“Maybe even the girl,” Chub said, though in truth he was more worried about Shiner putting the moves on Amber than shooting her. Not that she’d ever sleep with a zit-faced skinhead, but she did seem awful protective of the kid. Chub didn’t go for that one bit.
He said, “We kick him out, he’s like to rat on us. How ’bout we kill him.”
Bode flatly said no. “I’ll never shoot no Christian white man, I can help it.”
“Then let’s pay the fucker off.”
“How much?”
“I dunno. A grand?” Glue fumes always made Chub generous.
Bode Gazzer said, “You gotta be jokin.’ ”
A thousand dollars wouldn’t put a ding in the $28 million, but it was still too much money for a half-wit. Especially since Bode still suspected Shiner as a possible leak in the organization. What if the kid was working undercover for the Black Tide? What if the nutball shooting sprees were an act and he was actually using the guns to signal the Negroes? Bode had no proof, but the doubts nagged at him like an itch.
He said, “How about this: A thousand bucks, less what it costs for a new quarter panel on my pickup. On account a the bullet holes he made.”
“Fair by me. Tell him he gets his money soon as we get ours,” Chub said, “long as he keeps his trap shut.”
The decision was made to inform Shiner of his expulsion first thing in the morning. Chub would transport him by boat to the Overseas Highway, where he could hitch a ride up to Homestead and retrieve his car.
“Meanwhiles I can pick up s’more beer,” Chub said.
“Cigarets, too. And ice.” And A1 sauce for my scrambly eggs.”
Bode Gazzer said, “I better make a list.”
“You do that now.”
Chub took out the grocery bag containing the tube of marine adhesive. He squeezed out a moist curlicue and offered a hit to Bode, who declined. Chub buried his face in the bag and luxuriantly sucked in the vapors.
Bode said, “Easy.”
Chub whooped. He had a rubber patch stuck on one eye and a rotting crab claw poking through one hand, and still he felt fucking wonderful. He wasn’t the least tiny bit worried about the Black Tide or NATO or the Tri-fucking-Lateral Commission, no siree. Nobody was gonna find ’em out here on this faraway island, not even the trickiest niggers. It was OK to get wasted tonight because him and Bode was white and free and well-armed, and best of all they was goddamn m-millionaires.
“You imagine?” Chub wheezed with glee.
Bode refrained from reminding him that the lottery proceeds were to be used strictly for militia building. There would be a better time for that conversation.
“Little Amber,” Chub was saying. “You shoulda seed her face when I tole her about the money. All of a sudden she wants to go for a walk in the woods tomorrow, just her and me.”
“Aw, shit,” Bode said. He should’ve seen it coming. “What all did you tell her?”
“Only that I’s worth fourteen million dollars. You might say it changed her opinion a me.”
So would a bath, Bode thought.
“That look she give me,” Chub went on dreamily, “like she could suck a golf ball through a garden hose.”
“Careful what you say to her. Understand?”
With a hiccup Chub thrust the paper bag to his face.
“Knock that shit off!” Bode said. “Now listen: Pussy’s fine, but there’s a time and a place. Right now we’re in a battle for the heart and soul of America!”
Chub made a noise like a tire going flat. “Hilton Head,” he rasped euphorically.
“What?”
“I wanna buy Amber and me a condo up at Hilton Head. That’s a island, too, and it beats the hell outta this one.”
“You serious?”
But later, after Chub had nodded off, Bode Gazzer caught himself warming to his partner’s fantasy. Strolling a sunny Carolina beach with a half-naked Hooters girl on your arm sounded much more appealing than sharing a frigid concrete pillbox with a bunch of hairy white guys in Idaho.
Bode couldn’t help wondering what Amber’s attitude toward him might be if she knew that he, too, was about to become a tycoon.