Black Panthers, MOVE, Nation of Islam, NAACP—Bode had read extensively about them. But nothing called the Black Tide.
Whoever they were, they’d been through his apartment. Negroes, almost certainly! Bode thought he knew why he’d been singled out: They’d learned about the White Clarion Aryans.
But how? he asked himself. The WCA had been together scarcely one week—he hadn’t even composed a manifesto yet. His pulse fluttered as he mulled the only two possible explanations: Either the Negro force possessed a sophisticated intelligence-gathering apparatus, or there was a serious leak within the WCA. Bode Gazzer regarded the latter as almost inconceivable.
Instead he would proceed on the assumption that the Black Tide was exceptionally cunning and resourceful, probably connected to a government agency. He would also presume that no matter where the White Clarion Aryans took up hiding, the devious Negroes would eventually track them down.
That’s all right, Bode thought. He’d have his militia ready when the time came.
Meanwhile, where was that fucking Chub with the boat?
Panic nibbled at Bode Gazzer’s gut. The idea of deserting his trigger-happy partner began to make some sense. Bode had, after all, fourteen million bucks tucked in a condom. Once he cashed the lottery ticket, he could go anywhere, do anything—build himself a fortress in Idaho, with the mother of all hot tubs!
Lately Bode had been thinking a lot about Idaho, lousy winters and all. From what he’d heard, the mountains and forests were full of straight-thinking white Christians. Recruiting for the WCA would be so much easier in a place like that. Bode was thoroughly fed up with Miami—everywhere you turned were goddamn foreigners. And when you finally came across a real English-speaking white person, there was a better than even chance he’d turn out to be a Jew or some ultraliberal screamer. Bode was sick and tired of walking on eggshells, whispering his true righteous beliefs instead of declaring them loud and proud in public. In Miami you always had to be so damn careful—God forbid you accidentally insulted somebody, because they’d get right in your face. And not just the Cubans, either.
Bodean Gazzer felt sure the minorities out West were more docile and easily intimidated. He decided it might be a good move, providing he could adjust to the cold weather. Even in summer camos, Bode Gazzer thought he could fit right in.
As for Chub, he probably wouldn’t go over big in Idaho. He’d probably spook even decent white people away from the Aryan cause. No, Bode thought, Chub belonged in the South.
And it wasn’t as if Bode would be leaving the man high and dry. Chub still held the other Lotto ticket, the one they’d taken off the Negro woman in Grange. Hell, he’d be rich enough to start his own militia if he wanted. Be his own colonel.
Bode checked his wristwatch. If he left now, he could make Tallahassee before midnight. This time tomorrow, he’d have his first Lotto check.
Unless they got to him first—the vicious bastards who’d ransacked his apartment.
Ironically, that’s when a crazy stoner like Chub was most useful—in the face of violence. He didn’t spook easily, and he’d do just about anything you told him. He’d be damn handy to have around if shooting started. It was something to consider, something to mark on the positive side of the Chub ledger. An argument could be made for keeping the man nearby.
Pacing the boat ramp, Bode sweated through his Timber Ghost jumpsuit. The weekend road traffic zipped past, Bode feeling the curious eyes of the travelers on his neck—not all were tourists and fishermen, he felt certain. Undoubtedly the Black Tide enlisted many watchers, and they’d be scouting for a red Dodge Ram pickup with a fuhrman for president sticker (which Bode Gazzer had tried unsuccessfully to scrape off the bumper with a penknife).
That’s when he’d decided to haul out the AR-15. Let the fuckers see what they’re up against.
He laid a chamois across the hood of the truck and disassembled the semiautomatic exactly as Chub had taught him. He hoped the Black Tide was catching all this. He hoped they’d come to the conclusion he was mentally deranged, displaying an assault rifle in broad daylight along a U.S. government highway.