When it was time to put the AR-15 back together, Bodean Gazzer ran into difficulty. Some parts fit together, some didn’t. He wondered if he’d accidentally misplaced a screw or two. The pieces of the gun were slick and oily, and Bode’s fingers were moist with perspiration. He began dropping little things in the gravel.
In exasperation, he thought: How hard can this be? Chub can do it when he’s drunk!
After half an hour, Bode angrily gave up. He folded the chamois cloth around the loose components of the rifle and set the bundle in the bed of the pickup truck. He tried to act nonchalant, for the benefit of the spying Negroes.
He got behind the wheel and cranked the AC up full blast. He scanned the bottle-green water in all directions. A low-riding fishing skiff crossed his view. So did a pretty girl, cutting angles on a sailboard. Then came two hairy fat guys on Jet Skis, jumping each other’s wakes.
But there was no sign of Chub in the stolen boat. Sourly Bode thought: Maybe the dickhead’s not coming. Maybe he’s ditching me.
Five more minutes, he told himself. Then I’m gone.
On the highway, cars streamed southbound as if loaded on a conveyor belt. Staring at them made Bode drowsy. He’d been up for almost two days and in truth was physically incapable of driving to Cutler Ridge, much less Tallahassee. He would’ve loved to take a nap, but that would be suicide. That’s when they’d make their move—the Black Tide, whatever and whoever it was.
When Bode closed his eyes, a question popped belatedly into his brain: What the hell do they want?
He was not too exhausted to figure it out. They seemed to know everything, didn’t they? Who he was, where he lived. They knew about the White Clarion Aryans, too.
So surely they also knew about one, if not both, of the lottery tickets. That’s what the greedy bastards had been searching for inside his apartment!
Bodean Gazzer was snapped alert by the icy realization that the only stroke of good fortune he’d ever experienced was in danger of being ripped from his grasp. Alone on the road, with the AR-15 in pieces, he was a sitting duck.
Impulsively Bode dug into his pants for his wallet, took out the Trojan packet, peeked inside. The Lotto coupon was safe. He put it away. He didn’t need to look at his watch to know five minutes was up. Maybe Chub had bailed. Or got busted by the marine patrol. Or found some fiberglass resin to sniff, fell off the boat and drowned.
Adios, muchacho.
Bode’s heart was hammering like a rabbit’s. Recklessly he gunned the truck across Highway One and fishtailed into the northbound lane. With trembling fingers he adjusted the rearview mirror, something he should’ve done the night before. With only a Molson truck on his bumper, Bode was breathing easier by the time he reached Whale Harbor. Crossing the bridge, he glanced along a broad tree-lined channel to the west. As if seized by a cramp, his foot sprang off the accelerator.
A blue-and-gray speedboat was snaking down the waterway. The driver’s ponytail flapped like a gray rag in the breeze.
“Aw, hell,” Bodean Gazzer said. He made a noisy U-turn at the Holiday Isle charter docks and hauled ass back to the ramp.
The grocery store was a treat; everyone friendly, helpful. Not so at the motel marina. The man in charge of the boats—old fart, pinched gray face with a yellow three-day stubble—was clumsy with edginess and indecision. Clearly he’d never done business with a solitary black woman, and the prospect had afflicted him with the yips.
“Is there a problem?” JoLayne Lucks inquired, knowing full well there was. She drummed her daunting fingernails on the cracked countertop.
The dock guy coughed. “I’ll need your driver’s license.”
“Fine.”
“And a cash deposit.” More coughing.
“Certainly.”
The dock guy gnawed his lower lip. “You done this before? Mebbe you wanna try a water bike ‘stead.”
“Lord, no.” JoLayne laughed. She spotted a calico cat curled beside the soda cooler. She scooped it off the floor and began stroking its chin. “Poor lil princess got ear mites, don’t ya?” Then, addressing the dock guy: “Chlorhexidine drops. Any veterinarian carries them.”