“Probably in the boat,” Bode said disapprovingly, “with your camos.”
“Go find it!”
“I’m busy.”
“Now! I ast for my goddamn gun!” Chub had remembered the lottery ticket, hidden in one of the chambers.
Shiner said, “I’ll go.”
“Like hell,” Chub snarled. His eye fell upon Amber. She was on the other side of the campfire, sitting beside the kid; real close, too. Touching him—touching his pudgy arm!
Chub didn’t realize she was icing the tattoo, but it likely wouldn’t have mattered. To Bode Gazzer he said: “Time for a meetin’.”
“What?”
“Of the WCA. We got ‘portant bidness, remember?”
“Oh yeah,” said Bode. He’d have preferred to wait until the crab crisis was resolved. Encumbered as he was, Chub had lost some of the menacing presence that was so useful in tight confrontations.
Bode called the meeting to order with such a lack of enthusiasm that it put Amber on alert. She gave Shiner a quick jab with an elbow, to let him know it was coming; what they’d debated privately in the hours before dawn. Shiner looked crushed, like a kid who just found there was no such thing as Santa Claus.
“Son,” Bode Gazzer began, “first I want you to know how much we ‘preciate all you done for the militia. We ain’t gonna forget it, neither. Down the road we intend to settle up fair and square. But the thing is, it’s not workin’ out so good. Particularly with the weapons, son—you’re just too damn excitable.”
Chub cut in: “You like to get ever’ one of us kilt, shootin’ at birds and bunny rabbits. Jesus!”
“I said I’m sorry,” Shiner reminded them. “And, Colonel, didn’t I promise to pay for them holes in your truck?”
“You did, you will, and I respect that. Truly I do. But we’re in a high-risk scenario here. We got the Black Tide on our asses, not to mention the NATO problem over in the Bahamas. That’s wall-to-wall Negroes, son. We can’t afford no mistakes.”
Chub said: “Life or death. This ain’t a game.”
“And that’s how come we got to let you go,” said Bode Gazzer. “Go on home and watch over your momma. Ain’t no shame in that.”
Shiner surprised them both. He stood up and said, “No way.” He glanced at Amber, who gave a nod of support. “You can’t kick me out. You can’t.” He pointed at the bruised and scabby tattoo. “See there? W.C.A. I’m in for life.”
“Son, I’m sorry, but it’s no good.” Bode understood it was up to him to reason with the boy, because Chub had no tolerance for argument. “All we can say is thanks for everything, and so long. Also, we’re gonna give you a thousand bucks for all your loyalty.”
Amber chuckled sarcastically. These guys were unbelievable.
Emboldened, Shiner said, “A thousand dollars is a goddamn joke.”
Bode asked him what he wanted.
“To stay in the militia,” Shiner answered briskly, “plus I want one-third of the lottery money. I earned it.”
Chub hurled the tarpaulin aside and lurched to his feet. “Shoot the motherfucker,” he said to Bode.
“Just hold on.”
“If you don’t, I will.”
Bode Gazzer scowled at Shiner. “Goddammit, son.” He took the stolen.380 out of his belt. “Why’d you put me in this posture?”
Amber saw that Shiner was scared out of his mind. She said: “Colonel, there’s something you ought to know. Tell him, Shiner. Tell them what you did at Jewfish Creek.”
Here was the big bluff. Shiner struggled to remember what Amber had coached him to say, exactly the way she’d said it last night. But he couldn’t quite piece it all together—the sight of the Beretta had unnerved him.
“About the videotape,” Amber prodded.
“Oh… yeah.”
“The phone call you made,” she said.
Bode asked, “What phone call?”
“That’s right,” Shiner said. “The store video, ‘member? You guys had me swipe it from the Grab N’Go. On account of it proves you didn’t win the Lotto—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Chub barked.
“—because you didn’t even show up in Grange till the day after. It’s all on the tape.”
Bode, tapping the.380 against his thigh. “What phone call?”
“Tell him,” Amber said to Shiner.