"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."

The old man fumbled his pen. "Ma'am, is the boat fer fishin' or divin' or what azackly? How fur you gone take it?"

JoLayne said, "I was thinking Borneo."

"Now, don't you get huffy. It's jest the boss owner makes me do all this shit paperwork."

"I understand." Tacked to a wall of the shack was a marine chart of Florida Bay. JoLayne surreptitiously scanned it and said: "Cotton Key. That's as far as I'm going."

The dock guy looked disappointed as he wrote it down on the rental form. "They's a grouper hole out there. I guess the whole damn world knows."

JoLayne said, "Well, they won't hear it from me." The cat jumped from her arms. She opened her purse. "How about a tide table," she asked, "and one of those maps?"

The dock guy seemed pleasantly surprised by the request, as if most yahoo tourists never thought to ask. JoLayne could see his estimation of her rise meteorically. In his scarlet-rimmed eyes appeared a glimmer of hope that the motel's precious sixteen-foot skiff might actually be returned in one piece.

"Here go, young lady." He handed her the chart and the tide card.

"Hey, thanks. Could you warm up the boat for me? I'll be there in a jiff – I've got ice and food out in the car."

The dock guy said OK, which was a good thing because JoLayne didn't know how to start a cold outboard. The old man had it purring by the time she stepped aboard with the grocery bags. He even held the lid of the cooler while she stocked it. Then he said, " 'Member. Back by sunset."

"Gotcha." JoLayne examined the controls, trying to recall what Tom had told her about working the throttle. The old guy hobbled out of the boat and, with a creaky grunt, pushed it away from the pilings. JoLayne levered the stick forward.

The man stood on the dock, eyeing her like a bony old stork. "Sunset!" he called out.

JoLaync gave him the thumbs-up as she motored slowly away, aiming the bow down a marked channel. She heard the dock guy call to her once more. A funereal droop had come to his shoulders.

"Hey!" he cried.

JoLayne waved; the robotic sort of wave you got from the girl on the homecoming float.

"Hey, what about some b-bait!"

JoLayne waved some more.

"The hell you gone catch fish without no bait?" he shouted at her. "Or even a damn rod and reel?"

She smiled and tapped a forefinger to her temple. The old guy sucked in his liver-colored cheeks and stomped into the shack. JoLayne accelerated as much as she dared in the bumpy chop and then concentrated on not crashing. The chief hazards were other recreational vessels, a large percentage of which seemed to be piloted by lobotomized young men holding beer cans. They regarded JoLayne as if she were an exotic squid, causing her to conclude that not many African-American women were seen alone on the waters of the Florida Keys. One witty lad even sang out: "Are you lost? Nassau's thatawayl"JoLayne congratulated herself for not flipping him the finger.

To avoid being noticed by Bodean Gazzer, Tom had arranged to meet a safe distance from the gravel ramp where the pickup truck was parked. He'd pointed out a break in the mangroves, a bare gash of rocky shoreline on the ocean side of the highway. A deepwater cut strung with red-and-blue lobster buoys would help JoLayne locate the place.

She navigated with excessive precision, cleaving two of the bright Styrofoam balls on her way in. Krome was waiting by the water's edge, to catch the bow. After patiently untangling the trap ropes from the skeg, he climbed in the boat and said, "OK, Ahab, scoot over. They've got a ten-minute head start."

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"JoLayne, come on."

She said, "The shotgun." Expecting another argument.

But Tom said, "Oh yeah." He jumped out and dashed across the road. In a minute he'd returned with her Remington, concealed in a plastic garbage bag. "I really didforget," he said.

JoLayne believed him. She had one arm around his shoulders as they headed across the water.

According to Chub's orders, Shiner wasn't supposed to talk to Amber except to give directions. He found this to be impossible. The longest and closest he'd ever been with such a beautiful girl was a thirty-second elevator ride with an oblivious stenographer at the Osceola County Courthouse. Shiner burned to hear everything Amber had to say – what stories she must have! Also, he felt crummy about poking her with the screwdriver. He longed to reassure her that he wasn't some bloodthirsty criminal.

"I'm in junior college," she volunteered, sending his heart airborne.

"Really?"

"Prelaw, but leaning toward cosmetology. Any advice?"

Now, what was he supposed to do? For all his crude faults, Shiner was essentially a polite young fellow. This was because his mother had flogged the rudeness out of him at an early age.

And it was rude, his mother always said, not to speak when one was spoken to.

So Shiner said to Amber: "Cosmetology – is that where they teach you to be a astronaut?"

She laughed so hard she nearly upended her bowl of minestrone. Shiner perceived that he'd said something monumentally stupid, but he wasn't embarrassed. Amber had a glorious laugh. He'd have gladly continued to say dumb things all night long, just to listen to that laughter.

They'd stopped at a twenty-four-hour sub shop on the mainland, Shiner being in no hurry to get down to Jewfish Creek. It was possible his white brethren were already waiting there, but he wasn't concerned. He wanted nothing to spoil these magical moments with Amber. In her skimpy Hooters uniform she was drawing avid stares from the dining public. Shiner despaired at the thought of turning her over to Chub.

She said, "What about you, Shiner? What do you do?"

"I'm in a militia," he replied without hesitation.

"Oh wow."

"Saving America from certain doom. They's NATO troops gonna attack any day from the Bahamas. It's what they call a international conspiracy."

Amber asked who was behind it. Shiner said communists and Jews for sure, and possibly blacks and homos.

"Where'd you come up with this?" she said.

"You'll find out."

"So how big is this militia?"

"I ain't allowed to say. But I'm a sergeant!"

"That's cool. You guys have a name?"

Shiner said, "Yes, ma'am. The White Clarion Aryans."

Amber repeated it out loud. "There's, like, a little rhyme."

"I think it's on purpose. Hey, remember what you said about fixin' my tattoo? What I need is somebody knows how to make the W.R.B.into a W.C.A."

She said, "I'd like to help. Really I would, but first you've got to promise to let me go."

Not this again, Shiner thought. Nervously he rolled the screwdriver between his palms. "How 'bout if I pay ya instead?"

"Pay me what?" Amber said, skeptically.

Shiner saw her cast a glance at his dirty bare feet. Quickly he said: "The militia's got a shitload a money. Not right now, but any day."

Amber leisurely finished her soup before she got around to asking how much they had coming. Fourteen million, Shiner answered. Yes, dollars.

What a laugh thatbrought! This time he felt compelled to interject: "It's no lie. I know for a fact."