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certain what clarion meant. He believed it was mentioned in a Christmas song, perhaps in connection with angels. Can we call us the WC ... , and then he faltered, trying to recall if Aryan was spelled with an E or an A. Bode Gazzer said, WCA. Dont see why not. Because otherwise its kind of a mouthful. No more n the first one. But hey, thats cool, Chub said. White Clarion Aryans. He sure hoped no smart-ass rock bands or rappers or other patriot tribes had already thought of the name. From the lawn chair Bode rose in his rumpled camos and lifted the now-empty vodka bottle to the sky. Heres to the motherfuckin WCA. Ready, locked and loaded. Damn right, said Chub. The WCA. At that moment the young man called Shiner, glazed by Valium, was admiring the letters W.R.B. that were freshly tattooed in Iron Cross style script across his left biceps. Etched below the initials was a screaming eagle with a blazing rifle locked in its talons. The tattoo artist worked out of a Harley joint in Vero Beach, Shiners first stop on his way south to Florida City, where he planned to hook up with his new white brothers. He had quit the Grab NGo, leaving on a high note Mr. Singh, the owner, demanding to know why Shiners Impala was moored in the stores only handicap space. And Shiner, standing tall behind the counter: I got me a permit. Yes, but I do not understand. Right there on the rearview. See Yes, yes, but you are not crippled. The police will come. Shiner, coughing theatrically: I got a bad lung. You are not crippled. Disabled is what I am. Theys a difference. From the army is where I hurt my lung. And Mr. Singh, waving his slender brown arms, hurrying outside to more closely inspect the wheelchair insignia, piping: Where you get that How Tell me right now please. Shiner beaming, the little mans reaction being a testament to Chubs skill as a forger. Saying to Mr. Singh: Its the real deal, boss. Yes, yes, but how You are not crippled or disabled or nothing, and dont lie to me nonsense. Now move the car. And Shiner replying: Thats how you treat a handicap Then I quit, raghead. Grabbing three hundred-dollar bills from the register, then elbowing his way past Mr. Singh, who was protesting: You, boy, put the money back! Put the money back! Yammering about the videotape Shiner had swiped, on Bodean Gazzers instruction, from the stores slow-speed security camera in case (Bode explained) the cassette hadnt yet rewound and taped over the surveillance video from November 25, the date JoLayne Lucks bought her lottery numbers. Bode Gazzer had emphasized to Shiner the importance of the tape, should the authorities question how theyd come to possess the Grange ticket. The camera could prove they didnt enter the store until the day after the Lotto drawing. So, shortly after Chub and Bode had departed, Shiner obediently removed the incriminating video from Mr. Singhs recorder and replaced it with a blank. Shiner wondered, as he gunned the Impala past the Grange city limits, how Mr. Singh learned about the switch. Normally the little hump didnt check the VCR unless thered been a robbery. Shiner would have been more properly alarmed had he known that Mr. Singh had been visited by the same nosy man whod accompanied JoLayne Lucks to Shiners house. The man named Tom. Hed persuaded Mr. Singh to check the Grab NGos security camera, at which time theyd found that the surveillance tape from the weekend had been swapped for a new one. Shiners misgivings about the video theft were fleeting, for soon he was absorbed in the tattooing process. It was performed by a bearded shirtless biker whose nipples were pierced with silver skull pins. When the last indigo turn of the B was completed, the biker put down the needle and jerked the cord out of the wall socket. Shiner couldnt stop grinning, even when the biker roughly swabbed his arm with alcohol, which stung like a mother. What a awesome eagle! Shiner marveled. He couldnt wait to show Bode and Ch
