by Carl Hiassen
Augustine noticed a young towheaded boy, rigid in a shredded patio chair outside a battered house. Most of the roof was gone, so a skin of cheap blue plastic had been stapled to the beams for shade and shelter. It puckered and flapped in the breeze.
The towheaded boy looked only ten or eleven years old. He held a stainless-steel Ruger Mini-14, which he raised from his lap as Augustine passed on the sidewalk. In a thin high pitch, the boy yelled: "Looters will be shot!"
The warning matched a message spray-painted in two-foot letters on the front wall: lootersbewair!!
Augustine turned to face the child. "I'm not a looter. Where's your father?"
"Out for lumber. He told me watch the place."
"You're doing a good job." Augustine stared at the powerful rifle. A bank robber had used the same model to shoot down five FBI agents in Suniland, a few years back.
The boy explained: "We had looters, night after the hurry-cane. We were stayin' with Uncle Rick, he lives somewheres called Dania. They came through while we's gone."
Augustine slowly stepped forward for a closer look. The clip was fitted flush in the Ruger; all systems Go. The boy wore a severe expression, squinting at Augustine as if he stood a hundred yards away. The boy fidgeted in the flimsy chair. One side of his mouth wormed into a creepy lopsided frown. Augustine half expected to hear banjo music.
The boy went on: "They got our TVs and CD player. My dad's toolbox, top. I'm 'posed to shoot the bastards they come back."
"Did you ever fire that gun before?"
"All the time." The child's hard gray-blue eyes flickered with the lie. The Mini-14 was heavy. His little arms were tired from holding it. "You better go on now," he advised.
Augustine nodded, backing away. "Just be careful, all right? You don't want to hurt the wrong person."
"My dad said he's gone booby-trap everything so's next time they'll be damn sorry. He went to the hardware store. My mom and Debbie are still up at Uncle Rick's. Debbie's my half-sister, she's seven."
"Promise you'll be careful with the gun."
"She stepped on a rusty nail and got infected."
"Promise me you'll take it easy."
"OK," said the boy. A droplet of sweat rolled down a pink, sunburned cheek. It surely tickled, but the boy never took a hand off the rifle.
Augustine waved good-bye and went on up the road. When he arrived at the house where he'd left Bonnie Lamb and the governor, he found it empty. Across the street, at 15600 Calusa, the black Jeep Cherokee was gone from the driveway.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Augustine sprinted across the street. He pulled the pistol when he reached the doorway. There was no answer when he called Bonnie's name. Cautiously he went through the house. It was empty of life. The air was stale; mildew and sweat, except for one of the bedrooms-strong perfume and sex. A hall closet was open, revealing nothing unusual. A plaque on the living-room wall indicated the house belonged to a salesman, Antonio Torres. The hurricane had done quite a number on the place. In the backyard Augustine saw two miniature dachshunds tied to a sprinkler. They barked excitedly when they spotted him.
He sat down in a Naugahyde recliner and tried to reconstruct what could have happened in the twenty minutes he'd been gone. Obviously something had inspired the governor to make his move. Surely he'd ordered Bonnie to wait across the street, but she'd probably followed him just the same. Augustine had to assume they were now in the Jeep with the bad guy, headed for an unknown destination.
Augustine tore through the house once more, searching for clues. In the rubble of the funky-smelling bedroom was an album of water-stained photographs: the salesman, his spouse, and a multitude of well-fed relatives. Brenda Rourke had not recalled her attacker as an overweight Hispanic male, and the pictures of Antonio Torres showed no obvious facial deformity. Augustine decided it couldn't be the same man. He moved to the kitchen.
Hidden in a large saucepan, in a cupboard over the double sink, was a woman's leather purse. Inside was a wallet containing a Florida driver's license for one Edith Deborah Marsh, white female. Date of birth: 5-7-63. The address was an apartment in West Palm Beach. The picture on the license was unusually revealing: a pretty young lady with smoky, predatory eyes. The photo tech at the driver's bureau had outdone himself. Folded neatly in the woman's purse were pink carbons of two insurance settlements from Midwest Casualty, one for $60,000 and one for $141,000. The claims were for hurricane damage to the house at 15600 Calusa, and bore signatures of Antonio and Neria Torres. Interestingly, the insurance papers were dated that very day. Augustine was intrigued that Ms Edith Marsh would have these documents in her possession, and took the liberty of transferring them to his own pocket.
It was an interesting twist, but Augustine doubted it would help him locate Bonnie and the governor. The key to the mystery was the creep with the crooked jaw. He'd be the one carrying Brenda Rourke's service revolver. He'd be the one at the wheel of the Cherokee. Yet the house yielded no traceable signs.
With every passing moment, the creep was getting farther away. Augustine experienced a flutter of panic, thinking of what might happen. It was inconceivable that the governor would be cooperative during an abduction. Resistance was in the man's blood. A .357 aimed at his forehead would only enhance the challenge. And if he screwed up, Bonnie Lamb would be lost.
Augustine ached with dread. His impulse was to get in the truck and start driving; desperate widening grids and circles, in a wild hope of spotting the Jeep. The creep had only a short head start, but also the considerable advantage of knowing which direction he was going.
Then Augustine thought of Jim Tile, the state trooper. One shout on the police radio and every cop in South Florida would know to keep an eye open for the Cherokee. Augustine had made a point of memorizing the new tag: PPZ-350. Save the Manatee.
He picked up the kitchen phone to get the number for the Highway Patrol. That's when he noticed his old friend, the redial button.
He'd learned the trick while keeping house with the demented surgical intern, the one who ultimately knifed him in the shower. Whenever he found her gone, Augustine would touch the redial button to determine if she'd been phoning around town to score more Dilaudid, or pawn items stolen from his house. Before long he was able to recognize the voices of her various dope dealers and fences, before hanging up. In that way, the redial button had been a valuable tool for predicting his girlfriend's moods and tracing missing property.
So he punched it now, to find out the last number dialed from 15600 Calusa before Skink and Bonnie disappeared. After three rings, a friendly female voice answered: "Paradise Palms. Can I help you?"
Augustine hesitated. He knew of only one Paradise Palms, a seaside motel down in Islamorada. He gave it a shot. "My brother just called a little while ago. From Miami."
"Oh yes. Mister Horn's friend."
"Pardon me?"
"The owner. Mister Horn. Your brother's name is Lester?"
"Right," said Augustine, flying blind.
"He's the only Miami booking we've had today. Did he want to cancel?"
"Oh no," Augustine said. "No, I just want to make sure the reservation is all set. See, we're supposed to surprise him down there-it's his birthday tomorrow. We're going to take him deep-sea fishing."
The woman at the motel said the dolphin were hitting offshore, and advised him to try the docks at Bud 'n' Mary's to arrange a charter. "Would you like me to call over there?"
"No, that's all right."
"Does Mister Horn know?"
"Know what?" said Augustine.
"That it's Lester's birthday. He'll be so sorry he missed it-he's in Tampa on business."
"Oh, that's too bad," Augustine said. "I meant to ask-what time's my brother getting in? So we can make sure everything's arranged. You know, for the surprise party."
"Of course. He told us to expect him late this afternoon."
"That's perfect."
"And don't you worry. I won't say a word to
spoil it."
Augustine said, "Ma'am, I cannot thank you enough."
After a day of inept drinking and arduous self-pity, Max Lamb took a flight from Guadalajara to Miami. There he intended to quit smoking, reclaim his brainwashed spouse and reconstruct his life. Another honeymoon was essential-but, this time, someplace far from Florida.
Hawaii, Max thought. Maybe even Australia.
His head was a cinder block. The tequila hangover fueled vivid, horrific dreams on the plane. Once he awakened clawing at an invisible shock collar, his neck on fire. In the nightmare it was Bonnie and not the kidnapper wielding the Tri-Tronics remote control, diabolically pushing the buttons. An hour later came another dream; again his wife. This time they were making love on the deck of an airboat, skimming across the Everglades under a blue porcelain sky. Bonnie was on top of him with her eyes half open, the sawgrass whipping her cheeks. Clinging to her bare shoulder was a monkey-the same psoriatic pest that Max had videotaped after the hurricane! In the dream, Max couldn't see the face of the airboat driver, but believed it was the quiet young man who juggled skulls. As Bonnie bucked her hips, the vile monkey hung on like a tiny wrangler. Suddenly it rose on its hind legs to display a miniature pink erection. That's when Max screamed and woke up. He was wide-eyed but calmer by the time the plane landed.
Then, at the Miami airport, his tequila phantasms were reignited by a newspaper headline:
Remains in Fox Hollow Identified as Mob Figure; Believed Mauled, Devoured by Escaped Cat.
Max bought the paper and read the story in horror. A gangster named Ira Jackson had been gobbled by a wild lion that broke out of a wildlife farm during the storm. The gruesome details heightened the urgency of Max's mission.
He arrived at Augustine's home with a prepared speech and, if necessary, a legal threat. The lights were off. Nobody answered the door. In the absence of confrontation, Max was emboldened to slip around to the backyard.
The sliding glass door on the porch was unlocked. Inside the house, it was stuffy and warm. Max started the air conditioner and turned on every lamp he could find. He wanted to advertise his presence; he didn't want to be found creeping through the halls in darkness, like a common burglar.
Thrilled by his own daring, Max combed the place for signs of his wife. Hanging in a closet was the outfit she'd worn on the day he was kidnapped. Since the rental car had been looted of their belongings, Max reasoned that Bonnie must now be wearing somebody else's clothes, or her folks had wired some cash-or perhaps Augustine had bought her an expensive new wardrobe. Wasn't that what wife-stealers did?
Max Lamb forced himself to enter the guest room. He purposely avoided the wall of skulls, but shuddered anyway under the dissipated stares. He was pleased to find the bed linens rumpled exclusively on the left side– Bonnie's favorite. A depression in the lone pillow seemed, upon inspection, to match the shape of a young woman's head. The bed showed no manifest evidence of male visitation.
An oak dresser yielded an assortment of female clothing, from bras to blue jeans, in an intriguing range of sizes. Relics of Augustine's ex-girlfriends, Max assumed. One of them must have stood six feet two, judging by the Amazonian cut of her black exercise leggings. Max located several petite items that would have fit his wife, including a pair of powder-blue sweat socks in a tidy mound on the hardwood floor. His outlook improved; at least she was wearing borrowed clothes.
He steeled himself for the next survey: Augustine's room.
The man's bed looked like a grenade had been set off under the sheets. Max Lamb thought: He's either having fantastic sex or horrible nightmares. The disarray made it impossible to determine if two persons had shared the mattress; the cast of A Chorus Line could have slept there, for all Max could tell.
Uncertainty nibbled at his ego. He got an idea– distasteful but effective. He bent over Augustine's bed and put his nose to the linens whiffing for a trace of Bonnie's perfume. Uncharacteristically, Max Lamb couldn't recall the brand name of the fragrance, but he'd never forget its orchard scent.
He sniffed in imaginary grids, starting at the headboard and working his way down the mattress. An explosive sneeze announced his findings: Paco Rabanne for men. Max recognized the scent because he wore it himself (in spite of a near-incapacitating allergy) every Monday, for the sixth-floor meetings at Rodale.
Paco and laundry bleach, that's all Max detected on Augustine's sheets.
One more place to check: the wastebasket in the bathroom. Grimly Max pawed through the litter: no used condoms, thank God.
Later, stretched out on Augustine's sofa, Max realized that Bonnie's faithfulness, or possible lack thereof, wasn't the most pressing issue. It was her sanity. Somehow they'd snowed her, those madmen. Like some weird cult-one eats road pizza, the other fo'ndles human skulls.
How could such a bright girl let herself be brainwashed by such freaks!
Max Lamb decided on a bold move. He composed a script for himself and rehearsed it for an hour before picking up the phone. Then he dialed the apartment in New York and left the message for his wandering wife. The ultimatum.
Afterwards Max called back to hear how it sounded on the answering machine. His voice was so steely that he scarcely recognized himself.
Excellent, he thought. Just what Bonnie needs to hear.
If only she calls.
Avila's wife snidely announced that his expensive san-teria goats were in the custody of Animal Control. One had been captured grazing along the shoulder of the Don Shula Expressway, while the other had turned up at a car wash, butting its horns through the grillwork of a leased Jaguar sedan. Avila's wife said it made the Channel 7 news.
"So? What do you want me to do?" Avila demanded.
"Oh, forget about! Three hundred dollars, chew jess forget about!"
"You want me to steal the goats back? OK, tonight I'll drive to the animal shelter and break down the fence and kidnap the damn things. That make you happy? While I'm there I'll grab you some kittens and puppies, too. Maybe a big fat guinea pig for your mother, no?"
"I hate chew! I hate chew!"
Avila shook his head. "Here we go again."
"Chew and Chango, your faggot orichal"
"Louder," Avila said. "Maybe you can wake some of your dead relatives in Havana."
The phone rang. He picked it up and turned his back on his wife, who hurled a can of black beans and stormed from the kitchen in a gust of English expletives.
It was Jasmine on the line. She asked, "What's all that noise?"
"Marriage," Avila said.
"Well, love, I'm sitting here with Bridget, and guess where we're going tonight."
"To blow somebody?"
"God, look who's in a piss-poor mood."
"Sorry," Avila said. "It's been a shitty day."
"We're driving to the Keys."
"Yeah?"
"To meet your friend," said Jasmine.
"No shit? Where?"
"Some motel on the ocean. Can you believe he's payin' the both of us to baby-sit some old-timer."
"Who?" Avila couldn't imagine what new scam Snapper was running.
Jasmine said, "Just some yutz, I don't know. We're supposed to keep him busy for a couple days, take some dirty pictures. Five hundred each is what your friend's giving us."
"Geez, that sucks."
"Business is slow, sweetie. The hurricane turned all our regulars into decent, faithful, God-fearing family men."
Avila heard Bridget's giggle in the background. Jasmine said, "So five hundred looks pretty sweet right about now."
"You can double it if you give up the name of the motel."
"Why do you think we called? Aren't you proud of me?"
Avila said, "You're the best."
"But listen, honey, we need to know—"
"Let me talk to Bridget."
"Nope, we want to know what you got in mind. Because both of us are on probation, as usual—"
"Don't worry," Avila said.
"-and
we don't need no more trouble, legally speaking."
"Relax, I said."
"You ain't gonna kill this guy?"
"Which guy-Snapper? Hell, no, he owes me money is all. What time are you meeting him?"
Jasmine said, "Around eight."
Avila checked his wristwatch. "You girls ain't gonna make Key West by eight o'clock unless you got a rocket car."
"Not Key West, honey. Islamorada."
It was seventy-five miles closer, but Avila still wasn't certain he could get there in time. First he had to make an offering; such a momentous trip was unthinkable without an offering.
He said, "Jasmine, what's the name of the motel?"
