Trish, who was setting up the T-shirt display, dropped to one knee. "I believe he's speaking in tongues!"
"Like hell," said Demencio. "Coo-ca-loo-ca-choo."
Balefully he stomped to the garage in search of the tuna gaff.
Krome looked preoccupied. Happy, JoLayne thought, but preoccupied.
She said, "You passed the test."
"The white-guy test?"
"Yep. With flying colors."
Krome broke out laughing. It was nice to hear. JoLayne wished he'd laugh like that more often, and not only when she made a joke.
He said, "When did you decide this would happen?"
They were under the bedcovers, holding each other. As if it were freezing outdoors, JoLayne thought, instead of seventy-two degrees.
"Pre-kiss or post-kiss?" Krome asked.
"Post," she answered.
"You're kidding."
"Nope. Strictly a spur-of-the-moment deal."
"The sex?"
"Sure," JoLayne said.
Which wasn't exactly true, but why tell him everything? He didn't need to know the precise moment when she'd made up her mind, or why. It amused JoLayne that men were forever trying to figure out how they'd managed to get laid – what devastatingly clever line they'd come up with, what timely expression of sincerity or sensitivity they'd affected. As if the power of seduction were theirs whenever they wanted, if only they knew how to unlock it.
For JoLayne Lucks, there was no deep mystery to what had happened. Krome was a decent guy. He cared about her. He was strong, reliable and not too knuckleheaded. These things counted. He had no earthly clue how much they counted.
Not to mention that she was scared. No denying it. Chasing two vicious robbers through the state – insane is what it was. No wonder they were stressed out, she and Tom. That certainly had something to do with it, too; one reason they were hugging each other like teenagers.
JoLayne retreated to standard pillow talk.
"What are you thinking about?"
"Moffitt," he said.
"Oh, very romantic."
"I was hoping he takes his time searching that guy's place. A week or so would be OK. In the meantime we could stay just like this, the two of us."
"Nice comeback," JoLayne said, pinching his leg. "You think he'll find the ticket?"
"If it's there, yeah. He gives the impression of total competence."
"And what if it's not there?"
"Then I suppose we'll need a plan, and some luck," Krome said.
"Moffitt thinks I'll do something crazy."
"Imagine that."
"Seriously, Tom. He won't even tell me the guy's name."
"I'vegot the name," Krome said, "and an address."
JoLayne sat upright, bursting out of the covers. "What did you say?"
"With all due respect to your friend, it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to run a license-tag check. All you need is a friend at the highway patrol." Krome shrugged in mock innocence. "The creep with the pickup truck, his name is Bodean James Gazzer. And we can find him with or without intrepid Agent Moffitt."
"Damn," said JoLayne. The boy was slicker than she'd thought.
"I'd have told you sooner," he said, "but we were preoccupied."
"Don't give me that."
They both jumped when the phone rang. Krome reached for it. JoLayne scooted closer and silently mouthed: "Moffitt?"
Krome shook his head. JoLayne hopped out of bed and headed for the shower. When she came out, he was standing at the window, taking in a grand view of the Metrorail tracks. He didn't seem to notice that she'd repainted her nails a neon green or that she was wearing only the towel on her head.
"So who was it?" she asked.
"My lawyer again."
Uh-oh, she thought, reaching for her robe. "Bad news?"
"Sort of," Tom Krome said. "Apparently I'm dead." When he turned around, he appeared more bemused than upset. "It's going to be on the front page of The Registertomorrow."
"Dead." JoLayne pursed her lips. "You sure fooled me."
"Fried to a cinder in my own home. Must be true, if it's in the newspaper."
JoLayne felt entitled to wonder if she really knew enough about this Tom fellow, nice and steady as he might seem. A burning house was something to consider.
She said, "Lord, what are you going to do?"
"Stay dead for a while," Krome replied. "That's what my lawyer says."
15
Bodean Gazzer instructed Chub to cease shooting from the truck.
"But it's him."
"It ain't," Bode said. "Now quit."
"Not jest yet."
Shiner cried, "My eardrums!"
"Pussy." Chub continued to fire until the black Mustang skidded off the highway on bare rims. Fuming, Bode braked the pickup and coasted to the shoulder. He was losing his grip on Chub and Shiner; semiautomatics seemed to bring out the worst in them.
Chub hopped from the truck and loped with homicidal intent through the darkness, toward the disabled car. Bode marked his partner's progress by the bobbing orange glow of the cigaret. The man was setting a damn poor example for Shiner – there was nothing well-regulated about sniping at motorists on the Florida Turnpike.
Shiner said, "Hell we do now?"
"Get out, son." Bode Gazzer grabbed a flashlight from the glove box and hurried after Chub. They found him holding at gunpoint a young Latin man whose misfortune was to vaguely resemble the obnoxious boyfriend of a Hooters waitress, who even more vaguely resembled the actress Kim Basinger.
Bode said: "Nice work, ace."
Chub spat his cigaret butt. It wasn't Tony in the Mustang.
Shiner asked, "Is it the same guy or not?"
"Hell, no, it ain't him. What's your name?" Bode demanded.
"Bob." The young man clutched the meaty part of his right shoulder, where a rifle slug had grazed it.
Chub jabbed at him with the muzzle of the Cobray. "Bob, huh? You don't look like no Bob."
The driver willingly surrendered his license. The name on it made Chub grin: Roberto Lopez.
"Jest like I thought. Goddamn lyin' sumbitch Cuban!" Chub crowed.
The young man was terrified. "No, I am from Colombia."
"Nice try."
"Bob and Roberto, it is the same thing!"
Chub said, "Yeah? On what planet?"
Bodean Gazzer switched off the flashlight. The heavy traffic on the highway made him jumpy; even in Dade County a bullet-riddled automobile could attract notice.
"Gimme some light here." Chub was pawing through the young man's wallet. "I mean, long as we gone to all the trouble and ammo."
Jauntily he held up four one-hundred-dollar bills for Bode to see. Shiner gave a war whoop.
"And lookie here – 'Merican Express," Chub said, waggling a gold-colored credit card. "Fuck is the likes a you doin' with anything'Merican?"
Roberto Lopez said, "Take whatever you want. Please don't kill me."
Chub commanded Shiner to search the trunk. Bode Gazzer was a basket case; any second he expected the blue flash of police lights. He knew there would be little chance of satisfactorily explaining a shot Colombian to the Florida Highway Patrol.
"Hurry it up! Goddamn you guys," he growled.
They found a briefcase, a holstered Model 84 Beretta .380 and a new pair of two-tone golf shoes. Shiner said, "Size tens. Same as me."
"Keep 'em!" Roberto Lopez, calling from the front seat.
Bode aimed the flashlight inside the briefcase: bar charts, computer printouts and financial statements. A business card identified Roberto Lopez as a stockbroker with Smith Barney.
Here Chub saw a chance to salvage merit from the crime. Even though the guy had turned out not to be Amber's asshole boyfriend, he was still a damn foreigner with fancy clothes and too much money. Surely Bode would agree that the rifle attack wasn't a total waste of time.