by Carl Hiassen
Suddenly Bonnie got an eerie hologrammic vision of the gunman's naked skull on the wall of Augustine's guest room. The broken mandible caused the bony orb to rest with a sinister tilt on the shelf; a pirate's crooked grin. Then Bonnie had a flash of Augustine, juggling the gunman's skull with the others.
From a pocket Skink withdrew a squirming Bufo toad, which immediately peed on him. The man with the .357 sneered.
The woman who was driving glanced over her shoulder. "What now?" she grumbled.
"Smoke the sweat," Skink said, cupping the toad and its amber piddle in his palm, "and then you see mastodons."
"Get that stinking thing outta here," said the gunman.
"Did you know mastodons once roamed Florida? Eons before your ancestors began their ruinous copulations. Mastodons as big as cement trucks!" Skink put the toad out the window. Then he wiped the toad pee on the sleeve of the gunman's pinstriped suit.
"You fuck!" Snapper took aim at Skink's good eye.
The woman at the wheel told him to cool it-other drivers were staring. She turned off at the next exit and pulled into an abandoned service station. The hurricane had blown down the gas pumps like dominoes. Looters had cleaned out the garage. On the roof lay the remains of a Mazda Miata, squashed upside down like a bright lady-bug.
While the gunman left the Jeep to relieve himself behind the building, the woman reluctantly took charge of the .357. She looked so uncomfortable that Bonnie Lamb felt a little sorry for her; the poor girl could barely hoist the darn thing. Surely, Bonnie thought, now was the moment for Skink to make his move.
But he didn't. Instead he smiled at the woman in the driver's seat and said, "You're truly pretty. And aware of it, of course. The guiding force for most of your life, I imagine-your good looks."
The woman blushed, then toughened.
"Where'd you spend the storm?" Skink asked.
"In a motel. With Mel Gibson there," the woman said, nodding toward Snapper, "and a hooker."
"I was tied to a bridge. You should try it sometime."
"Right."
Bonnie Lamb said, "He isn't kidding."
The woman shifted the .357 to her other hand. "What on earth are you people doing? Who sent you to the house-Tony's wife?" She turned around on her knees, bracing her gun arm on the front seat. "Bonnie, dear," she said sharply. "I'd really appreciate some answers."
"Would you believe I'm on my honeymoon."
"You're joking." The woman glanced doubtfully at Skink.
Bonnie said, "Oh, not him. My husband's in Mexico."
"Boy, are you ever lost," said the woman.
Bonnie shook her head. "Not really."
The storm had knocked down the traffic signal at Florida City, or what was left of Florida City. A tired policeman in a yellow rainsuit directed traffic at the intersection. Edie Marsh tensed behind the wheel of the Jeep. She told Snapper to make sure the gun was out of sight. As they passed the officer, Bonnie Lamb figured it would be a fine time to poke her head out the window and shout for help, but Skink offered no encouraging signal. His chin had drooped back to his chest. "
Most of the street signs remained down from the hurricane, but Bonnie saw one indicating they were about to enter the Fabulous Florida Keys. Snapper was apprehensive about possible checkpoints along Highway One, so he instructed Edie Marsh to use Card Sound Road instead.
"There's a toll," she noted.
"So?"
"I left my purse at the house."
Snapper said, "Jesus, I got money."
"I bet you do." Edie Marsh couldn't stop thinking about what the one-eyed stranger had said: Snapper assaulting a woman cop and swiping her mother's ring.
"How much did you get for it?" she asked.
"For what?"
"The ring." Edie stared ahead at the flat strip of road, which stretched eastward as far as she could see.
Snapper muttered obscenely. He fished in his coat and came out with a plain gold wedding band. He held it three inches from Edie's face.
"Happy?" he said.
The sight of the stolen ring affected Edie in an unexpected way: She felt repulsed, then dejected. She tried to picture the policewoman, wondered if she was married or had children, wondered what dreadful things Snapper had done to her.
Lord, Edie thought. What a small, disappointing life I've made for myself. She wanted to believe it would've been different if only she'd talked that shy young Kennedy into the sack. But she was no longer sure.
"I couldn't pawn it," Snapper was saying. "Damn thing's engraved, nobody'll touch it."
"What does it say?" Edie asked quietly. "On the ring."
"Who cares."
"Come on. What does it say?"
The woman in the back seat sat forward, also curious, as Snapper read the inscription aloud: "'For My Cynthia. Always.'" He gave a scornful laugh and hung his bony arm out the window, preparing to toss the ring from the truck.
"Don't do that," Edie said, backing off the accelerator.
"The fuck not? If I can't hock the goddamn thing, I'm gone dump it. Case we get pulled over."
Edie Marsh said, "Just don't, OK?"
"Oops. Too late." He cocked his arm and threw the ring as far as he could. It plopped into a roadside canal, breaking the surface with concentric circles.
Edie saw everything from the corner of her eye. "You lousy prick." Her voice was as hard as marble. The woman in the back seat felt the Jeep gain speed.
Defiantly Snapper waved the heavy black pistol. "Maybe you never heard of somethin' called 'possession of stolen property'-it's a motherfuckin' felony, case you didn't know. Here's another beauty: Vi-o-lay-shun o' pro-bay-shun! Translated: My skinny white ass goes straight to Starke, I get caught. Do not pass Go, do not collect any hurricane money. So fuck the cop's jewelry, unnerstand?"
Edie Marsh said nothing. She willed herself to concentrate on the slick two-lane blacktop, which intermittently was strewn with pine boughs, palmetto fronds and loose sheets of plywood. A regular obstacle course. Edie checked the speedometer: ninety-two miles per hour. Not bad for a city girl.
Snapper, ordering her to slow down, couldn't keep the raw nervousness out of his voice. Edie acted as if she didn't hear a word.
The one who called himself Skink didn't stir from his nap, trance, coma, whatever it was. Meanwhile the young newlywed (Edie noticed in the rearview) carefully removed her own wedding band from her finger.
The tollbooth was empty and the gate was up. Edie didn't bother to slow down. Bonnie Lamb held her breath.
When they blew through the narrow lane, Snapper exclaimed, "Jesus!"
As the Jeep climbed the steep bridge, Skink raised his head. "This is the place."
"Where you spent the storm?" Bonnie asked.
He nodded. "Glorious."
Beneath them, broken sunlight painted Biscayne Bay in shifting stripes of copper and slate. Ahead, a bloom of lavender clouds dumped chutes of rain on the green mangrove shorelines of North Key Largo. As the truck crested the bridge, Skink pointed out a pod of bottle-nosed dolphins rolling along the edge of a choppy boat channel. From such a height the arched flanks of the creatures resembled glinting slivers of jet ceramic, covered and then uncovered by foamy waves.
"Just look," said Bonnie Lamb. The governor was right-it was purely spectacular up here.
Even Edie Marsh was impressed. She curbed the Jeep on the downhill slope and turned off the key. She strained to keep the rollicking dolphins in view.
Snapper fumed impatiently. "What is this shit?" He jabbed Edie in the arm with the .357. "Hey you, drive."
"Take it easy."
"I said fucking drive."
"And I said take it fucking easy."
Edie was livid. The last time Snapper had seen that hateful glare was moments before she'd bludgeoned his leg with the crowbar iron. He cocked the revolver. "Don't be a cunt."
"Excuse me?" One eyebrow arched. "What'd you say?"
Bonnie Lamb feared that Edie was going t
o lose her mind and go for Snapper's throat, at which point she certainly would be shot dead. Snapper jammed the gun flush against her right breast.
The governor was unaware. He had everted the upper half of his torso out the window to watch the dolphins make their way north, and also to enjoy a fresh sprinkle that had begun to fall. Bonnie tried to grab his hand, but it was too large. She settled for squeezing two of his fingers. Gradually Skink drew himself back into the Jeep and appraised the tense drama unfolding in the front seat.
"You heard me," Snapper was saying.
"So that was you," Edie said, "calling me a cunt."
Violently Snapper twisted the gun barrel, bunching the fabric of Edie's blouse and wringing the soft flesh beneath it. God, Bonnie thought, that's got to hurt.
Edie Marsh didn't let it show.
"Drive!" Snapper told her again.
"When I'm through watching Flipper."
"Fuck Flipper." Snapper raised the .357 and fired once through the top of the Jeep.
Bonnie Lamb cried out and covered her ears. Edie Marsh clutched the steering wheel to steady herself. The pain in her right breast made her wonder briefly if she was shot. She wasn't.
Snapper cheerlessly eyed the hole in the roof of the truck; the acrid whiff of cordite made him sneeze. "God bless me," he said, with a dark chuckle.
A door opened. Skink got out of the Jeep to stretch. "Don't you love this place!" He unfolded his long arms toward the clouds. "Don't it bring out the beast in your soul!"
Glorious, Bonnie agreed silently. That's the word for it.
"Get back in the car," Snapper barked.
Skink obliged, shaking the raindrops from his hair like a sheep dog. Without a word, Edie Marsh started the engine and drove on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
"What do you mean, no roosters?"
The owner of the botdnica apologized. It had been a busy week for fowl. He offered Avila a sacrificial billy goat instead.
Avila said, "No way, Jose." The sutures from his goring itched constantly. "I never heard anyone running outta roosters. What else you got?"
"Turtles."
"I don't got time to do turtles," Avila said. Removing the shells was a messy chore. "You got any pigeons?"
"Sorry, meng."
"Lambs?"
"Tomorrow morning."
"How about cats?"
"No, meng, hiss no legal."
"Yeah, like you give a shit." Avila checked his wristwatch; he had to hurry, do this thing then get on the road to the Keys. "OK, senor, what do you got?"
The shop owner led him to a small storage room and pointed at a wooden crate. Inside, Avila could make out a furry brown animal the size of a beagle. It had shoe-button eyes, an anteater nose, and a long slender tail circled with black rings.
Avila said, "What, some kinda raccoon?"
"Coatimundi. From South America."
The animal chittered inquisitively and poked its velvety nostrils through the slats of the crate. It was one of the oddest creatures Avila had ever seen.
"Big medicine," promised the shop owner.
"I need something for Chango."
"Oh, Chango would love heem." The shop owner had astutely pegged Avila for a rank amateur who knew next to nothing about santeria. The shop owner said, "Si, es muy bueno por Chango."
Avila said, "Will it bite?"
"No, my freng. See?" The botanica man tickled the coati's moist nose. "Like a puppy dog."
"OK, how much?"
"Seventy-five."
"Here's sixty, chico. Help me carry it to the car."
As he drove up to the house, Avila saw the Buick backing out of the driveway; his wife and her mother, undoubtedly off to Indian bingo. He waved. They waved.
Avila gloated. Perfect timing. For once I'll have the place to myself. Quickly he dragged the wooden crate into the garage and lowered the electric door. The coati huffed in objection. From a cane-wicker chest Avila hastily removed the implements of sacrifice-tarnished pennies, coconut husks, the bleached ribs of a cat, polished turtle shells, and an old pewter goblet. From a galvanized lockbox Avila took his newest, and potentially most powerful, artifact-the gnawed chip of bone belonging to the evil man who had tried to crucify him. Reverently, and with high hopes, Avila placed the bone in the pewter goblet, soon to be filled with animal blood.
For sustenance Chango was known to favor dry wine and candies; the best Avila could do, on short notice, was a pitcher of sangria and a roll of stale wintergreen Life Savers. He lighted three tall candles and arranged them triangularly on the cement floor of the garage. Inside the triangle, he began to set up the altar. The coatimundi had gone silent; Avila felt its stare from between the slats. Could it know? He whisked the thought from his mind.
The final item to be removed from the wicker chest was the most important: a ten-inch hunting knife, with a handle carved from genuine elk antler. The knife was an antique, made in Wyoming. Avila had received it as a bribe when he worked as a county building inspector– a Christmas offering from an unlicensed roofer hoping that Avila might overlook a seriously defective scissor truss. Somehow Avila had found it in his heart to do just that.
Vigorously he sharpened the hunting knife on a whetstone. The coati began to pace and snort. Avila discreetly concealed the gleaming blade from the doomed animal. Then he stepped inside the triangle of candles and improvised a short prayer to Chango, who (Avila trusted) would understand that he was pressed for time.
Afterwards he took a pry bar and started peeling the wooden slats off the crate. The sacramental coati became highly agitated. Avila attempted to soothe it with soft words, but the beast wasn't fooled. It shot from the crate and tore crazed circles throughout the garage, scattering cat bones and tipping two of the santeria candles. Avila tried to subdue the coati by stunning it with the pry bar, but it was too swift and agile. Like a monkey, it vertically scampered up a wall of metal shelves and bounded onto the ceiling track of the electric door-opener. There it perched, using its remarkable tail for balance, squealing and baring sharp yellow teeth. Meanwhile one of the santeria candles rolled beneath Avila's lawn mower, igniting the gas tank. Cursing bitterly, Avila ran to the kitchen for the fire extinguisher. When he returned to the garage, he was confronted with fresh disaster.
The electric door was open. In the driveway was his wife's Buick, idling. Why she had come back, Avila didn't know. Perhaps she'd decided to pilfer the buried Tupperware for extra bingo money. It truly didn't matter.
Apparently her mother had emerged from the car first. The scene that greeted Avila was so stupefying that he temporarily forgot about the flaming lawn mower. For reasons beyond human comprehension, the overwrought coatimundi had jumped from its roost in the garage, dashed outdoors and scaled Avila's mother-in-law. Now the creature was nesting in the woman's coiffure, a brittle edifice of chromium orange. Avila had always believed that his wife's mother wore wigs, but here was persuasive evidence that her fantastic mop was genuine. She shrieked and spun about the front yard, flailing spastically at the demon on her scalp. The jabbering coati dug in with all four claws. No hairpiece, Avila decided, could withstand such a test.
His wife bilingually shouted that he should do something, for God's sake, don't just stand there! The pry bar was out of the question; one misplaced blow and that would be the end of his mother-in-law. So Avila tried the fire extinguisher. He unloaded at point-blank range, soaping the stubborn animal with sodium bicarbonate.
The coati snarled and snapped but, incredibly, refused to vacate the old woman's hair. In the turmoil it was inevitable that some of the cold mist from the fire extinguisher would hit Avila's mother-in-law, who mashed her knuckles to her eyes and began a blind run. Avila gave chase for three-quarters of a block, periodically firing short bursts, but the old woman showed surprising speed.
Avila gave up and trotted home to extinguish the fire in the garage. Afterwards he rolled the charred lawn mower to the backyard and hosed it down. His distraug
ht wife remained sprawled across the hood of the Buick, crying: "Mami, mamt, luke what chew did to my mamil"
Above her keening rose the unmistakable whine of sirens-someone on the block had probably called the fire department. Avila thought: Why can't people mind their own goddamn business! He was steaming as he hurried to his car.
At the very moment he fit the key in the ignition, the passenger window exploded. Avila nearly wet himself in shock. There stood his wife, beet-faced and seething, holding the iron pry bar.
