"B.B. King, Al Green, Billy Preston. The Hootie guy, what's his name – "

"You're pushing it," JoLayne said.

"Prince!"

"Oh, come on."

Krome said, "Damn right. 'Little Red Corvette.' "

"I guess it's possible."

"Christ, what if I said something like that to you?"

"You're right," said JoLayne. "I take it all back."

" 'A live one.' Gimme a break."

She eyed him over the rims of her peach-tinted shades. "You're pretty touchy about this stuff, aren't you? I suppose that's the white man's burden. At least the liberal white man."

"Who said I was liberal."

"You're cute when you're on the defensive. Want the rest of my coffee? I gotta pee."

"Not now," Tom Krome said. "Take off your hat and duck."

The red pickup was rolling toward them, in reverse. The driver backed up to a slip where a twenty-foot boat was tied. It had twin out-boards, a flecked blue-and-gray finish and a folding Bimini top. From the tackle shop you couldn't have seen it, moored between a towering Hatteras and a boxy houseboat.

Peering over the dashboard, Krome watched a tall, unshaven passenger get out of the truck: the ponytailed man. He carried a bottle of beer and some tools – a screwdriver, a wire cutter, a socket wrench. The man climbed somewhat unsteadily into the boat and disappeared behind the steering console.

"What's going on?" JoLayne, inching up in the seat.

Krome told her to stay down. He saw a puff of blue smoke, then heard the outboards start. The ponytailed man stood up and signaled laconically at the driver of the pickup truck. Then the ponytailed man untied the lines and with both hands pushed the boat away from the pilings.

"They're stealing it," Krome reported.

JoLayne said: "My neck hurts. May I sit up?"

"In a second."

Barely fifty yards from the dock, the ponytailed man shoved forward the throttle of the stolen boat. Momentarily the bow rose upward like a gaily striped missile, then leveled off under a collar of foam as the boat took out across the shallows of Florida Bay. At the same instant, and with a sudden-yelp of rubber, the red pickup truck shot toward the marina exit.

"Now?" asked JoLayne.

"All clear," Krome told her.

She rose, glancing first at the departing truck and then at the receding gray speck on the water. "All right, smart guy. Which one's got my ticket?"

"Beats me," Krome said.

17

It was Shiner's first kidnapping, and despite a shaky start it came off pretty well.

He had hitchhiked to the Grove, where he'd fallen asleep in Peacock Park. In midafternoon he'd awakened and wandered down Grand Avenue to buy a handgun. His street-corner inquiries had been so poorly received that he'd been chased from the neighborhood by a group of black and Hispanic teenagers. Naturally he'd lost his bush hat and the golf spikes, which were ill-suited for a footrace.

Armed only with a stubby Phillips-head screwdriver he'd found beneath a banyan tree, Shiner arrived at Hooters shortly before five o'clock. Remembering Chub's instructions, he struck up a conversation with the bartender, who was glad to point out Amber among the servers. Shiner scoped her out – hot-looking, like Chub had said, but as a rule most waitresses were hot-looking to Shiner. And while Chub had made a great point of detailing Amber's uncanny resemblance to Kim Basinger, the information was useless to Shiner. He didn't know who Kim Basinger was. While preparing for the crime, Shiner became apprehensive over the possibility of snatching the wrong girl. What if Hooters had more than one Amber? Chub would shoot him dead, that's what.

Hours later, Shiner was crouched behind a hedgerow when the waitress identified by the bartender left work. She slipped behind the wheel of a giant Ford sedan, which momentarily rattled Shiner (who'd been expecting a sports car – in his mind, all hot-looking babes belonged in sports cars). He recovered his composure, flung himself in the passenger side and placed the tip of the screwdriver against Amber's soft and flawless neck.

"Whoa," she said.

Not a scream, but a whoa.

"You Amber?"

She nodded carefully.

"The one looks like the actor – Kim something?"

Amber said, "You're the second guy this week who's told me that."

Shiner was flooded with relief. "All right. Now drive."

"That a knife?"

Shiner pulled the screwdriver away from Amber's neck. The grooved tip left a small, stellate impression in her skin; Shiner could see it in the green glow of the dashboard.

Hastily he slipped the tool into his pocket. "Yeah, it's a knife. I got a damn gun, too."

"I believe you," Amber said.

After a few wrong turns, he got her pointed south. She didn't ask where they were going, but Shiner was ready if she did. Base camp,would be his answer. Base camp of the White Clarion Aryans! That'd give her something to think about.

"This your car?" he asked.

"My dad gave it to me. Runs great," Amber said.

Not the least bit shy. That's cool, Shiner thought.

"My boyfriend has a Miata," she added. "Well, hada Miata. Anyhow, I like this better. More legroom – I've got super-long legs."

Shiner felt his cheeks flush. Up close, Amber was very beautiful. Whenever headlights passed in the other direction, he could see glimmers of gold in her long eyelashes. Plus she smelled absolutely fantastic for someone who worked with chicken wings and burgers, not to mention the onions. Shiner believed Amber smelled about a thousand times sweeter than the baskets of orange blossoms his mother would take to the Road-Stain Jesus. True, they were week-old orange blossoms (purchased in bulk from a turnpike gift shop) but still they held a fragrance.

Amber said, "What happened to your head?" She was talking about the crankcase scar.

"I got hurt."

"Car accident?"

"Sort of." Shiner was surprised she noticed it, since she'd barely taken her eyes off the road since he'd hopped in.

"How about buckling your seat belt," she said.

"No way." Shiner remembered what Bodean Gazzer had said about seat belts being part of the government's secret plot to "neutralize the citizenry." If you're wearing seat belts, Bode had explained, it'll be harder to jump out of the car and escape, once the NATO helicopters start landing on the highways. That's the whole reason they made the seat-belt law, Bode had said, to make sure millions of Americans would be strapped down and helpless when the global attack was launched. As intriguing as Bode's explanation was, Shiner decided the information was too sensitive to share with Amber.

"What's that on your arm?" she asked. She turned on the dome light for a better look at Shiner's tattoo.

"It's a eagle," he said, self-consciously.

"I meant the W.R.B.Is that for the White Rebel Brotherhood?"

Shiner said, "Man, it's a long story."

"I saw 'em in concert. They were killer."

"Yeah?"

"The best is 'Nut-Cutting Bitch.' Ever heard it? You like hip-hop?"

"Metal." Shiner gave his decorated biceps a subtle flex; it wasn't often he had a pretty girl's undivided attention.

She said, "Then what's the deal with your W.R.B.? They are so notheavy metal."

Shiner told Amber there'd been a mix-up on his tattoo. He was pleased to hear her say she could fix it.

"But only if you let me go," she added.

"No way."

"My best friend worked in a tattoo parlor for two summers. I hung out there, God, for hours. It's not as hard as it looks."

Shiner's lips drew tight. Ruefully he said: "I can't let you free. Not right away."

"Oh." Amber turned off the dome light. For a long time she didn't speak to him. When two tank-topped frat boys in a Beemer convertible nearly sideswiped them, she said: "Fuckheads." But it was practically a whisper, not intended as conversation. Soon Shiner grew nervous again. He'd been doing fine while Amber was chatty, but now his feet were tapping with the jitters. Plus he felt like a dolt. He felt like he'd blown something.