by Carl Hiaasen
“Jesus!” Edie exclaimed.
The insurance man burrowed in her cleavage. “What’re we going to do?” he asked, desolately.
Avila thought: I’m either dead or dreaming.
Because it should hurt worse than this, being nailed to a cross. Even if it’s only one hand, it should hurt like a mother. I ought to be screaming at the top of my lungs, instead of just hanging here with a dull ache. Hanging like a wet flag and staring at…
It must be a dream.
Because they don’t have lions in Florida. And that’s what that monster is, a full-grown African lion. King of the motherfucking jungle. So real you can see the red-brown stains on its mouth. So real you can smell its piss. So real you can hear the dead man’s spine dear God Almighty being crunched in its fangs.
The lion was eating the doughnut man.
Avila was frozen in the pose of a scarecrow. He was afraid to blink. Between bites, the big cat would glance up, yawn, lick its paws, shake the gnats off its mane. Avila noticed a blue tag fastened to one of its ears, but that wasn’t important.
The important thing was: He definitely wasn’t dreaming. The lion was real. Clearly it was sent to save his life.
And not by the Catholic God—Catholics had no expertise in the summoning of demonic jungle beasts. No, it was a funkier, more mystical deity who had answered Avila’s plea from the cross.
Gracias, Chango! Muchas gracias.
When I get home, Avila promised his santería guardian, I shall make an offering worthy of royalty. Chickens, rabbits. Perhaps I’ll even spring for a goat.
In the meantime, Avila implored, please make the lion go away so I can get this fucking nail out of my hand!
The big cat dined leisurely, no more than fifteen yards from the pine tree. Ira Jackson’s hammer lay where he’d dropped it, at Avila’s feet. From marks on the ground, it appeared that the doughnut man had been jumped from behind, swiftly done in, and dragged to the dry weedy patch where the lion now sat, possessively attending the disemboweled, disarticulated corpse. Ira Jackson’s gold chain dangled like spaghetti from the cat’s whiskered maw. It disappeared with a flick of the tongue.
Avila’s knowledge of lion eating habits was sketchy, but he couldn’t believe the animal could still be hungry after devouring the substantial Mr. Jackson. Despite the worsening pain in his hand, Avila remained rock steady against the cross until the lion quit munching and nodded off.
Slowly Avila turned his head to examine the nasty puncture. His palm was striped with congealed blood. The nail had penetrated the tough fleshy web between the second and third fingers, which wiggled feebly at Avila’s silent bidding. A moral victory, of sorts—Ira Jackson had failed to break any major bones.
Keeping a close watch on the snoozing lion, and moving with glacial deliberation, Avila tugged his good hand free of the duct tape. Slowly he reached across and began to work the nail loose from the punctured palm. The undertaking caused less agony than he’d anticipated; perhaps Chango had anesthetized him as well.
Luckily, the wood of the makeshift crucifix was soft. In less than a minute the nail pulled out, and Avila’s hand fell free, with only a modest geyser of blood. He inserted the hand forcefully between his shaking knees, and bit his lower lip to stifle a cry. The lion did not stir. The exhaust of its snore fluttered the bright remains of Ira Jackson’s sports shirt, which clung like a lobster bib to the big cat’s throat.
While the beast slept, Avila unwrapped the sticky tape from his ankles. As he furtively inched clear of the pine tree, his eyes fell on a partially masticated chunk of bone—a wee remnant of the doughnut man, but a potent talisman for future santería rites.
Avila pocketed the moist prize and stole away.
• • •
Skink chose to spend the night in the back of the pickup truck. Shortly after ten, Augustine emerged from the house with a hot Cuban sandwich and two bottles of beer. Skink winked appreciatively and sat up. He finished the sandwich in four huge bites, guzzled the beer and said: “So she stayed.”
“I don’t know why.”
“Because she’s never seen the likes of you.”
“Or you,” said Augustine.
“And because her husband behaved poorly.”
Augustine slouched against the fender. “She’s here, and I’m glad about it. Which makes me quite the model of rectitude—a woman on her honeymoon, for Christ’s sake.”
Skink arched a tangled eyebrow. “A new low?”
“Oh yes.”
“Her decision, son. Don’t beat yourself up.”
Anxiety, not guilt, gnawed at Augustine. On his present course, he would very soon fall in love with Mrs. Max Lamb. How much fragrant late-night snuggling could a man endure? And Bonnie was an ardent snuggler, even in platonic mode. Augustine was racked with worry. He had no chance whatsoever, not with her hair smelling like bougainvilleas, not with that velvet slope of neck, not with those denim-blue eyes. He couldn’t recall being with a woman who felt so right, nestled in his embrace. Even her slumbering snorts and sniffles soothed him—that’s how hard he was falling.
It’s just a kiss away. Like Mick and Keith said.
A newly married woman. Brilliant.
Unconsciously Augustine found himself gazing at the window of the guest room. Soon Bonnie’s shadow crossed behind the drapes. Then the lights went off.
Skink poked him sharply. “Settle down. Nothing’ll happen unless she wants it to.” He stood in the bed of the pickup for a series of twisting calisthenics, accompanied by preternaturally asthmatic grunts. That went on for twenty full minutes under the stars. Augustine watched without interrupting. Afterwards Skink sat down heavily, rocking the truck.
Pointing at the remaining beer, he said: “You gonna drink that?”
“Help yourself.”
“You’re a patient young man.”
“I’ve got nothing but time,” Augustine said. Why rush the guy?
Skink threw back his head and tilted the beer bottle until it was empty. Pensively he said: “You never know how these things’ll play out.”
“Doesn’t matter, captain. I’m in.”
“OK. Here.” He handed Augustine the scrap of paper that Jim Tile had given him at the hospital. On the paper, the trooper had written:
black Jp. Cherokee
BZQ-42F
Augustine was impressed that Brenda Rourke remembered the license tag, or anything else, after the hideous beating.
Skink said, “The plate’s stolen. No surprise there.”
“The driver?”
“White non-Latin male, late thirties. Deformed jaw, according to Trooper Rourke. Plus he wore a pinstriped suit.”
Skink returned to a sprawled position. He folded his arms under his head.
Augustine peered over the side of the truck. “Where do we start?” The man could be all the way to Atlanta by now.
“I’ve got some ideas,” said the governor.
Augustine was doubtful. “The cops’ll find him first.”
“They’re all on hurricane duty, double shifts. Even the detectives are directing traffic.” Skink chuckled quietly. “It’s not a bad time to be a fugitive.”
Augustine felt something brush his leg—a neighbor’s orange tabby. When he reached to pet it, the cat scooted beneath the pickup.
The governor said, “I’m doing this for Jim. It’s not often he asks.”
“But there’s other reasons.”
Skink nodded. “True. I’m not fond of shitheads who beat up women. And the storm has left me, well, unfulfilled.…”
It hadn’t been the cataclysmic purgative he had hoped for and prophesied. Ideally a hurricane should drive people out, not bring people in. The high number of new arrivals to South Florida was merely depressing; the moral caliber of the fortune-seekers was appalling—low-life hustlers, slick-talking scammers and cold-blooded opportunists, not to mention pure gangsters and thugs. Precisely the kind of creeps who would cave in a lady’s face.
“Do not,” Skink said, “expect me to control my temper.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Augustine.
• • •
The light in the guest bedroom went on. Augustine found Bonnie Lamb sitting up in bed. For a nightgown she wore a long white T-shirt that she’d found in a drawer: Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Augustine had purchased it at a concert at the Miami Arena. The woman whom he’d taken to the show, the psychotic doctor who later tried to filet him in the shower, had bought a black shirt to match her biker boots. At the time, Augustine had found the ensemble fetching, in a faux-trashy way.
“Max call yet?” Bonnie asked.
Augustine checked the answering machine. No messages. He returned to the bedroom and told her.
She said, “I’ve been married one week and a day. What’s the matter with me?” She drew her knees to her chest. “I should be home.”
Exactly! thought Augustine. Absolutely right!
“You think my husband’s a jerk?”
“Not at all,” Augustine lied, decorously.
“Then why hasn’t he called.” It was not a question. Bonnie Lamb said, “Come here.”
She made room under the covers, but Augustine positioned himself chastely on the edge of the bed.
“You must think I’m crazy,” said Bonnie.
“No.”
“My heart is upside down. That’s the only way to describe it.”
Augustine said, “Stay as long as you want.”
“I want to go along with you and … him. The kidnapper.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Probably goes back to Max, or my dad and his model airplanes, or my wretched childhood, even though my memories are quite wonderful. It’s got to be something. Happy normal little girls don’t grow up to dump their husbands, do they?” Bonnie Lamb switched off the lamp. “You want to lie down?”
“Better not,” said Augustine.
In the dark, her hand found his cheek. She said, “Here’s my idea: I think we should sleep together.”
“But we have slept together, Mrs. Lamb.” That without missing a beat. Augustine commended himself—a little humor to cut the tension.
Bonnie said, “Come on. You know what I mean.”
“Make love?”
“Oh, you’re a quick one.” She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down. His head came to rest on a pillow. Before he could get up she was on top, pinning his arms. Impishly she planted her chin on his breastbone. In the light slanting through the window, Augustine was able to see her smile, the liveliness of her eyes and—behind her—the wall of gaping skulls.
Bonnie Lamb said, “Making love with you might clear my thinking.”
“So would electroshock therapy.”
“I’m very serious.”
“And very married,” said Augustine.
“Yes, but you’re still getting hard.”
“Thanks for the bulletin.”
She let go of his arms, took his face in both hands. Her smile disappeared, and sadness entered her voice. “Don’t be such a smartass,” she whispered. “Can’t you understand—I don’t know what else to do. I tried crying; it doesn’t work.”
“I’m sorry—”
“I feel closer to you than I’ve ever felt to Max. That’s not a good sign.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Especially after a week of marriage. My own husband—and already I feel old and invisible when we’re together.” She took his shirt in her fists. “God, you know what? Forget everything I said.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Then you’ve thought about it, too.”
“Constantly,” said Augustine. Then, in a burst of foolish virtue: “But it would sure be wrong.”
Her breasts were lined up just below his rib cage. They rose ever so slightly when she took a breath. Friendship, he reminded himself, could be excruciating.
Bonnie asked, “What happens now?”
“Oh, my erection will eventually go away. Then we can both get some sleep.”
She lowered her eyes. Blushing? In the shadows it was hard to tell. She said, “No, I meant with the governor. What’re you two guys up to?”
“Hair-raising thrills and high-speed adventure.”
Bonnie nestled closer and settled in for the night. Augustine was severely tempted to stroke her hair, or kiss the top of her head, or trace a finger along that famous velvet slope of her neckline. But, with idiotic decency, he held back.
Mrs. Max Lamb fell asleep long before he did. Shortly after midnight, the telephone began to ring in the kitchen. Augustine didn’t get out of bed to answer it, because he didn’t want to wake his new friend. He probably could have moved her gently to one side of the bed, but he didn’t even try.
She was sleeping so soundly, and he felt so good.
CHAPTER
17
Bonnie Lamb rolled over at three in the morning, freeing Augustine to rise and answer the phone, which had been ringing intermittently for hours.
Naturally it was Bonnie’s husband in New York. Augustine anticipated a lively exchange.
“What’s going on!” Max Lamb demanded.
“Bonnie’s fine. She’s asleep.”
“Answer me!”
“She left you several messages. She wasn’t up to the airplane trip—”
“Wake her, please. Tell her it’s important.”
As he waited, Max Lamb reflected over the unalloyed rottenness of his long thankless day. The NIH press conference declaiming the hazards of Bronco cigarets made CNN, MTV and all the networks, followed of course by prominent barbs in the Leno and Letterman monologues. The wiseass MTV coverage was particularly aggravating because it struck directly at young female smokers, a key market component of Bronco’s booming sales growth. Front-page stories were expected the following morning in the Times, the Wall Street Journal and the Washington Post. The word “disaster” was insufficient to describe the crisis, as the splenetic chairman of Durham Gas Meat & Tobacco adamantly insisted on a total advertising embargo against all publications reporting the NIH findings—which was to say, all newspapers and magazines in the United States. The atmosphere at Rodale & Burns was sepulchral, due to the many millions of dollars that the agency stood to lose if Bronco’s print ads were yanked. Max Lamb had spent the better part of the afternoon attempting to contact DGM&T’s chairman in Guadalajara, where he was receiving thrice-daily injections of homogenized sheep semen to arrest the malignant tumors in his lungs. Workers at the clinic said the chairman was taking no calls, and refused to patch Max Lamb through to the old geezer’s room.
And if that wasn’t enough, Max now had to deal with a flighty, recalcitrant wife in Florida.
Bonnie’s voice was husky from sleep. “Honey?” she said.
Max gripped the receiver as if it were the neck of a squirming rattlesnake. “Exactly what’s going on down there!”
“I’m sorry. I need a few more days.”
“Why aren’t you at the motel?”
“I fell asleep here.”
“With the skulls? Jesus Christ, Bonnie.”
When Max Lamb got highly agitated, he acquired a frenetic rasp that his coworkers likened to that of an asthmatic on amphetamines. Bonnie didn’t blame her husband for getting upset that she was with Augustine. Trying to explain was pointless, because she didn’t yet comprehend it herself. Her attempted seduction—that she understood too well. But the urge to go road-tripping with the governor, the lack of interest in returning home to begin her new marriage … confusing emotions, indeed.
“I still don’t feel very well, Max. Maybe it’s exhaustion.”
“You can sleep on the plane. Or in a damn motel.”
“All right, honey, I’ll get a room.”
“Has he tried anything?”
“No!” Bonnie said sharply. “He’s been a perfect gentleman.” Thinking: I’m the one you’ve got to worry about, buddy boy.
“I don’t trust him.”
Max Lamb’s normal vibrant voice had returned, indicating a beneficial drop in blood pressure.
Bonnie decided it was safe to point out that if it weren’t for Augustine, Max would still be kidnapped.
That provoked a grinding silence on the other end. Then: “There’s something not right about him.”
“Oh, and you’re perfectly normal, Max. Driving hundreds of miles to take movies of wrecked houses and crying babies.”
A movement by Augustine caught Bonnie Lamb’s attention. With a mischievous grin, he produced three plump grapefruits and began to juggle, dancing barefoot around the kitchen. Bonnie covered her mouth to keep from giggling into the phone.
She heard Max say, “I’m flying to Mexico tomorrow. When I get back, I expect you to be here.”
Bonnie’s eyes followed the flying citrus.
“Of course I’ll be there.” The promise sounded so anemic that her husband couldn’t possibly have believed it. Bonnie felt a wave of sadness. Max wasn’t stupid; surely he knew something was wrong. She took a slow deep breath. Augustine slipped out of the kitchen and left her alone.
“Bonnie?”
“Yes, honey.”
“Don’t you want to know why I’m going to Mexico?”
“Mexico,” she said, pensively. Thinking: He’s going to Mexico.
Asking: “Will you be gone long, Max?”
And wondering: Who’s this strange, reckless woman who has climbed inside my skin!
Avila didn’t tell his wife about his harrowing brush with crucifixion, for she would’ve massaged it into a divine parable and shared it with all the neighbors. Once, Avila’s wife had seen the face of the Virgin Mary in a boysenberry pancake, and phoned every TV station in Miami. No telling how far she’d run with a lion story.
Locking himself in the bathroom, Avila bandaged his throbbing hand and waited for his wife to depart for the grocery store. When the coast was clear, he grabbed a shovel from the garage, crept to the backyard and excavated a Tupperware box full of cash that was buried under a mango tree. The money was his wife’s brother’s share of a small-time marijuana venture. Avila’s wife’s brother resided in state prison for numerous felony convictions unrelated to the pot, so Avila and his wife had promised to baby-sit the cash until his parole, sometime around the turn of the century. Avila didn’t approve of pilfering a relative’s life savings, but it was an emergency. If Gar Whitmark didn’t get his seven grand immediately, he would call the authorities and have Avila thrown in a cell with a voracious pervert. That’s how powerful Whitmark was, or so Avila believed.
