Stormy Weather

by Carl Hiassen

  She turned away from the harsh light and silently cursed her lousy taste in convicts.

  Fred Dove said to Snapper: "You ought to untie us."

  "Well, listen to Santy Claus!"

  Edie's pulse jackhammered in her temples. "You know what it is, Fred? Snapper's jealous. See, it's not about the insurance money. It's that I was going to make love to you—"

  "Haw!" Snapper exclaimed.

  "-and he knows," Edie went on, "he knows I wouldn't do it with him for all the money in Fort Knox!"

  Snapper laughed. Nudging Fred Dove with a toe, he said, "Don't kid yourself, bubba. She'd fuck a syphilitic porky-pine, she thought there was a dollar in it."

  "Nice talk," Edie said. God Almighty, her head hurt.

  The insurance man fought to steady his nerves. He was flabbergasted to find himself in the middle of something so ugly, complicated and dangerous. Only hours ago the arrangement seemed foolproof and exciting: a modestly fraudulent claim, a beautiful and uninhibited co-conspirator, a wild fling in an abandoned hurricane house.

  A bright-red condom seemed appropriate.

  Then out of nowhere appeared this Snapper person, a hard-looking sort and an authentic criminal, judging by what Fred Dove had seen and heard. The insurance man didn't want such a violent character for a third partner. On the other hand, he didn't want to die or be harmed seriously enough to require hospitalization. Blue Cross would demand facts, as would Fred Dove's wife.

  So he offered Snapper forty-seven thousand dollars. "That's how it splits three ways."

  Snapper swung the flashlight to Fred Dove's face. He said, "You figured that up in your head? No pencil and paper, that's pretty good."

  Yeah, thought Edie Marsh. Thank you, Dr Einstein.

  Fred Dove said to Snapper: "Do we have a deal?"

  "Fair is fair." He rose from the BarcaLounger and made his way to the garage. Within moments the portable generator belched to life. Snapper returned to the living room and turned on the solitary lightbulb. Then, kneeling beside Fred Dove and Edie Marsh, he cut the curtain sash off their wrists.

  "Let's go eat," he said. "I'm fuckin' starved."

  Fred Dove rose shakily. He modestly locked his hands in front of his crotch. "I'm taking this thing off," he declared.

  "The rubber?" Snapper gave him a thumbs-up. "You do that." He glanced at Edie, who made no effort to cover her breasts or anything else. She eyed Snapper in a dark poisonous way.

  He said, "That's how you goin' to Denny's? Fine by me. Maybe we'll get a free pie."

  Wordlessly Edie walked behind the Naugahyde recli-ner, picked up the crowbar she'd left there, took two steps toward Snapper, and swung at him with all her strength. He went down squalling.

  Weapon in hand, Edie Marsh straddled him. Her damp and tangled hair had fallen to cover the bruised half of her face. To Fred Dove, she looked untamed and dazzling and alarmingly capable-of homicide. He feared' he was about to witness his first.

  Edie inserted the sharp end of the crowbar between Snapper's deviated jawbones, pinning his bloodless tongue to his teeth.

  "Kick me again," she said, "and I'll have your balls in a blender."

  Fred Dove snatched his pants and his briefcase, and ran.

  They returned the borrowed speedboat to the marina and went back to Coral Gables. With great effort they carried the man known as Skink into Augustine's house.

  Max Lamb was unnerved by the wall of grinning skulls, but said nothing as he made his way down the hall to the shower. Augustine got on the telephone to sort out what had happened with his dead uncle's Cape buffalo. Bonnie fixed a pot of coffee and took it to the guest room, where the governor was recovering from the animal dart. He and Jim Tile were talking when Bonnie walked in. She wanted to stay and listen to this improbable stranger, but she felt she was intruding. The men's conversation was serious, held in low tones. She heard Skink say: "Brenda's a strong one. She'll make it."

  Then, Jim Tile: "I've tried every prayer I know."

  As Bonnie slipped out the door, she encountered Max, sucking on a cigaret as he emerged from the bathroom. She resolved to be forbearing about her husband's odious new habit, which he blamed on the battlefield stress of the abduction.

  She followed him to the living room and sat beside him on the sofa. There, in sensational detail, he described the torture he'd received at the hands of the one-eyed misfit.

  "The dog collar," Bonnie Lamb said.

  "That's right. Look at my neck." Max opened the top buttons of his shirt, which he'd borrowed from Augustine. "See the burns? See?"

  Bonnie didn't notice any marks, but nodded sympathetically. "So you definitely want to prosecute."

  "Absolutely!" Max Lamb detected doubt in his wife's voice. "Christ, Bonnie, he could've murdered me."

  She squeezed his hand. "I still don't understand why-why he did it in the first place."

  "With a fruitcake like that, who knows." Max Lamb purposely didn't mention Skink's disgust with the hurricane videos; he remembered that Bonnie felt the same way.

  She said, "I think he needs professional help."

  "No, sweetheart, he needs a professional jail." Max lifted his chin and blew smoke at the ceiling.

  "Honey, let's think about this—"

  But he pulled away from her, bolting for the phone, which Augustine had just hung up. "I'd better call Pete Archibald," Max Lamb said over his shoulder, "let everyone at Rodale know I'm OK."

  Bonnie Lamb got up and went to the guest room. The governor was sitting upright in bed, but his eyes were half shut. His ragged beard was finely crusted with ocean salt. Jim Tile, his Stetson tucked under one arm, stood near the window.

  Bonnie poured each of them another cup of coffee. "How's he feeling?" she whispered.

  Skink's good eye blinked open. "Better," he said, thickly.

  She set the coffeepot on the bedstand. "It was monkey tranquilizer," she explained.

  "Never to be combined with psychoactive drugs," said Skink, "particularly toad sweat."

  Bonnie looked at Jim Tile, who said, "I asked him."

  "Asked me what?" Skink rasped.

  "About the dead guy in the TV dish," the trooper said. Then, to Bonnie: "He didn't do it."

  "Though I do admire the style," said Skink.

  Bonnie Lamb did a poor job of masking her doubt. Skink peered sternly. "I didn't kill that fellow, Mrs. Lamb. But I damn sure wouldn't tell you if I had."

  "I believe you. I do."

  The governor finished the coffee and asked for another cup. He told Bonnie it was the best he'd ever tasted. "And I like your boy," he said, gesturing toward the wall of skulls. "I like what he's done with the place."

  Bonnie said: "He's not my boy. Just a friend."

  Skink nodded. "We all need one of those." With difficulty he rolled out of bed and began stripping off his wet clothes. Jim Tile led him to the shower and started the water. When the trooper returned, carrying the governor's plastic cap, he asked Bonnie Lamb what her husband intended to do.

  "He wants to prosecute." She sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the shower run.

  Augustine came into the room and said, "Well?"

  "I can arrest him tonight," Jim Tile told Bonnie, "if your husband comes to the substation and files charges. What happens then is up to the State Attorney."

  "You'd do that-arrest your own friend?"

  "Better me than a stranger," the trooper said. "Don't feel bad about this, Mrs. Lamb. Your husband's got every right."

  "Yes, I know." Prosecuting the governor was the right thing-a person couldn't be allowed to run around kidnapping tourists, no matter how offensively they behaved. Yet Bonnie was saddened by the idea of Skink's going to jail. It was naive, she knew, but that's how she felt.

  Jim Tile was questioning Augustine about the skulls on the wall. "Cuban voodoo?"

  "No, nothing like that."

  "Nineteen is what I count," the trooper said. "I won't ask where you got 'em. They're too clean for hom
icides."

  Bonnie Lamb said, "They're medical specimens."

  "Whatever you say." After twenty years of attending head-on collisions, Jim Tile had a well-earned aversion to human body parts. "Specimens it is," he said.

  Augustine removed five of the skulls from the shelves and lined them up on the hardwood floor, at his feet. Then he picked up three and began to juggle.

  The trooper said, "I'll be damned."

  As he juggled, Augustine thought about the drunken young fool who tried to shoot his uncle's Cape buffalo. What a sad, dumb way to die. Fluidly he snatched a fourth skull off the floor and put it in rotation; then the fifth.

  Bonnie Lamb found herself smiling at the performance in spite of its creepiness. The governor emerged from the shower in a cloud of steam, naked except for a sky-blue towel around his neck. His thick silver hair sent snaky tails of water down his chest. He used a corner of the towel to dab the condensation off his glass eye. He beamed when he saw Augustine's juggling.

  Jim Tile felt dizzy, watching the skulls fly. Max Lamb appeared in the doorway. His expression instantly changed from curiosity to revulsion, as if a switch had been flipped inside his head. Bonnie knew what he was going to say before the words left his lips: "You think this is funny?"

  Augustine continued juggling. It was unclear whether he, or the governor's nudity, was the object of Max Lamb's disapproval.

  The trooper said, "It's been a long night, man."

  "Bonnie, we're leaving." Max's tone was patronizing and snarky. "Did you hear me? Playtime is over."

  She was infuriated that her husband would speak to her that way in front of strangers. She stormed from the room.

  "Oh, Max?" Skink, wearing a sly smile, touched a finger to his own throat. Max Lamb's neck tingled the old Tri-Tronics tingle. He jumped reflexively, banging against the door.

  From the backpack Skink retrieved Max's billfold and the keys to the rental car. He dropped them in Max's hand. Max mumbled a thank-you and went after Bonnie.

  Augustine stopped juggling, catching the skulls one by one. Carefully he returned them to their place on the wall.

  The governor tugged the towel from his neck and began drying his arms and legs. "I like that girl," he said to Augustine. "How about you?"

  "What's not to like."

  "You've got a big decision to make."

  "That's very funny. She's married."

  "Love is just a kiss away. So the song says." Playfully Skink seized Jim Tile by the elbows. "Tell me, Officer. Am I arrested or not?"

  "That's up to Mister Max Lamb."

  "I need to know."

  "They're talking it over," Jim Tile said.

  "Because if I'm not bound for jail, I'd dearly love to go find the bastard who beat up your Brenda."

  For a moment the trooper seemed to sag under the weight of his grief. His eyes welled up, but he kept himself from breaking down.

  Skink said, "Jim, please. I live for opportunities like this."

  "You've had enough excitement. We all have."

  "You, son!" the governor barked at Augustine. "You had enough excitement?"

  "Well, they just shot my water buffalo at a supermarket—"

  "Ho! "Skink exclaimed.

  "-but I'd be honored to help." The skull juggling had left Augustine energetic and primed. He was in the mood for a new project, now that Bonnie's husband was safe.

  "You think about what I said," Skink told Jim Tile. "In the meantime, I'm damn near hungry enough to eat processed food. How about you guys?"

  He charged toward the door, but the trooper blocked his path. "Put on your pants, captain. Please."

  The corpse of Tony Torres lay unclaimed and unidentified in the morgue. Each morning Ira Jackson checked the Herald, but in the reams of hurricane news there was no mention of a crucified mobile-home salesman. Ira Jackson took this as affirmation of Tony Torres's worth-lessness and insignificance; his death didn't rate one lousy paragraph in the newspaper.

  Ira Jackson turned his vengeful attentions toward Avila, the inspector who had corruptly rubber-stamped the permits for the late Beatrice Jackson's trailer home. Ira Jackson believed Avila was as culpable as Tony Torres for the tragedy that had claimed the life of his trusting mother.

  Early on the morning of August 28, Ira Jackson drove to the address he'd pried from the reluctant clerk at the Metro building department. A woman with a heavy accent answered the front door. Ira Jackson asked to speak to Senor Avila.

  "He bissy eng de grotch."

  "Please tell him it's important."

  "Hokay, but he berry bissy."

  "I'll wait," said Ira Jackson.

  Avila was scrubbing rooster blood off the whitewalls of his wife's Buick when his mother announced he had a visitor. Avila swore and kicked at the bucket of soap. It had to be Gar Whitmark, harassing him for the seven grand. What did he expect Avila to do-rob a fucking bank!

  But it wasn't Whitmark at the door. It was a stocky middle-aged stranger with a chopped haircut, a gold chain around his neck and a smudge of white powder on his upper lip. Avila recognized the powder as doughnut dust. He wondered if the guy was a cop.

  "My name is Rick," said Ira Jackson, extending a pudgy scarred hand. "Rick Reynolds." When the man smiled, a smear of grape jelly was visible on his bottom row of teeth.

  Avila said, "I'm kinda busy right now."

  "I was driving by and saw the truck." Ira Jackson pointed. "Fortress Roofing-that's you, right?"

  Avila didn't answer yes or no. His eyes flicked to his truck at the curb, and the Cadillac parked behind it. The man wasn't a cop, not with a flashy car like that.

  "The storm tore off my roof. I need a new one ASAP."

  Avila said, "We're booked solid. I'm really sorry."

  He hated to turn down a willing sucker, but it would be suicidal to run a scam on someone who knew where he lived. Especially someone with forearms the size of fence posts.

  Avila made a mental note to move the roofing truck off the street, to a place where passersby couldn't see it.

  Ira Jackson licked the doughnut sugar from his lip. "I'll make it worth your while," he said.

  "Wish I could help."

  "How's ten thousand sound? On top of your regular price."

  Try as he might, Avila couldn't conceal his interest. The guy had a New York accent; they did things in a big way up there.

  "That's ten thousand cash," Ira Jackson added. "See, it's my grandmother, she lives with us. Ninety years old and suddenly it's raining buckets on her head. The roof's flat-out gone."

  Avila feigned compassion. "Ninety years old? Bless her heart." He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. "Problem is, I've got a dozen other jobs waiting."

  "Fifteen thousand," Ira Jackson said, "if you move me to the top of the list."

  Avila rubbed his stubbled chin and eyed the visitor. How often, he thought, does fifteen grand come knocking at the door? A rip-off was out of the question, but another option loomed. Radical, to be sure, but do-able: Avila could build the man a legitimate, complete roof. Use the cash to settle up with Gar Whitmark. Naturally the crew would piss and moan, spoiled bastards. Properly installing a roof was a hard, hot, exhausting job. Perhaps desperate times called for honest work.

  "I see," remarked Ira Jackson, "your place came through the hurricane pretty good."

  "We were a long way from the eye, thank God."

  "Thank God is right."

  "Where exactly do you live, Mister Reynolds? Maybe I can squeeze you on the schedule."

  "Fantastic."

  "I'll send a man out for an estimate," Avila said. Then he remembered there was no man to send; the thieving Snapper had skipped.

  Ira Jackson said, "I'd prefer it was you personally."

  "Sure, Mister Reynolds. How about tomorrow first thing?"

  "How about right now? We can ride in my car."

  Avila couldn't think of a single reason not to go, and fifteen thousand reasons why he should.
r />   When Max Lamb put down the phone, his face was gray and his mouth was slack. He looked as if he'd been diagnosed with a terminal illness. The reality was no less grave, as far as the Rodale 8c Burns agency was concerned. On the other end of the line, easygoing Pete Archibald had sounded funereal and defeated. The news from New York was bad indeed.