“What was the movie?”
“Something with Nicholson. We’re going back ten, eleven years. The Dolphins got their asses kicked, that much I remember. Anyway, after that it was back to being friends. Her choice, not mine.”
Krome said, “I’m not after anything.”
Moffitt chuckled. “Man, you’re not listening. It’s her choice. Always.” He started the car.
Krome said, “Be careful at the apartment.”
“You’re the one who needs to be careful.” Moffitt winked.
When Krome returned to the restaurant, JoLayne reported that the pie was excellent. Then she asked what Moffitt had told him in the parking lot.
“We were talking about football.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.”
“You realize,” Krome said, “he’s taking one helluva risk.”
“And I appreciate it. I do.”
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”
JoLayne shifted uneasily. “Look, I’ve got to be careful what I say with Moffitt. If I sound ungrateful, it’s probably because I don’t want to sound too grateful. I don’t want… Lord, you know. The man’s still got some strong feelings for me.”
“The hots is what we call it.”
JoLayne lowered her eyes. “Stop.” She felt bad about dragging Moffitt into the search. “I know he’s supposed to get a warrant, I know he could lose his job if he’s caught—”
“Try jail.”
“Tom, he wants to help.”
“In the worst way. He’d do anything to make you happy. That’s the curse of the hopelessly smitten. Here’s my question: Do you want your Lotto money, or do you want revenge?”
“Both.”
“If you had to choose.”
“The money, then.” JoLayne was thinking of Simmons Wood. “I’d want the money.”
“Good. Then leave it at that. You’ll be doing Agent Moffitt a big favor.”
And me, too, Krome thought.
Champ Powell was the best law clerk Judge Arthur Battenkill Jr. had ever hired; the most resourceful, the most hardworking, the most ambitious. Arthur Battenkill liked him very much. Champ Powell didn’t need to be taught the importance of loyalty, because he’d been a policeman for five years before entering law school: a Gadsden County sheriffs deputy. Champ understood the rules of the street. The good guys stuck together, helped each other, covered for one another in a jam. That’s how you got by, and got ahead.
So Champ Powell was flattered when Judge Battenkill sought his advice about a delicate personal problem—a fellow named Tom Krome, who’d come between the distinguished judge and his lovely wife, Katie. Champ Powell was working late in the law library, researching an obtuse appellate decision on condominium foreclosures, when he felt Arthur Battenkill’s hand on his shoulder. The judge sat down and gravely explained the situation with Krome. He asked Champ Powell what he would do if it was his wife fooling around with another man. Champ (who’d been on both ends of that nasty equation) said first he’d scare the living shit out of the guy, try to run him out of town. Judge Battenkill said that would be excellent, if only he knew how to do such a thing without getting himself in hot water. Champ Powell said don’t worry, I’ll handle it personally. The judge was so profusely grateful that Champ Powell could see his future in the law profession turning golden. With one phone call, Arthur Battenkill could get him a job with any firm in the Panhandle.
That very night, the law clerk drove to Tom Krome’s house and shot out the windows with a deer rifle. The judge rewarded him the next morning in chambers with a collegial wink and a thumbs-up. Two days later, though, Arthur Battenkill phoned Champ Powell to irately report that Krome was still communicating with Katie, sending her photographs of an occult nature: weeping statuary. Champ was outraged. With the judge’s blessing, he left work early so he could get to the hardware store before it closed. There he purchased twelve gallons of turpentine and a mop. Any experienced arsonist could have told Champ Powell that twelve gallons was excessive and that the fumes alone would knock an elephant on its ass.
But the law clerk had no time for expert consultations. With resolve in his heart and a bandanna over his nostrils, Champ Powell vigorously swabbed the turpentine throughout Tom Krome’s house, slicking the floors and walls of each room. He was in the kitchen when he finally passed out, collapsing against the gas stove, groping wildly as he keeled. Naturally his hands latched onto a burner knob and unconsciously twisted it to the “on” position. When the explosion came, it was heard half a mile away. The house burned to the foundation in ninety minutes.