“Well, he did you proud. How about a beer?”
Later they all went to the Sports Authority and (using the stolen Visa) purchased tents, sleeping bags, air mattresses, mosquito netting, lantern fuel and other outdoor gear. Bode said they should keep everything packed tight and ready, in case the NATO storm troopers came ashore without warning. Bode was pleased to find out that Shiner, unlike Chub, had a genuine fondness for camouflage sportswear. As a treat Bode bought him a lightweight Trebark parka—Shiner could hardly wait to get back to the trailer and try it all on.
While he ran inside to change clothes, Bode said to Chub: “He’s like a kid on Christmas morning.”
More like a damn retard, thought Chub. He said, “You got a spare hat? Because I don’t wanna look at that skinhead’s skinned head no more.”
In his truck Bode found a soggy Australian-style bush hat; the mildew blended neatly into the camo pattern. Shiner wore it proudly, cinching the strap at his throat.
They spent the afternoon at the rock pit, where it quickly became evident the young recruit could not be entrusted with the serious guns. Chub had illegally converted the AR-15 to fully automatic, which proved too much, physically and emotionally, for the newest member of the White Clarion Aryans. Taking the rifle from Chub’s hands, Shiner gave a Comanche-style whoop and began to shout: “Which way’s the Bahamas! Which way’s them cocksuckin’ NATO commies!” Then he spun around and started firing wildly—bullets skipped across the water, twanged off limestone boulders, mowed down the cattails and saw grass.
Bode and Chub ducked behind the truck, Bode muttering: “This ain’t no good. Christ, this ain’t no good at all.”
Chub cursed harshly. “I need a goddamn drink.”
It took a few minutes for Shiner to relinquish the AR-15, after which he was restricted to harmless plinking with his old Marlin.22. At dusk the three of them, smelling of gunfire and stale beer, returned to Chub’s trailer. When Bode Gazzer asked if anybody was hungry, Shiner said he could eat a whole cow.
Chub couldn’t tolerate another hour in the hyperactive nitwit’s presence. “You gotta stay here,” he instructed Shiner, “and stand guard.”
“Guard of what?” the kid asked.
“The guns. Plus all the shit we bought today,” Chub said. “New man always does guard duty. Ain’t that right, Bode?”
“You bet.” Bode, too, had grown weary of Shiner’s company. He said, “The tents and so forth, that’s important survivalist supplies. Can’t just leave it here with nobody on watch.”
“God, I’m starvin’,” Shiner said.
Chub slapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll bring you some chicken wings. You like the extry hot?”
According to the bank, JoLayne’s credit card had been used two nights consecutively at the same Hooters—a reckless move that Krome found encouraging. The Lotto robbers clearly were not master criminals.
JoLayne figured nobody would be ballsy enough to go there three times in a row, but Krome said it was the best lead they had. Now he and JoLayne were outside the restaurant, watching a red pickup truck park in a disabled-only zone.
“Is that them?” Krome asked.
“The guys who came to my house were not crippled. Neither of them,” JoLayne said gravely.
Two men—one tall, one short—got out of the truck. They entered the restaurant without the aid of a wheelchair, a crutch, or even a cane.
“Must be a miracle,” said Krome.
JoLayne wasn’t certain they were the same men who’d attacked her. “We’re too far away.”
“Then let’s get closer.”
He went in alone and chose a corner table. A minute later JoLayne came through the door—the floppy hat, Lolita sunglasses. She joined him, sitting with her back to the bar.
“You get the license tag?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am. And how about that bumper sticker? ‘Fuhrman for President.’ ”
“Where are they?” she asked tensely. “Did they look at me?”
“If it’s the table I think it is, they didn’t notice either of us.”
On the other side of the restaurant, two very distinctive customers were chatting with a pretty blond waitress. Her electric smile solved to Krome’s satisfaction the mystery of why the shitkickers returned night after night with a hot credit card: They were smitten. One of the men was outfitted entirely in camouflage, including a cap. His companion wore a dirty ponytail and a vulcanized patch over one eye. Both men, Krome noted, bore deep cuts on their faces.