At first Bode and Chub didn't recognize him.

Hey," Shiner said, "it's me – your new white brother. Where's the militia?"

Chub lowered the pistol. "The fuck you do to yourself, boy?"

"Shaved my hair off."

"May I ast why?"

"So I can be a skinhead," Shiner replied.

Bodean Gazzer whistled. "No offense, son, but it ain't your best look."

The problem was with Shiner's scalp: an angry latitudinal scar, shining like a hideous stamp on the pale dome of his head.

Chub asked Shiner if he'd gotten branded by some wild Miami niggers or Cubans.

"Nope. I fell asleep on a crankcase."

Bode crossed his arms. "And this crankcase," he said, "was it still in the car?"

"Yessir, with the engine runnin'." Shiner did his best to explain: The mishap had occurred almost two years earlier on a Saturday afternoon. He'd had a few beers, a couple joints, maybe half a roofie, when he decided to tune the Impala. He'd started the car, opened the hood and promptly passed out headfirst on the engine block.

"Fucker heated up big-time," Shiner said.

Chub couldn't stand it. He went in the trailer to take a shit, turn off the television and hunt down a cold Budweiser. When he came out he saw Bode Gazzer sitting next to Shiner on the front fender of the Chevy.

Bode waved him over. "Hey, our boy done exactly what we told him."

"How's that?"

"The Negro girl come to his house askin' about the Lotto ticket."

"She sure did," Shiner said, "and I said it wasn't her that won it. I said she must of got confused with another Saturday."

Chub said, "Good man. What'd she do next?"

"Got all pissed and run off out the door. She's beat up pretty bad, too. That was you guys, I figgered."

Bode prodded Shiner to finish the story. "Tell about how you quit your job at the store."

"Oh yeah, Mr. Singh, he said I couldn't park with the handicaps even though I got the blue wheelchair dealie on the mirror. So what I done, I grabbed my back pay from the cash register and hauled ass."

Bode added: "Took the security video, too. Just like we told him."

"Yeah, I hid it in the glove box." Shiner jerked his head toward the Impala.

"Slick move," said Chub, winking his good eye. In truth, he wasn't especially impressed with Shiner, and Gazzer, too, had doubts. The boy manifested the sort of submissive dimness that foretold a long sad future in minimum-security institutions.

"Look here," Shiner said, flexing his doughy left arm. "Radical new tattoo: W.R.B.To make it official."

Over the rim of his beer can, Chub shot Bode a look that said: Youtell him.

"So how's it look?" Shiner asked brightly. "Seventy-five bucks, 'case you guys want one, too."

Bode slid off the fender and brushed the rust marks off the butt of his camo trousers. "Thing is, we had to change the name."

Shiner quit flexing. "It ain't the White Rebel Brotherhood no more? How come?"

"You was right about the rock band," Bode said.

"Yeah," Chub interjected, "we didn't want no confusion."

"So what's the new name?"

Bode told him. Shiner asked him to repeat it.

"White Clarion Aryans," Bode said, slowly.

Shiner's mouth drew tight. Morosely he stared at the initials burned into his biceps. "So the new ones are ... W-C-A?"

"Right."

"Shit," said Shiner, under his breath. Looking up, he managed a smile. "Oh well."

There was an uncomfortable silence, during which Shiner rearranged his arms to cover the tattoo. Even Chub felt sorry for him. "But you know what," he said to Shiner, "that's one hell of a eagle you got there."

"Damn right," Bode Gazzer agreed. "That's one mean motherfucker of an eagle. What's he got in them claws, an Mi6?"

The boy perked up. "Affirmative. Mi6 is what I told the tattoo man."

"Well, he did you proud. How about a beer?"

Later they all went to the Sports Authority and (using the stolen Visa) purchased tents, sleeping bags, air mattresses, mosquito netting, lantern fuel and other outdoor gear. Bode said they should keep everything packed tight and ready, in case the NATO storm troopers came ashore without warning. Bode was pleased to find out that Shiner, unlike Chub, had a genuine fondness for camouflage sportswear. As a treat Bode bought him a lightweight Trebark parka – Shiner could hardly wait to get back to the trailer and try it all on.

While he ran inside to change clothes, Bode said to Chub: "He's like a kid on Christmas morning."

More like a damn retard, thought Chub. He said, "You got a spare hat? Because I don't wanna look at that skinhead's skinned head no more."

In his truck Bode found a soggy Australian-style bush hat; the mildew blended neatly into the camo pattern. Shiner wore it proudly, cinching the strap at his throat.

They spent the afternoon at the rock pit, where it quickly became evident the young recruit could not be entrusted with the serious guns. Chub had illegally converted the AR-15 to fully automatic, which proved too much, physically and emotionally, for the newest member of the White Clarion Aryans. Taking the rifle from Chub's hands, Shiner gave a Comanche-style whoop and began to shout: "Which way's the Bahamas! Which way's them cocksuckin' NATO commies!" Then he spun around and started firing wildly – bullets skipped across the water, twanged off limestone boulders, mowed down the cattails and saw grass.

Bode and Chub ducked behind the truck, Bode muttering: "This ain't no good. Christ, this ain't no good at all."

Chub cursed harshly. "I need a goddamn drink."

It took a few minutes for Shiner to relinquish the AR-15, after which he was restricted to harmless plinking with his old Marlin .22. At dusk the three of them, smelling of gunfire and stale beer, returned to Chub's trailer. When Bode Gazzer asked if anybody was hungry, Shiner said he could eat a whole cow.

Chub couldn't tolerate another hour in the hyperactive nitwit's presence. "You gotta stay here," he instructed Shiner, "and stand guard."

"Guard of what?" the kid asked.

"The guns. Plus all the shit we bought today," Chub said. "New man always does guard duty. Ain't that right, Bode?"

"You bet." Bode, too, had grown weary of Shiner's company. He said, "The tents and so forth, that's important survivalist supplies. Can't just leave it here with nobody on watch."

"God, I'm starvin'," Shiner said.

Chub slapped him on the shoulder. "We'll bring you some chicken wings. You like the extry hot?"

According to the bank, JoLayne's credit card had been used two nights consecutively at the same Hooters – a reckless move that Krome found encouraging. The Lotto robbers clearly were not master criminals.

JoLayne figured nobody would be ballsy enough to go there three times in a row, but Krome said it was the best lead they had. Now he and JoLayne were outside the restaurant, watching a red pickup truck park in a disabled-only zone.

"Is that them?" Krome asked.

"The guys who came to my house were not crippled. Neither of them," JoLayne said gravely.

Two men – one tall, one short – got out of the truck. They entered the restaurant without the aid of a wheelchair, a crutch, or even a cane.

"Must be a miracle," said Krome.

JoLayne wasn't certain they were the same men who'd attacked her. "We're too far away."

"Then let's get closer."

He went in alone and chose a corner table. A minute later JoLayne came through the door – the floppy hat, Lolita sunglasses. She joined him, sitting with her back to the bar.

"You get the license tag?" she said.

"Yes, ma'am. And how about that bumper sticker? 'Fuhrman for President.' "

"Where are they?" she asked tensely. "Did they look at me?"

"If it's the table I think it is, they didn't notice either of us."