Stormy Weather

by Carl Hiaasen

  He dug energetically for the Tupperware, ignoring the pain of the nail wound. He was spurred by the putrid-sweet stench of rotting mangos, and a fear that one of his many in-laws would arrive unannounced—Avila wanted nobody to know he’d been ripped off by one of his own crooked roofers. He unearthed the container without difficulty, and eagerly pried off the lid. He removed seventy damp one-hundred-dollar bills and wadded them into a pocket. But something wasn’t right: Money appeared to be missing from his wife’s brother’s stash. Avila’s suspicion was confirmed by a hasty count; the Tupperware box was short by an additional four grand.

  Dumb bitches! Avila steamed. They’ve been losing at Indian bingo again. His wife and her mother were practically addicted.

  To confront the women would have given Avila great pleasure, but it also would’ve exposed his own clandestine filching. Ruefully he re-buried the Tupperware, and concealed the disturbed topsoil with a mat of leaves and lawn cuttings. Then he drove to the Gar Whitmark Building, where he was made to wait in the lobby for ninety minutes, like a common peon.

  When a secretary finally led him into Gar Whitmark’s private office, Avila spoiled any chance for a civil exchange by asking the corporate titan what the hell was wrong with his scalp, was that a fungus or what? Avila, who had never before seen hair plugs, hadn’t meant to be rude, but Gar Whitmark reacted explosively. He shoved Avila to the floor, snatched the seven grand from his hand, knelt heavily on his chest and spewed verbal abuse. Whitmark wasn’t a large man, but he was fit from many afternoons of country-club tennis. Avila chose not to resist; he was thinking lawsuit. Whitmark’s eyes bulged in rage, and he cursed himself breathless, but he did not punch Avila even once. Instead he got up, smoothed the breast of his Italian suit, straightened his necktie and presented the disheveled con man with an itemized estimate from Killebrew Roofing Co. for the staggering sum of $23,250.

  Avila was crestfallen, though not totally surprised: Whitmark had selected the best, and most expensive, roofers in all South Florida. Also, the most honest. From his days as a crooked inspector, Avila sourly recalled the few times he’d tried to shake down Killebrew crews for payoffs, only to be chased like a skunk from the construction sites. Killebrew, like Gar Whitmark, had some heavy juice downtown.

  Avila pretended to study the estimate while he thought up a diplomatic response.

  Whitmark said: “They start work next week. Adjust your finances accordingly.”

  “Jesus, I don’t have twenty-three grand.” There—he’d said it.

  “You’re making me weep.” Gar Whitmark clicked his teeth.

  With a bandaged hand Avila waved the Killebrew paper in tepid indignation. “I could do this same job for half as much!”

  Whitmark snorted. “I wouldn’t let you put the roof on a fucking doghouse.” He handed Avila a Xeroxed clipping from the newspaper. “You either come up with the money or go to jail. Comprende, Señor Dipshit?”

  The newspaper article said the Dade State Attorney was appointing a special squad of prosecutors to crack down on dishonest contractors preying on hurricane victims.

  “One phone call,” said Whitmark, “and you’re on your way to the buttfuck motel.”

  Avila bowed his head. The sight of his blackened fingernails reminded him of the buried Tupperware box. Hell, there was only twelve, maybe thirteen grand left in it. He was screwed.

  “My wife’s still a wreck from what your people did. You wouldn’t believe the goddamn pharmacy bill.” Whitmark pointed at the door and told Avila good-bye. “We’ll talk,” he said, ominously.

  On the way home, Avila dejectedly mulled his options. How often could he turn to Chango without offending Him, or appearing selfish? Yet the santero priest who trained Avila had mentioned no numerical limit on supernatural requests. Tonight, Avila decided, I’ll do a goat—no, two goats!

  And tomorrow I will hunt that bastard Snapper.

  The Church of High Pentecostal Rumination, headquartered in Chicoryville, Florida, attended all natural disasters in the western hemisphere. Earthquake, flood and hurricane zones proved fertile territories for conversion and recruitment of sinners. Less than thirty-six hours after the killer storm smashed Dade County, an experienced team of seven Ruminator missionaries was dispatched in a leased Dodge minivan. Hotel beds were scarce, so they shared a room at a Ramada Inn off the Turnpike. There was no complaining.

  Every morning, the missionaries preached, consoled and distributed pamphlets. Then they stood in line for free army lunches at the tent city, and returned to the motel for two hours of quiet contemplation and gin rummy. The Ramada offered free cable TV, which allowed the Ruminators to view a half-dozen different religious broadcasts at any time of day. One afternoon, in the absence of a pure Pentecostal preacher, they settled on Pat Robertson and the 700 Club. The Ruminators didn’t share Robertson’s paranoid worldview, but they admired his life-or-death style of fund-raising and hoped to pick up some pointers.

  Toward the end of the program, Reverend Robertson closed his eyes and prayed. The Ruminators joined hands—no easy task, since four of them were on one bed and three were on the other. The prayer was not one they recognized from the Scriptures; evidently Reverend Robertson had composed it personally, since it contained several references to his post office box in Virginia. Nonetheless, it was a pretty good prayer, fervently rendered, and the Ruminator missionaries were enjoying it.

  No sooner had Reverend Robertson exhaled the word “Amen” when the motel room was rocked by a muffled detonation, and the television set exploded before the missionaries’ startled eyes. Reverend Robertson’s squinting visage vaporized in a gout of acrid blue smoke, and his whiny beseechment faded in a sprinkle of falling glass. The Ruminators scrambled off the beds, dropped to their knees and burst into a hymn, “Nearer My God to Thee.” That’s how the manager of the Ramada found them, fifteen minutes later, when he came to apologize.

  “Some asshole downstairs shot off a .357,” he announced.

  All singing ceased. The motel manager pushed the broken television away from the wall and pointed to a ragged hole in the carpet. “From the bullet,” he explained. “Don’t worry. I kicked ’em out.”

  “A gun?” cried a Ruminator elder, springing to his feet.

  “That ain’t the worst of it,” the motel manager said. “They had dogs in the room! You believe that? Chewin’ up the bedspreads and God knows what.” He promised to bring the Ruminators another TV set, but warned them to keep their hymn singing at a low volume, so as not to disturb other guests.

  “Everybody’s on edge,” the manager added, unnecessarily.

  After he left, the missionaries locked the door and held a solemn meeting. They agreed they’d done all they could for the good people of South Florida, and quickly packed their bags.

  • • •

  “Well, that was brilliant.”

  Snapper told Edie Marsh to shut up and quit beating it to death. What’s done is done.

  “No, really,” she said, “getting us thrown out of the only hotel room between here and Daytona Beach. Absolute genius.”

  With a gaseous hiss, Snapper sagged into the BarcaLounger. She had some nerve giving him shit, after the way she’d fucked up his leg with that crowbar. Who wouldn’t be in a lousy mood, their goddamn knee all swollen up like a Georgia ham.

  He said, “It’s your fault, you and them dogs. Hey, get me a Coors.”

  On the drive back to the Torres house, they had stopped at a 7-Eleven for gas, ice and supplies. Fred Dove had purchased Tylenol and peppermint Tic Tacs before lugubriously departing for a busy afternoon of storm-damage estimates. He drove off with the hollow stare of a man whose life had abruptly gone to ruin.

  Edie Marsh pulled a beer from the cooler and tossed it underhanded at Snapper. “We’re lucky we’re not in jail,” she said for the fifth time.

  “Dogs wouldn’t shut up.”

  “So you shot a hole in the ceiling.”

  “Damn straight.” Snappe
r arranged his lower jaw to accommodate the stream of Coors. He reminded Edie of Popeye in the old Saturday cartoons.

  “I’m gonna do them fuckin’ mutts,” he said. “Tonight when you’re sleeping. That’ll leave me three bullets, too, so don’t get no ideas.”

  “Wow, a math whiz,” said Edie, “on top of all your other talents.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “The dogs are tied outside. They’re not bothering anybody.”

  When Snapper finished the beer, he crumpled the can and tossed it on the carpet. Then he took out the pistol and started spinning the cylinder, something he’d obviously picked up from a movie. Edie Marsh ignored him. She went to the garage to put more gasoline in the generator—they needed electricity to run the TV, without which Snapper would become unmanageable.

  Sure enough, by the time she returned to the living room, he was contentedly camped out in front of Oprah.

  “Hookers,” he reported, riveted to the screen.

  “Your lucky day.”

  Edie Marsh felt gummy with perspiration. The hurricane had eviscerated the elaborate ductwork of Tony Torres’s air-conditioning system. Even if the unit had worked, there were no doors, windows or roof to keep cooled air in the house. Edie went to the bedroom and changed from her banking dress to a pair of Mrs. Torres’s expensive white linen shorts and a beige short-sleeved pullover. She would have been inconsolable if the borrowed clothes had fit her, but thank God they didn’t; Mrs. Torres was easily three sizes larger. The bagginess provided welcomed ventilation in the tropical humidity, and was not entirely unattractive.

  Edie Marsh was appraising her new look in the mirror when the phone started ringing. Snapper hollered for her to pick up, goddammit!

  Not given to premonitions, Edie experienced a powerful one that proved true. When she answered the telephone, a long-distance operator asked if she would accept collect charges from a “Neria in Memphis.”

  Memphis! The witch was heading south!

  “I don’t know anybody named Neria,” Edie said, straining to stay calm.

  “Is this 305-443-1676?”

  “I’m not sure. See, I don’t live here—I was walking past the house when I noticed the phone.”

  “Ma’am, please—”

  “Operator, in case you haven’t heard, we had a terrible hurricane down here!”

  Neria’s voice: “I want to speak to my husband. Ask her if Antonio Torres is around.”

  Edie Marsh said, “Look, the house is empty. I was walking past and I thought it might be somebody’s relative calling. An emergency maybe. The man who stayed here, he’s gone. Loaded his stuff in a Ryder truck and moved out Friday. Up to New York, is what he said.”

  “Thank you,” said the operator.

  “What! What’s your name, lady?” Neria asked excitedly.

  “Thank you,” the operator repeated, trying to cut the conversation short.

  But Edie was rolling. “Him and some young lady had a rental truck. Maybe his wife. She looked twenty-three, twenty-four. Long blond hair.”

  Neria, exploding: “No, I’m the wife! That’s my house!”

  Sure, thought Edie, now that insurance money is in the air. Dump the granola-head professor and come running back to blimpy old Tony.

  “Brooklyn,” Edie embellished. “I think he said Brooklyn.”

  “Sonofabitch,” Neria moaned.

  Curtly the operator asked Mrs. Torres if she wished to try another telephone number. No reply. She’d hung up. Edie Marsh did, too.

  Her heart drummed against her ribs. Unconsciously she rubbed her damp palms on the rump of Mrs. Torres’s lovely linen shorts. Then she hurried to the garage and located a pair of small green-handled wire cutters.

  From the living room, Snapper called: “Who the hell was that? The wife again?” When he heard the garage door, he yelled, “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you!”

  Edie Marsh didn’t hear him. She was sneaking next door to clip the telephone lines, so that Neria Torres could not call Mr. Varga to check out the wild story about Tony and the young blonde and the Ryder truck.

  The license tag on the black Cherokee was stolen from a Camaro on the morning after the hurricane, in a subdivision called Turtle Meadow. That’s where Augustine was headed when Skink directed him to stop at a makeshift tent city, which the National Guard had erected for those made homeless by the hurricane.

  Skink bounded from the truck and stalked through rows of open tents. Bonnie and Augustine kept a few steps behind, taking in the sobering scene. Dazed eyes followed them. Men and women sprawled listlessly on army cots, dull-eyed teenagers waded barefoot through milky puddles, children clung fiercely to new dolls handed out by the Red Cross.

  “All these souls!” Skink cried, simian arms waving in agitation.

  The soldiers assumed he was shell-shocked from the storm. They let him alone.

  At the front of a ragged line, Guardsmen gave out plastic bottles of Evian. Skink kept marching. A small boy in a muddy diaper scurried across his path. With one hand he scooped the child to eye level.

  Bonnie Lamb nudged Augustine. “What do we do?”

  When they reached Skink’s side, they heard him singing in a voice that was startlingly high and tender:

  It’s just a box of rain,

  I don’t know who put it here.

  Believe it if you need it,

  or leave it if you dare.

  The little boy—scarcely two years old, Bonnie guessed—had chubby cheeks, curly brown hair and a scrape healing on his brow. He wore a sleeveless cotton shirt with a Batman logo. He smiled at the song and tugged curiously on a silver sprout of the stranger’s beard. A light mist fell from scuffed clouds.

  Augustine reached for Skink’s shoulder. “Captain?”

  Skink, to the boy: “What’s your name?”

  The reply was a bashful giggle. Skink peered at the child. “You won’t ever forget, will you? Hurricanes are an eviction notice from God. Go tell your people.”

  He resumed singing, in a nasal pitch imposed by tiny fingers pinching his nostrils.

  And it’s just a box of rain,

  Or a ribbon in your hair.

  Such a long, long time to be gone

  And a short time to be there.

  The child clapped. Skink kissed him lightly on the forehead. He said, “You’re good company, sonny. How’s your spirit of adventure?”

  “No!” Bonnie Lamb stepped forward. “We’re not taking him. Don’t even think about it.”

  “He’d enjoy himself, would he not?”

  “Captain, please.” Augustine lifted the boy and handed him to Bonnie, who hurried to find the parents before the wild man changed his mind.

  The pewter sky filled with a loud thwocking drone. People in the Evian line pointed to a covey of drab military helicopters, flying low. The choppers began to circle, causing the tents to flutter and snap. Quickly a procession of police cars, government sedans, black Chevy Blazers and TV trucks entered the compound.

  Skink said, “Ha! Our Commander in Chief.”

  Five Secret Service types piled out of one of the Blazers, followed by the President. He wore, over a shirt and necktie, a navy-blue rain slicker with an emblem on the breast. He waved toward the television cameras, then compulsively began to shake the hands of every National Guardsman and Army soldier he saw. This peculiar behavior might have continued until dusk had not one of the President’s many aides (also in a blue slicker) whispered in his ear. At that point a family of authentic hurricane refugees, carefully screened and selected from the sweltering masses, was brought to meet and be photographed with the President. Included in the family was the obligatory darling infant, over whom the leader of the free world labored to coo and fuss. The photo opportunity lasted less than three minutes, after which the President resumed his obsessive fraternizing with anyone wearing a uniform. These unnatural affections were extended to a snowy-haired officer of the local Salvation Army, around whom the Commander in Chie
f flung a ropy arm. “So,” he chirped at the befuddled old-timer, “what outfit you with?”

  A short distance away, Augustine stood with his arms folded. “Pathetic,” he said.

  Skink agreed. “Check the glaze in his eyes. There’s nothing worse than a Republican on Halcion.”

  As soon as Bonnie Lamb returned, they left for Turtle Meadow.

  CHAPTER

  18

  Skink had gotten the address from the police report, courtesy of Jim Tile. The mailboxes and street signs were down, so it took some searching to find the house. Because of his respectable and clean-cut appearance, Augustine was chosen to make the inquiry. Skink waited in the back of the pickup truck, singing the chorus from “Ventilator Blues.” Bonnie Lamb wasn’t familiar with the song, but she enjoyed Skink’s bluesy bass voice. She stood by the truck, keeping an eye on him.

  Augustine was met at the door by a tired-looking woman in a pink housedress. She said, “The trooper mentioned you’d be by.” Her tone was as lifeless as her stare; she’d been whipped by the hurricane.

  “It’s been, like, three days since I called the cops.”

  “We’re stretched pretty thin,” Augustine said.

  The woman’s entire family—husband, four children, two cats—was bivouacked in the master bedroom, beneath the only swatch of roof that the hurricane hadn’t blown away. The husband wore a lime mesh tank top, baggy shorts, sandals and a Cleveland Indians cap. He had a stubble of gray-flecked beard. He tended a small Sterno stove on the dresser; six cans of pork and beans were lined up, the lids removed. The kids were preoccupied with battery-operated Game Boys, beeping like miniature radars.

  “We still got no electric,” the woman said to Augustine. She told her husband it was the man the Highway Patrol sent about the stolen license plate. The husband asked Augustine why he wasn’t wearing a police uniform.