pocket of his parka he produced a bloodied tuft of brown fur. “Got this off a leaf.”

Amber declined an offer to inspect the evidence. Shiner shrunk away in embarrassment.

“You shot a mean ole bunny rabbit.” Chub, with a sneer. “Or maybe a killer mouse.”

Amber rose. Chub asked where she was going.

“To get some sleep. You mind?” She walked to the lean-to and lay down beneath the tarp.

Chub said, “We got us a Girl Scout. She made her own tent.”

Bode told Shiner to go back out in the boat. “I need to talk to Major Chub alone.”

“Don’t call me that,” Chub grumped. The camos looked absurd; the cuffs were six inches short, and the seat was about to rip out of the trousers. Yet he couldn’t work up much indignation, he was still so high from the marine glue. He announced he was beat and headed for the lean-to to join his dream girl.
                       
•

Bode intercepted him. “Not right now.” Then, under his breath: “You got the tickets, right?”

“Yeah. Somewheres.” Chub gingerly probed at his nose, which felt scalded on the inside. “I think they’s still in the boat.”

“You
think?
”
Bode wheeled and called to Shiner: “Hey, sergeant, change of plans!” Motioning toward the tarp. “You go ahead and sleep there. Chub and me’ll take the perimeter.”

Wordlessly Shiner did what he was told. He stretched out next to Amber, whose lovely eyes were closed. The wind had dropped off noticeably, and the rain had waned to an irregular drizzle that made whispers on the oilskin. Shiner was half dozing when he heard Amber’s voice:

“It’s going to be OK.”

“I don’t think so.”