Carl Hiaasen – Lucky You

“How about buckling your seat belt,” she said.

“No way.” Shiner remembered what Bodean Gazzer had said about seat belts being part of the government’s secret plot to “neutralize the citizenry.” If you’re wearing seat belts, Bode had explained, it’ll be harder to jump out of the car and escape, once the NATO helicopters start landing on the highways. That’s the whole reason they made the seat-belt law, Bode had said, to make sure millions of Americans would be strapped down and helpless when the global attack was launched. As intriguing as Bode’s explanation was, Shiner decided the information was too sensitive to share with Amber.

“What’s that on your arm?” she asked. She turned on the dome light for a better look at Shiner’s tattoo.

“It’s a eagle,” he said, self-consciously.

“I meant the W.R.B. Is that for the White Rebel Brotherhood?”

Shiner said, “Man, it’s a long story.”

“I saw ’em in concert. They were killer.”

“Yeah?”

“The best is ‘Nut-Cutting Bitch.’ Ever heard it? You like hip-hop?”

“Metal.” Shiner gave his decorated biceps a subtle flex; it wasn’t often he had a pretty girl’s undivided attention.

She said, “Then what’s the deal with your W.R.B.? They are so not heavy metal.”

Shiner told Amber there’d been a mix-up on his tattoo. He was pleased to hear her say she could fix it.

“But only if you let me go,” she added.

“No way.”

“My best friend worked in a tattoo parlor for two summers. I hung out there, God, for hours. It’s not as hard as it looks.”

Shiner’s lips drew tight. Ruefully he said: “I can’t let you free. Not right away.”

“Oh.” Amber turned off the dome light. For a long time she didn’t speak to him. When two tank-topped frat boys in a Beemer convertible nearly sideswiped them, she said: “Fuckheads.” But it was practically a whisper, not intended as conversation. Soon Shiner grew nervous again. He’d been doing fine while Amber was chatty, but now his feet were tapping with the jitters. Plus he felt like a dolt. He felt like he’d blown something.

Finally she said, “You’re going to rape me, aren’t you?”

“No way.”

“Don’t lie. It’s better if I know.”

“I ain’t lyin’!”

“Then what is all this?” Both hands were fixed on the wheel. Her thin arms were straight and stiff. “What’s going on?”

Shiner said, “It’s a favor for a friend.”

“I get it. Then he’s going to rape me.”

“Over my dead body!” Shiner was startled by his own vehemence.

It drew a hopeful glance from Amber. “You mean it?”

“Damn straight I do.”

“Thanks,” she said, turning her attention back to the traffic. “You don’t really have a gun, do you?”

“Naw.”

“So, what’s your name?” Amber asked.

Both of Arthur Battenkill’s secretaries knew something was wrong, because he’d stopped pestering them for sex. The women didn’t complain; they much preferred typing and filing. The judge’s deportment in bed was no different from that in the office—arrogant and abrupt.

Dana and Willow often discussed their respective intimacies with Arthur Battenkill, and this was done with no trace of possessiveness or jealousy. Rather, the conversations served as a source of mutual support—the man was a burden they shared.

Willow reported: “He didn’t ask me to stay after work.”

“Me, neither,” said Dana. “That’s two days in a row!”

“What do you think?” Willow said.

“He’s upset about Champ quitting.”

“Could be.”

“If that’s what really happened,” Dana added, lifting an eyebrow.

Both secretaries were puzzled by the sudden departure of the law clerk, Champ Powell. At first Arthur Battenkill had said he’d gone home for a family emergency. Then the judge had said no, that was merely a cover story. Actually, Champ had been called back to the Gadsden County sheriffs department for a special undercover operation. The project was so secret and dangerous that even his family wasn’t told.

Which explained, the judge had said, why Champ’s mother kept calling the office, looking for him.

Dana and Willow remained unconvinced. “He didn’t seem like the undercover type,” Dana remarked. “B’sides, he really loved his job here.”

“Plus he idolized the judge,” Willow said. “That he did.”

Champ Powell’s devotion was almost an unnatural thing, both women agreed. The clerk was so enamored of Arthur Battenkill that initially the secretaries suspected he was gay. In fact they’d privately discussed the possibility of Champ’s seducing the judge, which wouldn’t have bothered them one bit. Anything to distract the man.

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