5 pm Jewfish
Camo, Ponytail fueling boat.
Arguing – about what?
Buying beer, food, etc.
Joined by 2 people, unidentiy. m and f.
He bald and barefoot. She blond w orange shorts.
Who?
These observations compiled automatically in Torn Krome's brain as he sat with JoLayne in the scuffed old Boston Whaler she'd rented. Both of them were stiff and tired from a long night aboard the cramped skiff. They'd closed the gap on the rednecks, only to watch the stolen ski boat plow sensationally into a shallow grass bank. It was the first of several detours, as the robbers would spend hours pinballing from one nautical obstruction to another. Tom and JoLayne, astounded at their quarry's incompetence, followed at a prudent distance.
Now their skiff was tied to a PVC stake at the mouth of a shallow inlet. The makeshift mooring afforded a partially obstructed view of the busy docks at Jewfish Creek, where the rednecks finally had managed an uneventful landing.
Krome grumbling, for the second time: "I should've got some binoculars."
JoLayne Lucks saying she didn't need any. "It's the kid. I'm sure of it."
"What kid?"
"Shiner. From the Grab N'Go."
"Hey ... you might be right." Krome, cupping both hands at his eyes to cut the glare.
JoLayne said, "The rotten little shit. That explains why he lied about my Lotto ticket. They gave him a piece of the action."
All things considered, Krome thought, she's taking it well.
"Guess what else," she said. "The girl in the shorts and T-shirt? – it looks like the Hooters babe."
Krome broke into a grin. "The one they were hitting on the other night. Yes!" He could see them boarding the stolen boat: Bodean Gazzer first, followed by the skinhead Shiner, then the ponytailed man, tugging the blond woman behind him.
Pensively JoLayne said, "That's four of them and two of us."
"No, it's fantastic!" Krome kissed her on the forehead. "It's the very best thing that could happen."
"Are you nuts?"
"I'm talking about the babe. Her being there changes everything."
"The babe."
"Yes.Whatever grand plan these guys had, it's in tatters as of this moment!"
JoLayne had never seen him so excited. "In one small boat," he said, "we've got three smitten morons and one beautiful woman. Honey, there's an incredible shitstorm on the horizon."
She said, "I'm inclined to be insulted by what you just said. On behalf of all womanhood."
"Not at all." He untied the Whaler from the trees. "It's men I'm talking about. The way we are. Look at those googans and tell me they know how to cope with a girl like that."
JoLayne realized he was right: The stolen boat had become a time bomb. Any kind of a dispute would set the men off – over cigarets, the last cold beer ... or a stolen lottery ticket.
Krome said, "We needed these boys to be distracted. I would say our prayers have been answered."
"Then God bless Hooters." JoLayne jerked her chin toward the docks. "Tom, they're heading back this way."
"So they are."
"Shouldn't we duck?"
"Naw," Krome said. "Just stay cool until they go past. Turn toward me, OK?"
"Hold on a second. Is this another kiss?"
"A long romantic one. To make sure they don't see our faces."
"Aye, aye, captain."
Judge Arthur Battenkill Jr. was an intelligent man. He knew Champ Powell's remains would eventually be identified. A medium-rare lump of tissue was already on its way to the FBI for DNA screening, or so the judge had heard.
A dead law clerk in the torched house of your wife's lover was not easy to explain, especially if the lover was to return and make an issue of the arson. Which that bastard Tom Krome likely would.
Arthur Battenkill knew his judicial career would soon end in scandal if he didn't take the bull by the horns. So, being as practical as he was smart, he began making plans to quit the bench and leave the country.
Starting over would be expensive. As a matter of convenience, the judge decided that the insurance carrier for Save King Supermarkets should pay for his new life in the Bahamas, or wherever he and Katie chose to relocate. This meant placing a call to Emil LaGort's lawyer.
Emil LaGort was a plaintiff in a civil lawsuit filed in Arthur Battenkill's court. In fact, Emil LaGort was a plaintiff in numerous lawsuits from Apalachicola to Key West – a habitual fraud, a renowned slip-and-fall artist. He was also seventy-four years old, which meant that one of these days he would reallyslip and fall.
Why not now? mused Arthur Battenkill. Why not in the aisle of a Save King Supermarket?
Emil LaGort was suing the store for $5 million, but he gladly would've settled out of court for fifty grand and costs. He did it all the time. Therefore his attorney was greatly surprised to receive a phone call, at home, from Judge Arthur Battenkill Jr.
As a rule, Emil LaGort shied from judges – if a deal couldn't be cut, he'd quietly drop the case. Going to trial was a time-consuming inconvenience that Emil LaGort simply could not afford, what with so many irons in the fire. He had a good thing going with the quickie settlements. Most insurance companies were pushovers when it came to frail senior citizens who claimed to have fallen on their policyholders' premises. Most insurance companies wished to spare jurors the sight of Emil LaGort, enfeebled in a neck brace and a wheelchair. So he got paid to go away.
The complaint scheduled to be heard in Arthur Battenkill's court was fairly typical. It alleged that, while shopping one morning at the Save King, Emil LaGort had slipped and fallen, causing irreparable harm to his neck, spine and extremities; furthermore, that the accident was due to the gross negligence of the store, whereas an extra-large tube of discount hemorrhoid ointment was left lying on the floor of the health-care-and-hygiene aisle, where it subsequently was run over by one or possibly more steel-framed shopping carts, thus distributing the slippery contents of the broken tube in a reckless and hazardous manner; and furthermore, that no timely efforts were made by Save King or its employees to remove said hazardous ointment, or to warn customers of the imminent danger, such negligence resulting directly in the grave and permanent injury to Emil LaGort.
Emil LaGort's attorney figured that Judge Arthur Battenkill Jr., like everyone else familiar with the case, knew that Emil had purposely knocked the tube of goop off the shelf, stomped it with both feet and then laid himself very gingerly on the floor of the health-care-and-hygiene aisle. The attorney certainly was not expecting the judge to call him at home on a Sunday morning and say:
"Lenny, it would be in your client's interest to hang tough."
"But, Your Honor, we were preparing to settle."
"That would be precipitous."
"A hundred even was the offer."
"You can do better, Lenny. Trust me."
The attorney tried to stay cool. "But I'm not ready for a trial!"
"Put on a little show," Arthur Battenkill said, needling. "That snotty bone guy you always use as an expert witness, the one with the ratty toupee. Or that lying dipshit of a so-called neurologist from Lauderdale. Surely you can manage."
"Yeah, I suppose." The attorney was beginning to get the picture.
The judge said, "Let me ask you something. Do you think Mr. LaGort would be satisfied with, say, $250,000?"
"Your Honor, Mr. LaGort would be fucking jubilant." And I would, too, the attorney thought. Me and my thirty-five percent.
"All right, Lenny, then I'll tell you what. Let's see if we can save the taxpayers some dough. First thing tomorrow we'll all meet in chambers, after which I anticipate the defendants will be motivated to settle."