Chub said, "We got time, man, if we hurry. Time for both of us to get a piece."
Bode should've short-circuited the idea, but instead he allowed it to float around his imagination. He was beset by a vision of Amber nude, on her knees.
"We tie up the skinhead," Chub proposed, "we each take a turn with the girl and then we split."
"Will she go for it?" Bode didn't feel right about raping a white woman. More important, it was a big-time felony.
Chub said, "S'pose it was her only way off the island. Then she'd go for it, you bet she would."
"Good point," Bode said.
It was a historic moment, Chub with an actual brainstorm. He climbed into the Reel Luvto search for his bag of glue.
Bode heard footsteps and wheeled around. He should've been ready with the Beretta, but he wasn't.
Amber stood there in the camo jumpsuit, the top half open, her hair slick and shining from her swim. "I can't find Shiner," she said.
"Ain't that a shame." Chub, leering through the crotch of her waitress shorts.
Bode Gazzer matter-of-factly told Amber the plan, told her the price of the boat ride back to the Keys. She didn't sob, didn't run, didn't get mad. Her expression was totally neutral, giving both men a misplaced sense of expectation. Chub had a bounce in his step as he got out of the boat.
Amber said, "Take those ridiculous pants off your face."
Bode was momentarily distracted by the crab attached to Chub's hand; he thought he detected movement.
Amber repeated her demand. "Take 'em off. You look like a pervert."
"Listen to you," Chub said, and made a step toward her. That's when he saw the Colt Python .357. HisColt. His Lotto ticket, his life's fortune, his entire mortal future – all in the hands of a pissed-off Hooters babe.
"Jesus Willy," he said.
Bodean Gazzer was amazed at how fast it was unraveling, all because of rotten luck, blind lust and stupidity.
"Have some more glue," he told his partner. "See what else you can fuck up."
Amber fired the pistol at Chub's feet. The bullet kicked sand on his shins and ankles. He yanked the orange pants off his head and tossed them.
"Thank you," Amber said. "Now, what did you guys do with Shiner?"
"Nothin'," they answered, Bode first and then Chub.
None of them could know that Shiner was exactly one hundred and twenty-seven paces away, wetting himself in stark terror.
24
As he pointed the shotgun, Tom Krome wrote the lead of the story in his head:
An unidentified convenience store clerk was shot to death Monday in a bizarre attack on a remote island off the Florida Keys.
Police said the victim apparently was stalled and ambushed while relieving himself in a mangrove thicket. Arrested for first-degree murder was Thomas Paine Krome, 35, a newspaper reporter who had been missing and believed dead.
Coworkers described Krome as a moody and volatile "loner." One of his former editors said he wasn't "the least bit surprised" by the homicide charge.
Krome made Shiner put up his hands. JoLayne Lucks instructed him not to move a muscle.
"But I peed on myself," the kid said.
"I expect it'll be the high point of your day."
Shiner blinked wildly.
Krome said, "OK, Goober, where's the Lotto ticket?"
"I d-don't got it." Shiner's eyes jumped from the Remington to the dark crescent radiating across his trousers. "Can I least tuck myself in?"
"No, you cannot," JoLayne said sternly. "I want your little white wacker right where it is, hangin' in the fresh air so we can shoot it off if necessary."
The clerk looked as if he would weep.
"But, JoLayne, I don't got your ticket. I don't know what they done with it, I swear up to God."
JoLayne turned to Tom Krome. "Give me my gun."
"Stay cool."
"Tom, don't be difficult."
With a mix of dread and relief, Krome passed her the shotgun. Immediately Shiner began mewling. He saw that he'd shrunk entirely into his pants. JoLayne Lucks poked the barrel inside his zipper.
"Anybody home?" Her voice was so cheery that it gave Shiner an arctic chill.
"Please don't," he squeaked.
"Then tell me where the ticket is."
Krome tapped the face of his watch. "Hurry up, son." He didn't think JoLayne would shoot the kid point-blank; the two shitkickers, maybe, but not Shiner.
Unless he tried something stupid.
An unidentified convenience store clerk was shot to death Monday in a bizarre attack on a remote island off the Florida Keys.
Police said the victim apparently was ambushed by a disgruntled customer who believed she had been cheated out of a $14 million lottery ticket. Arrested for first-degree murder was JoLayne Lucks, 35, who works at a veterinary clinic in Grange.
Neighbors described her as a quiet, gentle person, and expressed shock and disbelief at the homicide charge.
Krome said to Shiner: "If you're the least bit fond of those testicles, I'd tell the lady what she wants to know."
"But I ain't even seen the damn thing, and that's the God's truth!" Shiner, hissing through his teeth.
JoLayne looked at Tom. "You believe him?"
"I hate to say so, but yeah."
"Well, I'm still not sure."
She took a step back. True to form, Shiner chose the moment to lunge for the Remington. He was surprised that JoLayne released it without a struggle. He was further surprised to find himself unable to hold on to it, as both his thumbs were abruptly dislocated and rendered useless.
While Shiner flopped on the ground like a mullet, JoLayne thanked Tom for teaching her the trick. He calmly grabbed Shiner around the neck and urged him in the strongest terms to suffer in silence, so as not to alert his travel companions.
"Now, where's the videotape?"
"It's hid in my car," Shiner whispered hoarsely, "back at Chub's trailer."
"Chub is the man with the ponytail?"
"And a tire patch on his eye, yessir. Plus a big ole crab on his hand."
Krome let go of Shiner's neck and yanked him upright. "What's his real name?"
"Chub? I never heard him tell." The kid was moist-eyed and panting. When he snuck a peek at his crooked thumbs, he almost passed out.
"What would your momma say about all this? Lord, I can just imagine." JoLayne's tone was scorching. She picked up the shotgun and sat on the sand beside Shiner. He recoiled as if she were a tarantula.
"Why'd you do this?" she asked. "Why'd you help those bastards?"
"I dunno." Shiner turned away and clammed up. It was the same strategy he tried whenever his mother hassled him about skipping his hymns or sneaking beer to his room.
Tom Krome said, "He's hopeless, Jo. Let's go."
"Not yet." Gently she put a fingernail under the young man's chin and turned his head, so their eyes met.
Shiner said, "It's just a club, OK? They asked did I wanna join up and I said sure. A brotherhood is what they tole me. That's all."
"Sure," said Tom. "Like Kiwanis, only for Nazis."
"It ain't what you think. Least it dint start out that way." Shiner, mumbling in a childish tone.
JoLayne's eyes glistened. "You know what your 'brothers' did to me? Want me to show you?"
Wordlessly the skinhead pitched forward and threw up.
JoLayne Lucks took this as an unqualified no.
Unlike some women her age, Amber held a realistic view of life, love, men and her prospects. She knew where her good looks could carry her and how far to let things go. She would not fall for the blond modeling routine (drawing the line at calendar tryouts), and she would not dance tables (despite the staggering sums involved). She would remain a waitress at Hooters and finish junior college and get a respectable job as a cosmetologist or perhaps a paralegal. She would stay with jealous Tony until someone better came along, or until she could no longer tolerate his foolishness. She would not become the mistress of any man old enough to be her father, no matter how much money he had or how great a bay-front apartment he offered to rent for her. She would borrow from her parents only in emergencies, and she would pay back every dime as soon as she could. She would keep only one credit card. She would not fake an orgasm two nights in a row. She would stay off cigarets, which had killed her uncle, and avoid Absolut vodka, which caused her to misbehave in public. She would not be automatically impressed by men with black convertibles or foreign-language skills.