Carl Hiaasen (24 page)

Back in Brooklyn, the resourceful Dick Turnquist had compiled from the World Wide Web a list of theater promoters in the rural western states. He faxed to each one a recent publicity shot of Mary Andrea Finley Krome, accompanied by a brief inquiry hinting at a family emergency back East—had anyone seen her? The director in Jackson Hole was concerned enough to reply, by telephone. He said the woman in the photograph bore a keen resemblance to an actress who had, only yesterday, read for the parts of both Fagin and the Artful Dodger. And while Miss Julia Channing’s singing voice was perfectly adequate,
the director said, her Cockney accent needed work. “She could’ve handled Richard the Second,” the director explained, “but what I needed was a pickpocket.”

By the time Dick Turnquist retained and dispatched a local private investigator, Mary Andrea Finley Krome was already gone from the mountain town.

What impressed Turnquist was her perseverance for the stage life. Knowing she was being pursued, Mary Andrea continued to make herself visible. And although changing one’s professional name might tax the ego, as subterfuge it was pretty feeble. Mary Andrea could have melted into any city and taken any anonymous job—waitress, receptionist, bartender—with only a negligible decline of income. Yet she chose to keep acting despite the risk of discovery and subpoena. Perhaps she was indomitably committed to her craft, but Turnquist believed there was another explanation: Mary Andrea needed the attention. She craved the limelight, no matter how remote or fleeting.

Well, Turnquist reflected, who didn’t.

She could call herself whatever she wanted—Julie Channing, Liza Bacall, it didn’t matter. The lawyer knew he would eventually catch up to the future ex-Mrs. Krome and compel her presence in the halls of justice.

He therefore was not at all distressed when
The Register
called to inform him that Tom Krome had died in a suspicious house fire. Having only an hour earlier chatted with his client, alive and uncharred in a Coral Gables motel, Turnquist realized the newspaper was about to make a humongous mistake. It was about to devote its entire front page to a dead man who wasn’t.

Yet the lawyer chose not to edify the young reporter on the end of the line. Turnquist was careful not to lie outright; it
wasn’t required. Conveniently the young reporter failed to ask Turnquist if he’d spoken to Tom Krome that day, or if he had any reason to believe Tom Krome was not deceased.

Instead the reporter said: “How long had you known each other? What are your fondest memories? How do you think he’d like to be remembered?”

All questions that Dick Turnquist found it easy to answer. He didn’t say so, but he was grateful to
The Register
for saving him further aggravation in tracking Mary Andrea Finley Krome. Once she heard the news, she’d naturally assume she could stop running. Tom’s dying would get her off the hook, litigation-wise, and she’d have no reason to continue the dodge. Mary Andrea had always been less concerned with saving the marriage than with avoiding the stigma of divorce. The last true Catholic, in her estranged husband’s words.

She was also a ham. Dick Turnquist expected Mary Andrea would get the first plane for Florida, to play the irresistible role of grief-stricken widow—sitting for poignant TV interviews, attending weepy candlelight memorials, stoically announcing journalism scholarships in her martyred spouse’s name.

And we’ll be waiting for her, thought Dick Turnquist.

On the phone, the reporter from
The Register
was winding up the interview. “Thanks for talking with me at such a difficult time. Just one more question: As Tom’s close friend, how do you feel about what’s happened?”

The lawyer answered, quite truthfully: “Well, it doesn’t seem real.”

On the morning of December 2, Bernard Squires telephoned Clara Markham in Grange to inquire if his generous purchase offer had been conveyed to the sellers of Simmons Wood.

“But it’s only been three days,” the broker said.

“You haven’t even spoken to them?”

“I’ve put in a call,” Clara fudged. “They said Mr. Simmons is in Las Vegas. His sister is on holiday down in the islands.”

Bernard Squires said, “They have telephones in Las Vegas, I know for a fact.”

Normally Bernard was not so impatient, but Richard “The Icepick” Tarbone urgently needed to make a covert withdrawal from the union pension accounts. The nature of the family emergency was not confided to Bernard Squires, and he pointedly exhibited a lack of curiosity on the matter. But since the Florida real estate purchase was crucial to the money laundering, The Icepick had taken a personal interest in expediting the deal. None of this could be frankly communicated by Bernard Squires to Clara Markham, who was saying:

“I’ll try to reach them again this morning, I promise.”

“And there are no other offers?” Bernard asked.

“Nothing on the table,” said Clara, which was strictly the truth.

As soon as the man from Chicago hung up, she dialed the number in Coral Gables that JoLayne had given her. A desk clerk at the motel said Miss Lucks and her friend had checked out.

With heavy reluctance Clara Markham then phoned the attorney handling the estate of the late Lighthorse Simmons. She described the pension fund’s offer for the forty-four acres on the outskirts of Grange. The attorney said three million sounded like a fair price. He seemed sure the heirs would leap at it.

Clara was sure, too. She felt bad for her friend, but business was business. Unless JoLayne Lucks found a miracle, Simmons Wood was lost.

An hour later, when Bernard Squires’ telephone rang, he
thought it must be Clara Markham calling with the good news. It wasn’t. It was Richard Tarbone.

“I’m sicka this shit,” he told Squires. “You get your ass down to Florida.”

And Squires went.

They’d checked out of the Comfort Inn shortly after Moffitt’s visit. The agent had come straight from the redneck’s apartment. His tight-lipped expression told the story: no Lotto ticket.

“Damn,” JoLayne had said.

“I think I know where it is.”

“Where?”

“He hid it in a rubber. The camo guy.”

“A rubber.” JoLayne, pressing her knuckles to her forehead, trying not to get grossed out.

“A Trojan,” Moffitt had added.

“Thanks. I’ve got the picture.”

“He’s carrying it on him somewhere, I’m willing to bet.”

“His wallet,” Tom Krome had suggested.

“Yeah, probably.” Moffitt matter-of-factly told them about the search of Bodean James Gazzer’s place—the anti-government posters and bumper stickers, the gun magazines, the vermin, the condoms in the wastebasket.

“What now? How do we find the ticket?” Krome had asked.

“Gimme a week.”

“No.” JoLayne, shaking her head. “I can’t. Time’s running out.”

Moffitt had promised he’d take care of it as soon as he returned from San Juan. He had to go testify in a seizure case—illegal Chinese machine guns, routed through Haiti.

“When I get back, I’ll deal with these guys. Do a traffic stop, pat ’em down real hard. Search the pickup, too.”

“But what if—”

“If it’s not there, then … hell, I don’t know.” Moffitt, working his jaw, stared out the window.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Three days. Four at the most.”

Moffitt had handed JoLayne Lucks the lottery tickets from Bodean Gazzer’s sock drawer. “For Saturday night,” he’d said. “Just in case.”

“Very funny.”

“Hey, weirder things’ve happened.”

JoLayne had tucked the tickets in her handbag. “By the way, Tom’s dead. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow.”

Moffitt had glanced quizzically at Krome, who’d shrugged and said, “Long story.”

“Murdered?”

“Supposedly. I’d prefer to keep it that way for now. You mind?”

“I’ve never laid eyes on you,” Moffitt had said, “and you’ve never laid eyes on me.”

At the door, JoLayne had given the ATF agent a warm hug. “Thanks for everything. I know you stuck your neck out.”

“Forget it.”

“Nothing happened? You sure?”

“Easy as pie. But the place is trashed—Gazzer’ll know it wasn’t some chickenshit burglar.”

As soon as Moffitt was gone, they’d started to pack. Krome insisted. The robber’s address was in Krome’s notebook, the one JoLayne said he never used.

The first formal meeting of the White Clarion Aryans was held by lantern light at an empty cockfighting ring. It began with a
dispute over titles; Bode Gazzer said military discipline was impossible without strict designations of rank. He declared that henceforth he should be called “Colonel.”

Chub objected. “We’s equal partners,” he said, “’cept for him.” Meaning the kid, Shiner.

Bode offered Chub the rank of major, which he assured him was on a par with colonel. Chub pondered it between swigs of Jack Daniel’s, purchased (along with beer, gas, cigarets, T-bone steaks, onion rings and frozen cheesecake) with the cash stolen from the young Colombian stockbroker.

Major Chub
didn’t sound particularly distinguished, Chub thought.
Major Gillespie
wasn’t half bad, but Chub wasn’t psychologically prepared to revert to the family name.

“Fuck this whole dumb idea,” he mumbled.

Shiner raised a hand. “Can I be a sergeant?”

Bode nodded. “Son, you’re reading my mind.”

Chub raised the liquor bottle. “Can I be a Klingon? Please, Colonel Gazzer, sir. Purty please?”

Bode ignored him. He handed each of the men a booklet distributed by the First Patriot Covenant, an infamously disagreeable cell of supremacists headquartered in western Montana. The First Patriot Covenant lived in concrete pillboxes and believed blacks and Jews were the children of Satan; the Pope was either a first or a second cousin. Simply titled “Starting Up,” the group’s booklet contained helpful sections about organizing militia wings: fund-raising, tax evasion, rules of order, rules of recruitment, dress codes, press relations and arsenals. Shiner could hardly wait to read it.

“Page eight,” Bode said. “‘Be Discreet.’ Everybody understand what that means? It means you don’t go blastin’ away with rifles on the goddamn turnpike.”

From Chub came a scornful grunt. “Blow me.”

Shiner was startled. This was nothing like the army. He felt a sticky arm settle around his shoulders. Turning, he got a faceful of whiskey breath.

“Funny thing,” Chub said, fingering his ponytail, “how it’s fine and dandy for him to roust a couple beaners for eight lousy bucks, but I swipe four C-notes off poor ‘Bob’ Lopez and all of a sudden I’m a shitty soldier. You tell the colonel he can blow me, OK?”

An angry cry arose, and the next thing Shiner knew, they were locked together—Bodean Gazzer and Chub—thrashing in the dry dirt of the rooster pit. Shiner wasn’t convinced it was a serious fight, since no hard punches were being struck, but he was nevertheless disturbed by the unseemly clawing and hair pulling. The two men on the ground didn’t look like battle-ready officers, they looked like barroom drunks. Shiner found himself wondering, with a twinge of shame, whether the White Clarion Aryans had a snowball’s chance against crack NATO troops.

Pure fatigue ended the scuffle. Bode got a torn shirt and a bloody nose, Chub lost his eye patch. The colonel announced they were all going to his apartment and cook up the steaks. Shiner was surprised the drive was so peaceful; no one mentioned the fight. Bode talked expansively about the many militias in Montana and Idaho, and said he wouldn’t mind moving out there if it weren’t for the winters; cold weather aggravated the gout in his elbows. Meanwhile Chub had twisted the rearview mirror to inspect his split eyelid, observing that the whole orb socket had taken on a rank and swampy appearance beneath the airtight bicycle patch. Shiner recommended antibiotics, and Bode said he had a tube of something orange and powerful in the medicine cabinet at home.

Upon arriving at the apartment building, Bode Gazzer neatly
gunned the Dodge Ram into the first handicapped slot. A scolding stare from an insomniac neighbor made no impression. Bode asked his white brothers to mind the guns, while he toted the food inside.

Chub and Shiner were perched on the tailgate, finishing their beers, when they heard it—more a moan than a scream. Yet it was riven with such horror as to raise the fuzz on their necks. They scrambled toward Bode’s apartment, Chub drawing the .357 as he ran.

Inside, unaware that the colonel had dropped the groceries, Shiner slipped on an onion ring and went down headfirst. Chub, stepping in cheesecake, skated hard into the television set, which toppled sideways with a crash.

Bodean Gazzer never turned to look. He remained stock-still in the living room. His pale face shone with perspiration. With both hands he clutched his camouflage cap to his belly.

The place had been taken apart from the kitchen to the john; a maliciously thorough job.

Dumbstruck, Chub stuck the Colt in his belt. “Jesus Willy,” he gasped. Now he saw what Bode saw. So did Shiner, one cheek smeared with rat shit, peering up from the kitchen tiles.

The intruders had ripped down the posters of David Koresh and the other patriots. On the bare wall was a message scrawled in red, in letters three feet high. The first line said:

The second line said:

It took only fifteen minutes for the White Clarion Aryans to load the pickup—guns, gear, bedding, water, plenty of camo
clothes. Wordlessly the men piled into the front, Shiner in the middle as usual. Chub’s head lolled against the side window; he was too shaken to ask Bode Gazzer for a theory.

To Shiner it seemed the colonel knew exactly where he was going. He looked determined behind the wheel, taking the truck on a beeline to Highway One, then making a sharp left.

South, by Shiner’s reckoning. The Everglades, maybe. Or Key Largo.

Bode flicked on the dome light and said, “There’s a map under the seat.”

Shiner spread it across his lap.

“Flip it over,” Bode told him.

Instead he should’ve been paying attention to his mirrors. Then he might have noticed the headlights of the compact car that had been following them from the apartment.