"But still." Chub didn't want to believe Amber had hooked up with Shiner. Why would she be with him, he wondered, when she could have me?

Bode Gazzer told him to put on some clothes. "Before your pecker gets fried."

"But I'm burnin' up. Feel how hot." He flopped his tumescent crab arm on the deck of the boat.

"No, thanks," Bode said, stepping away. A notion had come to him. "Today's Monday, right?"

"Don't ask me."

Bode drummed his fingers on the gunwale. "That gives us a whole day until Shiner's momma hits the launchpad. Say we leave right now – run this puppy back to the highway, hop in the truck and haul ass. We could make Tall'hassee by lunchtime tomorrow."

Chub peeped ferretlike from inside Amber's orange shorts. "What about the video?"

"We stop at the trailer on the way north. Find the damn tape and burn it. Burn the whole car if we got to, just like we done to that asshole's Miata."

"Fan-fucking-tastic." Chub's laugh came out as a dry rattle. He couldn't wait to get off that miserable island. "Leave the sneaky bastard out here to rot. I love it, man."

"Her, too."

"Aw, no!"

Bode Gazzer said, "We better."

"But I haven't got to fuck her yet. Not even a b.j."

"Come on. Let's load the boat."

Chub said, "We got time, man, if we hurry. Time for both of us to get a piece."

Bode should've short-circuited the idea, but instead he allowed it to float around his imagination. He was beset by a vision of Amber nude, on her knees.

"We tie up the skinhead," Chub proposed, "we each take a turn with the girl and then we split."

"Will she go for it?" Bode didn't feel right about raping a white woman. More important, it was a big-time felony.

Chub said, "S'pose it was her only way off the island. Then she'd go for it, you bet she would."

"Good point," Bode said.

It was a historic moment, Chub with an actual brainstorm. He climbed into the Reel Luvto search for his bag of glue.

Bode heard footsteps and wheeled around. He should've been ready with the Beretta, but he wasn't.

Amber stood there in the camo jumpsuit, the top half open, her hair slick and shining from her swim. "I can't find Shiner," she said.

"Ain't that a shame." Chub, leering through the crotch of her waitress shorts.

Bode Gazzer matter-of-factly told Amber the plan, told her the price of the boat ride back to the Keys. She didn't sob, didn't run, didn't get mad. Her expression was totally neutral, giving both men a misplaced sense of expectation. Chub had a bounce in his step as he got out of the boat.

Amber said, "Take those ridiculous pants off your face."

Bode was momentarily distracted by the crab attached to Chub's hand; he thought he detected movement.

Amber repeated her demand. "Take 'em off. You look like a pervert."

"Listen to you," Chub said, and made a step toward her. That's when he saw the Colt Python .357. HisColt. His Lotto ticket, his life's fortune, his entire mortal future – all in the hands of a pissed-off Hooters babe.

"Jesus Willy," he said.

Bodean Gazzer was amazed at how fast it was unraveling, all because of rotten luck, blind lust and stupidity.

"Have some more glue," he told his partner. "See what else you can fuck up."

Amber fired the pistol at Chub's feet. The bullet kicked sand on his shins and ankles. He yanked the orange pants off his head and tossed them.

"Thank you," Amber said. "Now, what did you guys do with Shiner?"

"Nothin'," they answered, Bode first and then Chub.

None of them could know that Shiner was exactly one hundred and twenty-seven paces away, wetting himself in stark terror.

24

As he pointed the shotgun, Tom Krome wrote the lead of the story in his head:

An unidentified convenience store clerk was shot to death Monday in a bizarre attack on a remote island off the Florida Keys.

Police said the victim apparently was stalled and ambushed while relieving himself in a mangrove thicket. Arrested for first-degree murder was Thomas Paine Krome, 35, a newspaper reporter who had been missing and believed dead.

Coworkers described Krome as a moody and volatile "loner." One of his former editors said he wasn't "the least bit surprised" by the homicide charge.

Krome made Shiner put up his hands. JoLayne Lucks instructed him not to move a muscle.

"But I peed on myself," the kid said.

"I expect it'll be the high point of your day."

Shiner blinked wildly.

Krome said, "OK, Goober, where's the Lotto ticket?"

"I d-don't got it." Shiner's eyes jumped from the Remington to the dark crescent radiating across his trousers. "Can I least tuck myself in?"

"No, you cannot," JoLayne said sternly. "I want your little white wacker right where it is, hangin' in the fresh air so we can shoot it off if necessary."

The clerk looked as if he would weep.

"But, JoLayne, I don't got your ticket. I don't know what they done with it, I swear up to God."

JoLayne turned to Tom Krome. "Give me my gun."

"Stay cool."

"Tom, don't be difficult."

With a mix of dread and relief, Krome passed her the shotgun. Immediately Shiner began mewling. He saw that he'd shrunk entirely into his pants. JoLayne Lucks poked the barrel inside his zipper.

"Anybody home?" Her voice was so cheery that it gave Shiner an arctic chill.

"Please don't," he squeaked.

"Then tell me where the ticket is."

Krome tapped the face of his watch. "Hurry up, son." He didn't think JoLayne would shoot the kid point-blank; the two shitkickers, maybe, but not Shiner.

Unless he tried something stupid.

An unidentified convenience store clerk was shot to death Monday in a bizarre attack on a remote island off the Florida Keys.

Police said the victim apparently was ambushed by a disgruntled customer who believed she had been cheated out of a $14 million lottery ticket. Arrested for first-degree murder was JoLayne Lucks, 35, who works at a veterinary clinic in Grange.

Neighbors described her as a quiet, gentle person, and expressed shock and disbelief at the homicide charge.

Krome said to Shiner: "If you're the least bit fond of those testicles, I'd tell the lady what she wants to know."

"But I ain't even seen the damn thing, and that's the God's truth!" Shiner, hissing through his teeth.

JoLayne looked at Tom. "You believe him?"

"I hate to say so, but yeah."

"Well, I'm still not sure."

She took a step back. True to form, Shiner chose the moment to lunge for the Remington. He was surprised that JoLayne released it without a struggle. He was further surprised to find himself unable to hold on to it, as both his thumbs were abruptly dislocated and rendered useless.

While Shiner flopped on the ground like a mullet, JoLayne thanked Tom for teaching her the trick. He calmly grabbed Shiner around the neck and urged him in the strongest terms to suffer in silence, so as not to alert his travel companions.

"Now, where's the videotape?"

"It's hid in my car," Shiner whispered hoarsely, "back at Chub's trailer."

"Chub is the man with the ponytail?"

"And a tire patch on his eye, yessir. Plus a big ole crab on his hand."

Krome let go of Shiner's neck and yanked him upright. "What's his real name?"

"Chub? I never heard him tell." The kid was moist-eyed and panting. When he snuck a peek at his crooked thumbs, he almost passed out.

"What would your momma say about all this? Lord, I can just imagine." JoLayne's tone was scorching. She picked up the shotgun and sat on the sand beside Shiner. He recoiled as if she were a tarantula.