“I don’t understand you, Katherine. After everything I’ve done for you, I get a knife in my heart.”
She said, “Stop. You’re getting worked up over practically nothing.”
“Three blow jobs is not ‘practically nothing.’”
“You’ve missed the whole point. The whole darn point.” She reached under the table and flicked her husband’s hand off her thigh.
“Your young man,” he said, “where is he now? Lourdes? Jerusalem? Maybe Turin—getting fitted for the shroud!”
“Arthur, he’s not my ‘young man.’ I don’t know where he is. And you, you’re just a hypocritical ass.”
Neatly the judge buffed a napkin across his lips. “I apologize, Katherine. Tell you what, let’s get a room somewhere.”
“You go to hell,” she said.
“Please?”
“On one condition. You quit obsessing about Tommy.”
“It’s a deal,” said Arthur Battenkill Jr. Jovially he waved at the waiter and asked for the check.
A few hours later, Tom Krome’s house blew up.
On the way to breakfast, Bodean Gazzer and Chub stopped to hassle a couple of migrant workers hitchhiking along Highway One. Chub hovered with the .357 while Bode ran through the drill:
Name the fourteenth President of the United States.
Where was the Constitution signed?
Recite the Second Amendment.
Who starred in Red Dawn?
Personally, Chub was glad he didn’t have to take the same quiz. Evidently the two Mexicans didn’t do so hot, because Bode ordered them in butchered Spanish to show their green cards. Fearfully the men took out their wallets, which Bode emptied in the gravel along the side of the road.
“They legal?” Chub asked.
“They wish.”
With the sharp toe of a boot, Bode kicked through the migrants’ meager belongings—driver’s licenses, farmworker IDs, passport snapshots of children, prayer tabs, postage stamps, bus passes. Chub thought he spotted an immigration card, but Bode ground it to shreds under his heel. Then he removed the cash from the men’s wallets and ordered them to get a move on, muchachos!
Later, in the truck, Chub asked how much money they’d had.
“Eight bucks between ’em.”
“Oh, man.”
“Hey, it’s eight bucks that rightfully belongs to white ’Mericans like us. Fucking illegals, Chub—guess who pays their doctor bills and food stamps? Me and you, that’s who. Billions a dollars every year on aliens.”
As usual, Chub saw no reason to doubt his friend’s knowledge of such matters.
“And I mean billions,” Bode Gazzer went on, “so don’t think of it as a robbery, my friend. That was a rebate.”
Chub nodded. “You put it that way, sure.”
When they returned from the 7-Eleven, they found an unfamiliar car parked crookedly near Chub’s trailer. It was a sanded-down Chevrolet Impala; an old one, too. One of Chub’s counterfeit handicapped permits hung from the rearview.
“Easy does it,” said Chub, pulling the gun from his belt.
The door of the trailer was open, the TV blaring. Bode cupped his hands to his mouth: “Get your ass out here, whoever you are! And keep your goddamn hands in the air!”
Shiner appeared, shirtless and stubbly-bald, in the doorway. He wore the grin of a carefree idiot. “I’m here!” he proclaimed.
At first Bode and Chub didn’t recognize him.
“Hey,” Shiner said, “it’s me—your new white brother. Where’s the militia?”
Chub lowered the pistol. “The fuck you do to yourself, boy?”
“Shaved my hair off.”
“May I ast why?”
“So I can be a skinhead,” Shiner replied.
Bodean Gazzer whistled. “No offense, son, but it ain’t your best look.”
The problem was with Shiner’s scalp: an angry latitudinal scar, shining like a hideous stamp on the pale dome of his head.
Chub asked Shiner if he’d gotten branded by some wild Miami niggers or Cubans.
“Nope. I fell asleep on a crankcase.”
Bode crossed his arms. “And this crankcase,” he said, “was it still in the car?”
“Yessir, with the engine runnin’.” Shiner did his best to explain: The mishap had occurred almost two years earlier on a Saturday afternoon. He’d had a few beers, a couple joints, maybe half a roofie, when he decided to tune the Impala. He’d started the car, opened the hood and promptly passed out headfirst on the engine block.
“Fucker heated up big-time,” Shiner said.
Chub couldn’t stand it. He went in the trailer to take a shit, turn off the television and hunt down a cold Budweiser. When he came out he saw Bode Gazzer sitting next to Shiner on the front fender of the Chevy.
Bode waved him over. “Hey, our boy done exactly what we told him.”
“How’s that?”
“The Negro girl come to his house askin’ about the Lotto ticket.”
“She sure did,” Shiner said, “and I said it wasn’t her that won it. I said she must of got confused with another Saturday.”
Chub said, “Good man. What’d she do next?”
“Got all pissed and run off out the door. She’s beat up pretty bad, too. That was you guys, I figgered.”
Bode prodded Shiner to finish the story. “Tell about how you quit your job at the store.”
“Oh yeah, Mr. Singh, he said I couldn’t park with the handicaps even though I got the blue wheelchair dealie on the mirror. So what I done, I grabbed my back pay from the cash register and hauled ass.”
Bode added: “Took the security video, too. Just like we told him.”
“Yeah, I hid it in the glove box.” Shiner jerked his head toward the Impala.
“Slick move,” said Chub, winking his good eye. In truth, he wasn’t especially impressed by Shiner. Bode Gazzer, too, had doubts. The boy manifested the sort of submissive dimness that foretold a long sad future in minimum-security institutions.
“Look here,” Shiner said, flexing his doughy left arm. “Radical new tattoo: W.R.B. To make it official.”
Over the rim of his beer can, Chub shot Bode a look that said: You tell him.
“So how’s it look?” Shiner asked brightly. “Seventy-five bucks, ’case you guys want one, too.”
Bode slid off the fender and brushed the rust marks off the butt of his camo trousers. “Thing is, we had to change the name.”
Shiner quit flexing. “It ain’t the White Rebel Brotherhood no more? How come?”
“You was right about the rock band,” Bode said.
“Yeah,” Chub interjected, “we didn’t want no confusion.”
“So what’s the new name?”
Bode told him. Shiner asked him to repeat it.
“White Clarion Aryans,” Bode said, slowly.
Shiner’s mouth drew tight. Morosely he stared at the initials burned into his biceps. “So the new ones are … W-C-A?”
“Right.”
“Shit,” said Shiner, under his breath. Looking up, he managed a smile. “Oh well.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, during which Shiner rearranged his arms to cover the tattoo. Even Chub felt sorry for him. “But you know what,” he said to Shiner, “that’s one hell of a eagle you got there.”
“Damn right,” Bode Gazzer agreed. “That’s one mean motherfucker of an eagle. What’s he got in them claws, an M16?”
The boy perked up. “Affirmative. M16 is what I told the tattoo man.”
“Well, he did you proud. How about a beer?”
Later they all went to the Sports Authority and (using the stolen Visa) purchased tents, sleeping bags, air mattresses, mosquito netting, lantern fuel and other outdoor gear. Bode said they should keep everything packed tight and ready, in case the NATO storm troopers came ashore without warning. Bode was pleased to find out that Shiner, unlike Chub, had a genuine fondness for camouflage sportswear. As a treat Bode bought him
a lightweight Trebark parka—Shiner could hardly wait to get back to the trailer and try it on.
While he ran inside to change clothes, Bode said to Chub: “He’s like a kid on Christmas morning.”
More like a damn retard, thought Chub. He said, “You got a spare hat? Because I don’t wanna look at that skinhead’s skinned head no more.”
In his truck Bode found a soggy Australian-style bush hat; the mildew blended neatly into the camo pattern. Shiner wore it proudly, cinching the strap at his throat.
They spent the afternoon at the rock pit, where it quickly became evident the young recruit could not be entrusted with the serious guns. Chub had illegally converted the AR-15 to fully automatic, which proved too much, physically and emotionally, for the newest member of the White Clarion Aryans. Taking the rifle from Chub’s hands, Shiner gave a Comanche-style whoop and began to shout: “Which way’s the Bahamas! Which way’s them cocksuckin’ NATO commies!” Then he spun around and started firing wildly—bullets skipped across the water, twanged off limestone boulders, mowed down the cattails and saw grass.
Bode and Chub ducked behind the truck, Bode muttering: “This ain’t no good. Christ, this ain’t no good at all.”
Chub cursed harshly. “I need a goddamn drink.”
It took a few minutes for Shiner to relinquish the AR-15, after which he was restricted to harmless plinking with his old Marlin .22. At dusk the three of them, smelling of gunfire and stale beer, returned to Chub’s trailer. When Bode Gazzer asked if anybody was hungry, Shiner said he could eat a whole cow.
Chub couldn’t tolerate another hour in the hyperactive nitwit’s presence. “You gotta stay here,” he instructed Shiner, “and stand guard.”
“Guard of what?” the kid asked.
“The guns. Plus all the shit we bought today,” Chub said. “New man always does guard duty. Ain’t that right, Bode?”
“You bet.” Bode, too, had grown weary of Shiner’s company. He said, “The tents and so forth, that’s important survivalist supplies. Can’t just leave it here with nobody on watch.”
“God, I’m starvin’,” Shiner said.
Chub slapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll bring you some chicken wings. You like the extry hot?”
According to the bank, JoLayne’s credit card had been used two nights consecutively at the same Hooters—a reckless move that Krome found encouraging. The Lotto robbers clearly were not master criminals.
JoLayne figured nobody would be ballsy enough to go there three times in a row, but Krome said it was the best lead they had. Now he and JoLayne were outside the restaurant, watching a red pickup truck park in a disabled-only zone.
“Is that them?” Krome asked.
“The guys who came to my house were not crippled. Neither of them,” JoLayne said gravely.
Two men—one tall, one short, got out of the truck. They entered the restaurant without the aid of a wheelchair, a crutch, or even a cane.
“Must be a miracle,” said Krome.
JoLayne wasn’t certain they were the same men who’d attacked her. “We’re too far away.”
“Then let’s get closer.”
He went in alone and chose a corner table. A minute later JoLayne came through the door—the floppy hat, Lolita sunglasses. She joined him, sitting with her back to the bar.
“You get the license tag?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am. And how about that bumper sticker? ‘Fuhrman for President.’”
“Where are they?” she asked tensely. “Did they look at me?”
“If it’s the table I think it is, they didn’t notice either of us.”
On the other side of the restaurant, two very distinctive customers were chatting with a pretty blond waitress. Her electric smile solved to Krome’s satisfaction the mystery of why the shitkickers returned night after night with a hot credit card: They were smitten. One of the men was outfitted entirely in camouflage, including a cap. His companion wore a dirty ponytail and a vulcanized patch over one eye. Both men, Krome noted, bore deep cuts on their faces.
“You said one was dressed like a hunter.”
JoLayne nodded. “That’s right.”
“Take a peek.”
“I’m frightened.”
“It’s all right,” Krome told her.
She turned just enough to catch a quick look. “Lord,” she gasped, and turned back.
Tom Krome patted her hand. “We done good, pardner.”
JoLayne’s expression was unreadable behind the big sunglasses. “Give me the car keys.”
“What for?” Krome asked, knowing the answer. She didn’t want to open the car; she wanted to open the trunk.
JoLayne said, “Let’s wait till they leave—”
“No, not here.”
“Tom, we’ve got the Remington. What could they do?”
“Forget it.”
A waitress came, but JoLayne was unresponsive. Krome ordered hamburgers and Cokes for both of them. When they were alone again, he tried to make the case that a busy restaurant parking lot wasn’t the ideal place to pull a shotgun on anybody, especially two drunk white-trash psychopaths.
JoLayne said, “I want my damn lottery ticket.”
“And you’ll get it. We found the bastards, that’s the main thing. They can’t get away from us now.”
Again she peered over her shoulder, shivering at the sight of the ponytailed robber. “That face I’ll never forget. But the eye patch I don’t remember.”
“Maybe you blinded him,” Krome said.
JoLayne Lucks smiled faintly. “Lord, I hope so.”
11
The firebombing of Tom Krome’s house was the most serious managerial crisis of Sinclair’s career. All afternoon he polished the exculpatory memorandum and awaited a summons from The Register’s managing editor. Like Krome’s, the managing editor’s training was in hard news and he viewed the world darkly. He was an angular, intense man in his mid-forties; prematurely gray, allergy prone, gruff, profane. He was famous for his laserlike glare and his lack of patience.
His last communication with Sinclair had come seven weeks earlier in a terse phone call: No frigging PMS column, you hear me! It had been one of Sinclair’s rare brainstorms—a regular feature devoted to coping with PMS. The column would run once a month, of course. The managing editor despised the idea, which Sinclair promptly blamed on one of his subordinates.
Even under the mildest circumstances, direct contact with the M.E. was nerve-racking. So Sinclair whitened when, shortly after six, he was called in to discuss the Tom Krome situation. Upon entering the office, Sinclair was brusquely motioned to a covered armchair. On the other side of a mahogany desk, his boss skimmed a police report, although Sinclair (having never seen one) didn’t recognize it as such. What he knew about the burning of Krome’s home had come from a gossipy city desk reporter, in a brief conversation at the urinals. Of course Sinclair had been alarmed by the news, but he was more distressed that he hadn’t been notified formally, through channels. He was, after all, Krome’s immediate supervisor. Didn’t anybody believe in E-mail anymore?
With a contemplative snort, the managing editor turned and tossed the police report on a credenza. Sinclair seized the moment to present a crisp copy of the memorandum, which the managing editor crumpled and threw back at him. It landed in Sinclair’s lap.
The managing editor said: “I already saw it.”
“But … when?”
“In all its glorious versions, you schmuck.”
“Oh.”
Instantly Sinclair realized what had happened. With the touch of a button on his computer terminal, the managing editor could call up any story in the newspaper’s vast bank of editing queues. Sinclair had been led to believe his boss paid no attention to what went on in the Features department, but evidently it wasn’t true. The managing editor had electronically been tracking the Krome memo from the date of its perfidious inception.
Sinclair felt feverish and short of breath.
He plucked the wadded paper from his lap and discreetly shoved it into a pocket.
“What I’ve found fascinating,” the managing editor was saying, “is the creative process—how each new draft painted a blacker picture of Tom’s mental state. And the details you added … well, I had to laugh. Maybe you missed your calling, Sinclair. Maybe you should’ve been a writer.” The managing editor eyed him as if he were a turd on a carpet. “Would you like some water? Coffee?”
Sinclair, in an anemic murmur: “No, thank you.”
“May we stipulate that your ‘memo’ is pure horseshit?”
“Yes.”
“OK. Now I have some questions. One: Do you have any idea why Tom Krome’s house was torched?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you have a clue why anyone would want to harm him?”
“Not really,” Sinclair said.
“Do you know where he is?”
“The rumor is Bermuda.”
The managing editor chuckled. “You’re not going to Bermuda, Sinclair. You’re going to the last place you sent Tom, and you’re going to find him. By the way, you look like hell.”
“I’m sure I do.”
“Another question: Does Tom still work for us?”
“As far as I’m concerned, he does.” Sinclair said it with all the conviction he could summon.
The managing editor removed his glasses and began vigorously cleaning the lenses with a tissue. “What about as far as Tom is concerned? Any chance he was serious about quitting?”
“I … I suppose it’s possible.”
Woozy with apnea, Sinclair thought he might be on the verge of heart failure. He’d read many articles about critically ill patients who had eerie out-of-body experiences in ambulances and emergency rooms. Sinclair felt that way now—floating above the managing editor’s credenza, watching himself being emasculated. The sensation was neither as painless nor as dreamlike as other near-death survivors had described.
“The arson guys are going through the rubble tonight,” said the managing editor. “They want to know if the fire could be connected to a story Tom was working on.”
“I can’t imagine how.” Sinclair gulped air like a hippo. Slowly the feeling returned to his fingers and toes.