"Oh," said JoLayne Lucks.
"Nothing to worry about." As mayor, Jerry Wicks had experience dealing with the press. He said, "They love to write about ordinary people who make it big."
"Really." JoLayne pursed her lips.
"Human interest, they call it." The mayor wanted to reassure her there was nothing to fear from giving interviews. He hoped she would be cooperative and friendly, since the image of Grange was at stake.
JoLayne said, "Do I have to talk to him?"
"No." Jerry Wicks' heart sank.
"Because I'm fond of my privacy."
"The man doesn't have to come to the house. Fact, it'd be better if he didn't." The mayor was worried about JoLayne's turtle hobby, and what cruel fun a snotty city reporter might have with that. "Maybe you could meet him at the restaurant in the Holiday Inn."
"Yum," said JoLayne.
The phone on the kitchen wall rang. She stood up. "I've got some errands. Thanks for stopping over."
Jerry Wicks said, "I just thought you should know what's ahead. Winning the Lotto is very big news."
"Must be," JoLayne Lucks said.
The mayor told her goodbye and let himself out. As he walked from the porch to the driveway, he could hear JoLayne's telephone ringing and ringing and ringing.
Chub said they should drive directly to Tallahassee and claim their half of the $28 million jackpot as soon as humanly possible. Bodean Gazzer said nope, not just yet.
"We got one hundred and eighty days to pick it up. That's six whole months." He loaded a cold twelve-pack into the truck. "Right now we gotta find that other ticket before whoever's got it cashes in."
"Maybe they already done it. Maybe it's too late."
"Don't think so negative."
"Lifeis fucking negative," Chub noted.
Bode spread a striped beach towel on the passenger half of the front seat, to shield the new upholstery from the gun grease and sweat that was Chub's natural marinade. Chub took mild offense at the precaution but said nothing.
A few minutes later, speeding along the turnpike, Bode Gazzer summarized his plan: "Break in, rip off the ticket, then split."
"Happens we can't find it?" Chub asked. "What supposed they hid it too good ?"
"There you go again."
"I ain't interested in felony time."
"Relax, goddammit."
"I mean, my God, we's millionaires," Chub went on. "Millionaires, they don't do b-and-e's!"
"No, but they steal just the same. We use crowbars, they use Jews and briefcases."
As usual, Bode had a point. Chub hunkered down with a Budweiser to think on it.
Bode said, "Hey, I don't wanna go to jail, either. Say we go up on charges, who'd take over the White Rebels?"
The White Rebel Brotherhood is what Bodean Gazzer had decided to call his new militia. Chub didn't fuss about the name; it wasn't as if they'd be printing up business cards.
Bode said, "Hey, d'you finish that book I gave you? On how to be a survivalist?"
"No, I did not." Chub had gotten as far as the business on eating bugs, and that was it. "How to Tell Toxic Insects from Edible Insects." Jesus Willy Christ.
"I didn't see no chapter on prime rib," he grumbled.
To ease the tension, Bode asked Chub if he'd like to make a bet on who was holding the other winning Lotto numbers. "I got ten bucks says it's a Negro. You want to take Jews, or Cubans?"
Chub had never met a white supremacist who said "Negro" instead of "nigger."
"Is they a difference?" he inquired sarcastically.
"No, sir," said Bode.
"Then why don't you call 'em what they is?"
Bode clenched the steering wheel. "I could call 'em coconuts and what's the damn difference. One word's no better than another."
Chub chuckled. "Coconuts."
"How about you make yourself useful. Find a radio station plays some white music, if that's possible."
"S'matter? You ain't fond a these Negrorappers?"
"Eat me," Bode Gazzer said.
He was ashamed to admit the truth, that he couldn't speak the word "nigger." He'd done so only once in his life, at age twelve, and his father had promptly hauled him outside and whipped his hairless bare ass with a razor strop. Then his mother had dragged him into the kitchen and washed his mouth out with Comet cleanser and vinegar. It was the worst (and only) corporal punishment of Bode Gazzer's childhood, and he'd never forgiven his parents. He'd also never forgotten the ghastly caustic taste of Comet, the scorch of which still revisited his tender throat at the mere whisper of "nigger." Uttering it aloud was out of the question.
Which was a major handicap for a self-proclaimed racist and militiaman. Bode Gazzer worked around it.
Changing the subject, he said to Chub: "You need some camos, buddy."
"I don't think so."
"What size pants you wear?"
Chub slumped in the seat and pretended he was trying to sleep. He didn't want to ride all the way to Grange. He didn't want to break into a stranger's house and steal a Lotto ticket.
And he sure as hell didn't want to wear camouflage clothes. Bode Gazzer's entire wardrobe was camo, which he'd ordered from the Cabela's fall catalog on a stolen MasterCard number. Bode believed camo garb would be essential for survival when the NATO troops invaded from the Bahamas and the White Rebel Brotherhood took to the woods. Until Bode opened his closet, Chub had had no idea that camo came in so many shrub-and-twig styles. There was your basic Trebark (Bode's parka); your Realtree (Bode's rainsuit); your Mossy Oak, Timber Ghost and Treestand (Bode's collection of jumpsuits, shirts and trousers), your Konifer (Bode's snake-proof chaps) and your Tru-Leaf (Bode's all-weather mountain boots).
Chub didn't dispute Bode's pronouncement that such a selection of camos, properly matched, would make a man invisible among the oaks and pines. Having grown up in the mountains of north Georgia, Chub didn't want to be invisible in the woods. He wanted to be seen and heard. He especially wanted not to be mistaken for a tree by a rambunctious bear or a randy bobcat.
He said to Bode Gazzer: "You dress up your way, I'll dress up mine."
Bode peevishly scooped a fresh beer off the floorboard and popped the tab. "Remember what the Constitution says? 'Well-regulatedmilitia.' Regulated means discipline, OK? And discipline starts with uniforms."
Bode took a slug and wedged the beer can in the crotch of his Mossy Oak trousers, to free both hands for steering. Chub leaned against the door, his ponytail leaving an oily smear on the window. He said, "I ain't wearin' no camo."
"Why not, goddammit!"
" 'Cause it makes you look like a fuckin' compost heap."
Bode Gazzer jerked the truck onto the shoulder of the highway. Angrily he stomped the brake.
"You listen " he began.
"No, you listen!" Chub said, and was upon him in a second.
Bode felt the barrel of the Colt poking the soft part of his throat, right about where his tongue was attached on the inside. He felt Chub's hot beery breath on his forehead.
"Let's not fight," Bode pleaded, hoarsely.
"Won't be a fight. Be a killin'."
"Hey, brother, we're partners."
Chub said, "Then where's ourticket, dickface?"
"The lottery ticket?"
"No, the fucking laundry ticket." ('hub cocked the pistol. "Where's it at?"
"Don't do this."
"I'm countin' to five."
"In my wallet. Inside a rubber."
Chub grinned crookedly. "Lemme see."
"A Trojan. One a them ribbed jobbers, nonlubricated." Bode removed it from his wallet and showed Chub what he'd done the night before opening the plastic foil with a razor and folding the Lotto ticket inside the rolled-up condom.
Chub returned the gun to his pants and slid back to the passenger side. "That's pretty slick, I gotta admit. Nobody steals another man's rubbers. Steals every other damn thing, but not that."
"Exactly," Bode said. As soon as his heart stopped skipping, he put the truck in gear and eased back on the turnpike.