Carl Hiaasen by Lucky You Page B

wheelchair permits?”
    “Blue.”
    “Hmmm-mmm. And what color is the helmets worn by United Nations troops?”
    “Fuck if I know. Blue?”
    “Yessir!” Bode Gazzer had shaken Chub by the arm. “Don’t you see, boy? There’s an invasion, who you think’s gonna be parked in them blue wheelchair spaces? Soldiers, that’s who. UN soldiers!”
    “Jesus Willy Christ.”
    “So in my estimation you’re doin’ the country a tremendous goddamn service with those imitation handicap stickers. Every one you sell means one less parkin’ spot for the enemy. That’s how I think of it.”
    And that’s how Chub intended to think of it, too. He wasn’t a crook, he was a patriot! Life was getting better and better.
    And now here he was, on the road with his best buddy.
    Soon to be multimillionaires.
    Spending a long leisurely afternoon at Hooters, eating barbecue chicken wings and slugging down Coronas.
    Flirting with the waitresses in them shiny orange shorts, sweet God Almighty, some of the finest young legs Chub had ever seen. And asses shaped just like Golden Delicious apples.
    And outside: a pickup truck full of guns.
    “A toast,” said Bode Gazzer, lifting his mug. “To America.”
    “Amen!” Chub burped.
    “This here is what it’s all about.”
    “For
sure.”
    Said Bode: “No such thing as too much pussy or too much firepower. That’s a fact.”
    They were shitfaced by the time the check came. With a foamy grin, Bode slapped the stolen credit card on the table. Chub vaguely recalled they were supposed to ditch the nigger woman’s Visa after the gun show, where they’d used it to purchase a TEC-9, a Cobray M-11, a used AR-15, a canister of pepper spray and several boxes of ammo.
    Chub preferred gun shows over gun stores because, thanks to the National Rifle Association, gun shows remained exempt from practically every state and federal firearms regulation. It had been Chub’s idea to browse at the one in Fort Lauderdale. However, he’d had strong reservations about paying for suchflashy weapons with a stolen credit card, which he thought was risky to the point of stupid.
    Again Bode Gazzer had put his friend’s mind at ease. He’d explained to Chub that many gun-show dealers were actually undercover ATF agents, and that the use of a phony bank card would send the bully lawmen on a frantic futile search for “J. L. Lucks” and his newly purchased arsenal.
    “So they’re off on a goose chase,” Bode had said, “instead of hassling law-abiding Americans all day long.”
    His second reason for using a stolen Visa was more pragmatic than political: They had no cash. But Bode had agreed with Chub that they ought to throw away the credit card after the gun show, in case the Chase Bank started checking up.
    Chub was about to remind his partner of that plan when an exceptionally long-legged waitress appeared and whisked the Visa card off the table.
    Bode rubbed his hands together, reverently.
“That
is what we’re fightin’ for, my friend. Anytime you start to doubt our cause, think a that young sweet thing and the ’Merica she deserves.”
    “A-fucking-men,” Chub said with a bleary snort.
    The waitress reminded him strikingly of his beloved Kim Basinger: fair skin, sinful lips, yellow hair. Chub was electrified. He wondered if the waitress had a boyfriend, and if she let him take topless photos. Chub considered inviting her to sit and have a beer, but then Bode Gazzer loomed into focus, reminding Chub what they both must look like: Bode, in his camo and cowboy boots, his face welted and bitch-bitten; Chub, gouged and puffy, his mangled left eyelid concealed behind a homemade patch.
    The girl’d have to be blind or crazy to show an interest. When she returned to the table, Chub boldly asked her name. She said it was Amber.
    “OK, Amber, if I might ast—you ever heard a the White Rebel Brotherhood?”
    “Sure,” the waitress said. “They opened for the Geto Boys last summer.”
    Bode, who was