“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. His Colt. 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?”