"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 Luvwas 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.