Although the information wasn’t available from the computers, it wouldn’t have shocked Moffitt to know that Bode Gazzer was an avowed white supremacist and founder of a fledgling right-wing militia. By contrast, Bode Gazzer would have been stunned and appalled to find out that he’d attracted the attention of an agent from the despised Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, and that the agent was a damn Negro.
For Moffitt, seeing JoLayne Lucks was simultaneously excruciating and heavenly. She never flirted or strung him along even slightly. It wasn’t necessary. All she had to do was laugh, or turn her face, or walk across a room. One of those deals.
Moffitt’s condition was had but not pathetic. Sometimes for months he wouldn’t think about her. When he did, there was no moon-eyed pining—just a stoic wistfulness he had fine-tuned over the years. He was a realist; he felt what he felt. Whenever she called, he called back. Whenever she needed something, he came through. It made him feel good in a way that nothing else could.
They met at a rib joint on Highway One in South Miami. JoLayne didn’t wait half a minute to ask about the man who owned the pickup truck.
“Who is he? Where does he live—out by the tomato farms?”
“No,” Moffitt said.
“What’s his address?”
“Forget about it.”
“Why? What’re you going to do?”
“Toss the place,” Moffitt said.
JoLayne wasn’t sure what he meant.
“Search it,” Tom Krome explained, “with extreme prejudice.”
Moffitt nodded. “Meantime, cancel your Visa. We got a name now, and that’s all we need.”
All three of them ordered combo platters and iced tea. JoLayne didn’t eat much. She was feeling left out of the hunt.
“When you ‘toss’ this guy’s house—”
“Apartment.” Moffitt dabbed a napkin at his mouth.
“OK, but when you do it,” said JoLayne, “I’d like to be there.”
Moffitt shook his head firmly. “I won’t even be there. Officially, that is.” He took out his ID and set it open on the table, in front of Tom Krome. “Explain to her,” Moffitt said, pointing with a sparerib.
When Krome saw the ATF badge, he understood. The agency had been pilloried after the Waco raid. Gun nuts clamored for its abolition and compared its agents to jackbooted Nazis. Congress investigated. Heads rolled at the top; the field staff was put on ultra-low profile.
“A real shitstorm,” Krome said to JoLayne.
“I get the papers, Tom. I can read.” She gave Moffitt a scalding look. “Don’t you be talkin’ to me like I’m a child.”
The agent said, “No more headlines, that’s our orders from Washington. And that’s why I’ll be doing this burglary alone.”
JoLayne Lucks picked at her coleslaw with a plastic fork. She was aching to know who these redneck bastards were, how they lived, and what had possessed them to come after her, of all the lucky people who’d ever won the lottery. Why drive up to Grange to steal a ticket instead of waiting until somebody in Miami or Lauderdale hit the jackpot, which happened all the time.
It made no sense. JoLayne wanted to go with Moffitt and break into the man’s home. Dig through his closets, peek under his bed, steam open his mail. JoLayne wanted some answers.
“All I can promise,” said Moffitt, “is the ticket. If it’s there, I’ll find it.”
“At least tell me his name.”
“Why, Jo—so you can look it up in the phone book and beat me there? No way.”
They finished the meal in silence. Krome followed Moffitt to the parking lot while JoLayne stayed to work on a slice of apple pie.
The agent said, “She won’t stop with the lottery ticket. You realize that, don’t you?”
“She might.”
Moffitt smiled. “That girl gets an idea, she’ll leave you in the dust. Believe me.” He got in his car, a standard government-issue behemoth, and plugged the cell phone into the lighter jack. “Why you doin’ this?” he asked Krome. “I hope your reason is better than mine.”
“Probably not.” Here Krome expected a warning that he’d better take excellent care of JoLayne Lucks, or else.
But instead Moffitt said: “Here’s as far as it got between us: Two dates. A movie and a Dolphins game. She hates football.”