As he spoke, Bodean Gazzer glowered at Chub. How were they going to win a race war with a damn waitress hanging around?
Chub wasn’t annoyed by Amber’s interruption; he was too busy trying to cop a peek up her shorts. Shiner, by contrast, was painfully attentive. Taking Amber’s lead, he raised his right arm and waved at Bode.
“What!”
“Colonel, you said Euro something… ”
“Euro-Caucasian.”
“Could you ‘xplain what that is?” Shiner asked.
“White people,” Bode Gazzer snapped. “White people whose folks come from, like, England or Germany. Places such as that.”
“Ireland?” asked Amber.
“Yeah, sure. Denmark, Canada… you get the goddamn idea.” He couldn’t believe these nimrods—the concept of ethnic purity wasn’t that complicated.
Then Shiner said: “They got white people in Mexico.”
“Bullshit.”
“Guy used to work days at the Grab N’Go. Billy was his name. He looked awful white, Colonel.”
Bode was steaming. He walked over to Shiner and kicked him in the side of the head. Shiner cried out and toppled across Amber’s lap. Chub looked on, abject with envy.
Leaning over, Bode took Shiner by the chin. “Listen, you pimple-faced little shitweasel. Ain’t no such thing on God’s earth as a white Meskin named Billy or Hay-zoos or any other damn thing. They’s no white Cubans or Spaniards, neither.”
“But Spain is in Europe.” Amber, calm as you please, stroking Shiner’s bestubbled scalp.
Chub, who was tired of being left out, declared: “She got a point there.” Then, turning with a smirk toward the girl: “And here’s a man won’t even say the word ‘nigger.’ ”
Bodean Gazzer took a deep breath and walked a slow circle around the campfire. He had to cool off; he had to be the calm, clear-thinking one.
“When I talk about Euro-Caucasians,” he said, “I’m referrin’ to white white people, all right? That’s the easiest way to explain it. I’m talkin’ about Aryan ancestry, which is something all four of us share.”
Impatiently Chub said, “Get on with it.” To his immense relief, Shiner sat up, uncluttering Amber’s thighs. The glow of the flames gave a delicious sheen to her nylon stockings; it was all Chub could do to restrain himself from stroking them. It was, in fact, only a matter of moments before he tried.
When he did, Amber whacked him in the face. “Look what you did!” she exclaimed.
The aborted grope had snagged Chub’s hand in her hose. It was the crab claw, he was disheartened to see.
“What’s the matter with you!” Amber said, and took another swipe. She wanted the kidnappers to know she was a fighter and that every touch would cost them dearly. It was a cardinal rule of waitressing: Defend your dignity.
Chub knocked over his beer as he fumbled to disentangle himself. “I’ll do it,” Amber snapped.
In disgust Bode Gazzer spit a chunk of jerky into the campfire. Shiner was stunned by the scene. Amber’s fear of a rape no longer seemed farfetched; the same could not be said of Shiner’s gallant vow to protect her. Chub was so much stronger and meaner; short of killing him in his sleep, Shiner’s options were limited.
The crab pincers left a ragged hole in Amber’s nylons.
“Damn,” she muttered. Then to Chub: “Hope you’re happy, Romeo.” It was the sort of asshole stunt that boyfriend Tony might pull, pawing at her crotch in public.
Chub told her to chill. He dug in the cooler for another beer. Then he opened the chamois and tackled (with a scathing cackle) the reassembly of the AR-15. Bode pretended not to pay attention.
Amber picked up a flashlight and went into the woods to change clothes. She came out wearing one of Bode Gazzer’s camouflage jumpsuits; Mossy Oak.
Instantly a gloom settled over Chub. He pined for the cutoff T-shirt and the silky shorts. He tried to imagine Kim Basinger as a bear hunter and could not. Bodean Gazzer, however, found himself helplessly intoxicated by the flickering vision in mottled camos. His camos. The dainty white Keds added a devastating element.
“Meeting’s over,” he said, and sat down heavily.
Amber, who was soundly apprehensive, resolved not to let it show. She walked forthrightly up to Chub and said: “We need to talk.”