JoLayne felt entitled to wonder if she really knew enough about this Tom fellow, nice and steady as he might seem. A burning house was something to consider.
She said, “Lord, what are you going to do?”
“Stay dead for a while,” Krome replied. “That’s what my lawyer says.”
15
Bodean Gazzer instructed Chub to cease shooting from the truck.
“But it’s him.”
“It ain’t,” Bode said. “Now quit.”
“Not jest yet.”
Shiner cried, “My eardrums!”
“Pussy.” Chub continued to fire until the black Mustang skidded off the highway on bare rims. Fuming, Bode braked the pickup and coasted to the shoulder. He was losing his grip on Chub and Shiner; semiautomatics seemed to bring out the worst in them.
Chub hopped from the truck and loped with homicidal intent through the darkness, toward the disabled car. Bode marked his partner’s progress by the bobbing orange glow of the cigaret. The man was setting a damn poor example for Shiner—there was nothing well-regulated about sniping at motorists on the Florida Turnpike.
Shiner said, “Hell we do now?”
“Get out, son.” Bode Gazzer grabbed a flashlight from the glove box and hurried after Chub. They found him holding at gunpoint a young Latin man whose misfortune was to vaguely resemble the obnoxious boyfriend of a Hooters waitress, who even more vaguely resembled the actress Kim Basinger.
Bode said: “Nice work, ace.”
Chub spat his cigaret butt. It wasn’t Tony in the Mustang.
Shiner asked, “Is it the same guy or not?”
“Hell, no, it ain’t him. What’s your name?” Bode demanded.
“Bob.” The young man clutched the meaty part of his right shoulder, where a rifle slug had grazed it.
Chub jabbed at him with the muzzle of the Cobray. “Bob, huh? You don’t look like no Bob.”
The driver willingly surrendered his license. The name on it made Chub grin: Roberto Lopez.
“Jest like I thought. Goddamn lyin’ sumbitch Cuban!” Chub crowed.
The young man was terrified. “No, I am from Colombia.”
“Nice try.”
“Bob and Roberto, it is the same thing!”
Chub said, “Yeah? On what planet?”
Bodean Gazzer switched off the flashlight. The heavy traffic on the highway made him jumpy; even in Dade County a bullet-riddled automobile could attract notice.
“Gimme some light here.” Chub was pawing through the young man’s wallet. “I mean, long as we gone to all the trouble and ammo.”
Jauntily he held up four one-hundred-dollar bills for Bode to see. Shiner gave a war whoop.
“And lookie here—’Merican Express,” Chub said, waggling a gold-colored credit card. “Fuck is the likes a you doin’ with anything ‘Merican?”
Roberto Lopez said, “Take whatever you want. Please don’t kill me.”
Chub commanded Shiner to search the trunk. Bode Gazzer was a basket case; any second he expected the blue flash of police lights. He knew there would be little chance of satisfactorily explaining a shot Colombian to the Florida Highway Patrol.
“Hurry it up! Goddamn you guys,” he growled.
They found a briefcase, a holstered Model 84 Beretta.380 and a new pair of two-tone golf shoes. Shiner said, “Size tens. Same as me.”
“Keep ’em!” Roberto Lopez, calling from the front seat.
Bode aimed the flashlight inside the briefcase: bar charts, computer printouts and financial statements. A business card identified Roberto Lopez as a stockbroker with Smith Barney.
Here Chub saw a chance to salvage merit from the crime. Even though the guy had turned out not to be Amber’s asshole boyfriend, he was still a damn foreigner with fancy clothes and too much money. Surely Bode would agree that the rifle attack wasn’t a total waste of time.
In a tone of solemn indignation, Chub accosted the fearful young Colombian: “You fuckers sneak into this country, steal our jobs and then take over our golf courses. If I might ast, Mister Roberto Stockbroker, what’s next? You gone run for President?”
Shiner was so stirred that he patriotically kicked the car, the golf cleats leaving a flawless perforation. Bode Gazzer, however, showed no sign of indignation.
Chub set aside the rifle and seized Roberto Lopez by the collar. “OK, smart-ass,” Chub said, recalling Bode’s piercing roadside interrogation of the migrant workers, “gimme the fourteenth President of the U.S.A.”