And then he’d calmly escorted Shiner back to the shore and helped him into the boat. JoLayne Lucks had been waiting with the shotgun, watching over Bodean Gazzer and Chub. The white guy had waded in, shoving the stern into deeper water so Shiner and Amber could lower the outboards without snagging bottom.
“Have a safe trip,” the black woman had sung out. “Watch out for manatees!”
An hour later Shiner finally heard what he’d been dreading—a helicopter. But it was blaze orange, not black. And it wasn’t NATO but the U.S. Coast Guard, thwock-thwocking back and forth in search of a woman overdue in a small rental boat; a woman who’d said she was going no farther than Cotton Key.
Shiner had no way of knowing this. He was convinced the chopper had been sent to strafe him. He dove to the deck, yanking Amber with him.
“Look out! Look out!” he hollered.
“Would you please get a grip.”
“But it’s them!”
The helicopter dipped low over the boat. The crew spotted the couple entwined on the deck and, accustomed to such amorous sightings, flew on. Clearly it wasn’t the vessel they’d been sent to find..
Once the chopper disappeared, Shiner sheepishly collected himself. Amber shoved the chart under his chin and told him to quit behaving like a wimp. An hour later, the Jewfish Creek drawbridge came into view. They nosed the Reel Luv into the slip farthest from the dockmaster (its owner would be puzzled but pleased to find it there, and the theft would be ascribed to joyriding teenagers). Mindful of his throbbing thumbs, Shiner struggled to tie off the bow rope. Amber scouted for the marine patrol, just in case. She was relieved to spot her car, undisturbed in the parking lot.
Shiner gave a glum wave and said, “See ya.”
“Where you going?”
“To the highway. Try and hitch a ride.”
Amber said, “I’ll drop you in Homestead.”
“Naw, that’s OK.” He was worried about her boyfriend, jealous Tony. Maybe she was setting him up for an ass-whupping.
“Suit yourself,” she said.
Shiner thought: God, she’s so pretty. To hell with it. He said, “Maybe I will bum along.”
“That’s a good way to describe it. You drive.”
They were halfway up Highway One to Florida City when Amber took Chub’s pistol out again, leading Shiner to believe he’d misjudged her intentions.
“You’re gone kill me, ain’t you?”
“Oh right,” Amber said. “I’m going to shoot you in broad daylight in all this traffic, when I had all morning to blow your head off in the middle of nowhere and dump your body in the drink. That’s what a dumb bimbo I am. Just drive, OK?”
The way Shiner was feeling, a hot slug in the belly couldn’t have hurt much worse than her sarcasm. He clamped his eyes on the road and tried to cook up a story for his Ma when he got back to Grange. The next time he glanced over at Amber, she’d gotten the Colt open. She was spinning the cylinder and peering, with one eye, into the chambers.
“Hey,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Stop the car.”
“OK, sure,” said Shiner. Carefully he guided the gargantuan Ford to the grassy shoulder, scattering a flock of egrets.
The gun lay open on Amber’s lap. She was unfolding a small piece of paper that had fallen from one of the bullet chambers.
Shiner said, “Lemme see.”
“Just listen: Twenty-four… nineteen… twenty-seven… twenty-two… thirty… seventeen.”
Shiner said, “God, don’t tell me it’s the damn Lotto!”
“Yup. Your dumb shitkicker buddies hid it inside the gun.”
“Oh man. Oh man. But—d-damn, what do we do now?”
Amber snapped the revolver shut and slipped the lottery coupon in a zippered pocket of her jumpsuit.
“You want me to keep drivin’?” Shiner asked.
“I think so, yes.”
They didn’t speak again until Florida City, where they stopped at a McDonald’s drive-thru. They were fifth in the line of cars.
Amber said, “We’ve got a decision to make, don’t we?”
“I always get the Quarter Pounder.”
“I’m talking about the Lotto ticket.”
“Oh,” said Shiner.
“Fourteen million dollars.”
“God, I know.”
“Sometimes there’s a difference,” Amber said, “between what’s right and what’s common sense.”