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the floorboard and popped the tab. “Remember what the Constitution says? ‘Well-regulated militia.’ 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 our ticket, 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.
    Chub watched him in a neutral but not entirely innocuous way. He said: “You understand what coulda happened? That we wouldn’t be partners no more if I blowed your brains all over this truck and took the Lotto stub for m’self.”
    Bode nodded tightly. Until now it hadn’t occurred that Chub might rip him off. Obviously it was something to think about. He said, “It’s gonna work out fine. You’ll see.”
    “OK,” said Chub. He opened a beer: warm and fizzy. He closed his eyes and sucked down half the can. He wanted to trust Bode Gazzer but it wasn’t always easy. Negro, for God’s sake. Why’d he keep on with that word? It troubled Chub, made him wonder if Bode wasn’t all he claimed to be.
    Then he had another thought. “They a whorehouse in Grange?”
    “Who knows,” Bode said, “and who cares.”
    “Just don’t forget where you hid our ticket.”
    “Gimme a break, Chub.”
    ‘Be helluva way to lose out on fourteen million bucks, winds up in the sheets of some whorehouse.”
    Bode Gazzer stared straight ahead at the highway. He said, “Man, you got a wild imagination.”
    The brains of a goddamn squirrel, but a wild imagination.
     
    Tom Krome didn’t wait to unpack; tossed his carry bag on the bed and dashed out. The owner of the bed-and-breakfast was pleased to give directions to the home of Miss JoLayne Lucks, at the corner of Cocoa and Hubbard across from the park. Krome’s plan was to drop in with sincere apologies, invite Miss Lucks to a proper dinner, then ease into the interview gradually.
    His experience as a visiting journalist in small towns was that some folks would tell you their life story at the drop of a hat, and others wouldn’t say boo if your hair was on fire. Waiting on the woman’s porch, Krome didn’t know what to expect. He had knocked: No reply. He knocked again. Lights shone in the living room, and Krome heard music from a radio.
    He walked around to the backyard and rose on his toes, to peer in the kitchen window. There were signs of a finished meal on the table: a setting for one. Coffee cup, salad bowl, a bare plate with a