Carl Hiaasen – Lucky You

Chub and Shiner were perched on the tailgate, finishing their beers, when they heard it—more a moan than a scream. Yet it was riven with such horror as to raise the fuzz on their necks. They scrambled toward Bode’s apartment, Chub drawing the.357 as he ran.

Inside, unaware that the colonel had dropped the groceries, Shiner slipped on an onion ring and went down headfirst. Chub, stepping in cheesecake, skated hard into the television set, which toppled sideways with a crash.

Bodean Gazzer never turned to look. He remained stock-still in the living room. His pale face shone with perspiration. With both hands he clutched his camouflage cap to his belly.

The place had been taken apart from the kitchen to the john; a maliciously thorough job.

Dumbstruck, Chub stuck the Colt in his belt. “Jesus Willy,” he gasped. Now he saw what Bode saw. So did Shiner, one cheek smeared with rat shit, peering up from the kitchen tiles.

The intruders had ripped down the posters of David Koresh and the other patriots. On the bare wall was a message scrawled in red, in letters three feet high. The first line said:

WE KNOW EVERYTHING

The second line said:

FEAR THE BLACK TIDE

It took only fifteen minutes for the White Clarion Aryans to load the pickup—guns, gear, bedding, water, plenty of camo clothes. Wordlessly the men piled into the front, Shiner in the middle as usual. Chub’s head lolled against the side window; he was too shaken to ask Bode Gazzer for a theory.

To Shiner it seemed the colonel knew exactly where he was going. He looked determined behind the wheel, taking the truck on a beeline to Highway One, then making a sharp left.

South, by Shiner’s reckoning. The Everglades, maybe. Or Key Largo.

Bode flicked on the dome light and said, “There’s a map under the seat.”

Shiner spread it across his lap.

“Flip it over,” Bode told him.

Instead he should’ve been paying attention to his mirrors. Then he might have noticed the headlights of the compact car that had been following them from the apartment.

Inside the Honda, JoLayne Lucks turned down the radio and asked: “How did you know they’d run?”

Tom Krome said, “Because these are not brave guys. These are guys who beat up women. Running away is second nature.”

“Especially with the ‘Black Tide’ on their tails.” JoLayne chuckled to herself. She and Tom had arrived an hour earlier and peeked in the apartment window, to make sure it was the right place. That’s when they’d seen Moffitt’s menacing valentine on the wall.

Now, pointing at the truck in front of them, JoLayne said: “Think they’ve got my ticket on ’em?”

“Yep.”

“Still no game plan?”

“Nope.”

“I like an honest man,” JoLayne said.

“Good. Here’s more: I’m not feeling so brave myself.”

“OK. When we get to Oz, we’ll ask the wizard to give you some courage.”

Krome said, “Toto, too?”

“Yes, dear. Toto, too.”

JoLayne leaned over and put a lemon drop in his mouth. When he started to say something, she deftly popped in another one. Krome was hopelessly puckered. He didn’t know where the pickup truck was leading them, but he knew he wasn’t turning back. Bachelorhood in the Nineties, he thought. What a headline Sinclair could write:

DEAD MAN DOGS DANGEROUS DESPERADOS

16

The farther they got from Coconut Grove, the stronger grew Chub’s conviction that he would never see his treasured Amber again. He was seized by a mournful panic, a talon-like snatch of his heart.

Neither of his companions noticed. Shiner was preoccupied with the mysterious “Black Tide,” and Bodean Gazzer was brimming with theories. Both men were shaken by the scene inside the ransacked apartment, and chatting about niggers and communists seemed to steady their nerves. An even flow of conversation also preserved the illusion of a calm orderly flight, when in fact Bode had no plan beyond running like hell. They were being pursued; chased by an unknown evil. Bode’s instinct was to hide someplace remote and out of reach, and to get there as fast as possible. Shiner’s naive and breathless queries, which otherwise would have provoked the harshest sarcasm, now worked as a tonic by affirming for Bode his role as the militia’s undisputed leader. Although he hadn’t the foggiest clue who the Black Tide was, Bode gave the full weight of his authority to wild speculation. This kept his mind busy and his spirits up, and Shiner hung on every word. Chub’s lack of participation was of small concern, for Bode was accustomed to his partner’s nodding off.

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