Stormy Weather (3 page)

The Lambs exited the Turnpike at Quail Roost Drive. Bonnie was stunned by the devastation; Max himself was aglow. He held the Handycam on his lap as he steered. Every two or three blocks, he slowed to videotape spectacular rubble. A flattened hardware store. The remains of a Sizzler steak house. A school bus impaled by a forty-foot pine.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Max Lamb was saying. “Isn’t it amazing!”

Bonnie Lamb shuddered. She said they should stop at the nearest shelter and volunteer to help.

Max paid no attention. He parked in front of an exploded town house. The hurricane had thrown a motorboat into the living room. The family—a middle-aged Latin man, his wife, two little girls—stood in a daze on the sidewalk. They wore matching yellow rain slickers.

Max Lamb got out of the car. “Mind if I get some video?”

The man numbly consented. Max photographed the wrecked building from several dramatic angles. Then, stepping through the plaster and broken furniture and twisted toys, he casually entered the house. Bonnie couldn’t believe it: He walked right through the gash that was once the front door!

She apologized to the family, but the man said he didn’t mind; he’d need pictures anyway, for the insurance people. His daughters began to sob and tremble. Bonnie Lamb knelt to comfort them. Over her shoulder she caught sight of her husband with the camera at his eye, recording the scene through a broken window.

Later, in the rental car, she said: “That was the sickest thing I ever saw.”

“Yes, it’s very sad.”

“I’m talking about you,” Bonnie snapped.

“What?”

“Max, I want to go home.”

“I bet we can sell some of this tape.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Max said: “I bet we can sell it to C-SPAN. Pay for the whole honeymoon!”

Bonnie closed her eyes. What had she done? Was her mother right about this man? Latent asshole, her mother had whispered at the wedding. Was she right?

At dusk Edie Marsh swallowed two Darvons and reviewed the plan with Snapper, who was having second thoughts. He seemed troubled at the idea of waiting weeks for the payoff. Edie said there wasn’t much choice, the way insurance worked. Snapper said he planned to keep his options open, just the same. Edie Marsh took it to mean he’d bug out on a moment’s notice.

They had picked a house in a flattened development called Turtle Meadow, where the hurricane had peeled away all the roofs. Snapper said it was probably one of Avila’s routes. He said Avila had bragged of inspecting eighty new homes a day without leaving the truck. “Rolling quotas,” is what Avila called them. Snapper allowed that Avila wasn’t much of a roof inspector, as he was deathly afraid of heights and therefore refused to take a ladder on his rounds. Consequently, Avila’s roof certifications were done visually, from a vehicle, at speeds often exceeding thirty-five miles an hour. Snapper said Avila’s swiftness and trusting attitude had made him a favorite among the local builders and contractors, especially at Christmastime.

Scanning the debris, Edie Marsh said Avila was damn lucky not to be in jail. That’s why he quit when he did, Snapper explained. The bones told him it was time. That, and a grand jury.

Bones? said Edie.

You don’t want to know, Snapper said. Honestly.

They were walking along the sidewalk, across the street from the house they had chosen on the drive-by that morning. Now the neighborhood was pitch black except for the erratic flicker of flashlights and the glow of a few small bonfires. Many families had abandoned the crumbled shells of their homes for nearby motels, but a few men had stayed to patrol against looters. The men wore pinched tense expressions
and carried shotguns. Snapper was glad to be white and wearing a suit.

The house he and Edie Marsh had chosen wasn’t empty, dark or quiet. A bare light bulb had been strung from the skeletal remains of the roof, and the gray-blue glow of a television set pulsed against the plaster. These luxuries were explained by the rumble of a portable generator. Edie and Snapper had seen a fat man gassing it up earlier in the day.

The street was either Turtle Meadow Lane or Calusa Drive, depending on which of the fallen street signs was accurate. The number “15600” was sprayed in red paint on an outside wall of the house, as was the name of the insurance company: “Midwest Casualty.”

A big outfit, Edie noted. She’d seen the commercials on television; the company’s symbol was a badger.

“A badger?” Snapper frowned. “The fuck does a badger have to do with insurance?”

“I dunno.” Edie’s mouth was dry. She felt sleepy. “What does a cougar have to do with cars? It’s just advertising is all.”

Snapper said, “The only thing I know about badgers is they’re stubborn. And the last goddamn thing we need’s a stubborn insurance company.”

Edie said, “For heaven’s sake—”

“Let’s find another house.”

“No!” Weaving slightly, she crossed the street toward 15600.

“You hear me?” Snapper called, then started after her.

Edie wheeled in the driveway. “Let’s do it!” she said. “Right now, while it’s quiet.”

Snapper hesitated, working his jaw like a dazed boxer.

“Come on!” Edie tugged her hair out of the bun and mussed it into a nest in front of her face. Then she hitched her dress and raked her fingernails up both thighs, tearing tracks in her nylons.

Snapper checked to make sure none of the neighborhood vigilantes were watching. Edie picked a place on the driveway and stretched out, facedown. Using two broken roof trusses, Snapper did a superb job setting the scene. Edie was pinned.

From under the debris, she said, “Blood would help.”

Snapper kicked a nail toward her left hand. “Take it easy.”

Edie Marsh held her breath and scratched the point of the nail from her elbow to her wrist. It hurt like a bitch. She wiped her arm
across one cheek to smear the blood for dramatic effect. On cue, Snapper began shouting for help. Edie was impressed; he sounded damn near sincere.

Max Lamb congratulated himself for stocking up on video supplies before they drove down from Orlando. Other tourists had not come so prepared for the hurricane and could be seen foraging through luggage in a manic search for spare tapes and batteries. Meanwhile, pausing only to reload, Max Lamb was compiling dramatic footage of a historic natural disaster. Even if C-SPAN wasn’t interested, his friends in New York would be. Max was a junior account executive at a medium-sized advertising firm, and there were many persons whom he yearned to impress. Max was handy with the Sony, but it wouldn’t hurt to seek professional assistance; he knew of a place on East Fiftieth Street that edited home videos and, for a small extra charge, added titles and credits. It would be perfect! Once Bonnie settled down, Max Lamb would ask her about throwing a cocktail party where they could screen the hurricane tapes for his clients and his colleagues at the agency.

Max trotted with predatory energy from one wrecked homestead to another, the video camera purring in his hand. He was so absorbed in recording the tragedy that he forgot about his wife, who had stopped following three blocks ago. Max had wanted to show Bonnie how to use the camera so he could pose amid hurricane debris; she’d told him she would rather swallow a gallon of lye.

For editing purposes, Max Lamb kept a mental inventory of his best shots. He had plenty of rubble scenes, and felt the need to temper the visual shock with moments of poignancy—vignettes that would capture the human toll, spiritual as well as physical.

A mangled bicycle grabbed Max’s attention. The hurricane had wrapped it, as snug as a wedding band, around the trunk of a coconut palm. A boy no older than eight was trying to remove the bike. Max dropped to one knee and zoomed in on the youngster’s face as he tugged grimly on the bent handlebars. The boy’s expression was dull and cold, his lips pressed tight in concentration.

Max thought: He’s in shock. Doesn’t even know I’m here.

The youngster didn’t seem to care that his bicycle was destroyed beyond repair. He simply wanted the tree to give it back. He pulled and pulled with all his might. The empty eyes showed no sign of frustration.

Amazing, Max Lamb thought as he peered through the view-finder.
Amazing
.

Something jostled his right arm, and the boy’s image in the viewfinder shook. A hand tugged at Max’s sleeve. Cursing, he looked up from the Handycam.

It was a monkey.

Max Lamb pivoted on one heel and aimed the camera at the scrawny animal. Through the viewfinder he saw that the monkey had come through the storm in miserable shape. Its auburn fur was matted and crusty. A bruise as plump as a radish rose from the bridge of its broad velvet nose. The shoe-button eyes were squinty and ringed with milky ooze.

Swaying on its haunches, the monkey bared its gums in a woozy yawn. Listlessly it began to paw at its tail.

“See what we have here—a wild monkey!” Max narrated, for the benefit of future viewers. “Just look at this poor little fella.…”

From behind him, a flat voice: “Better watch it, mister.” It was the boy with the broken bicycle.

Max, the Handycam still at his eye, said, “What’s the matter, son?”

“Better watch out for that thing. My dad, he had to shoot one last night.”

“Is that right?” Max smiled to himself. Why would anyone shoot a monkey?

“They’re real sick. That’s what my dad said.”

“Well, I’ll certainly be careful,” said Max Lamb. He heard footsteps as the strange boy ran off.

Through the viewfinder, Max noticed the monkey’s brow was twitching oddly. Suddenly it was airborne. Max lowered the camera just as the animal struck his face, knocking him backward. Miniature rubbery fingers dug at Max’s nostrils and eyes. He cried out fearfully. The monkey’s damp fur smelled awful.

Max Lamb began rolling in the dirt as if he were on fire. Screeching, the wiry little creature let go. Max sat up, scrubbing his face with the sleeves of his shirt. The stinging told him he’d been scratched. For starters he would require a tetanus booster, and then something more potent to counteract the monkey germs.

As he rose to his feet, Max heard chittering behind the palm tree. He was poised to run, until he spotted the monkey loping with an addled gait in the opposite direction. It was dragging something by a strap.

Max Lamb was enraged. The damn thing was stealing his Handy-cam! Idiotically he gave pursuit.

An hour later, when Bonnie Lamb went looking for her husband, he was gone.

Two uniformed Highway Patrol troopers stood in the rain at the top of the bridge. One was a tall, powerfully built black man. The other officer was a woman of milky smooth complexion and medium height, with a bun of reddish-brown hair. Together they leaned against the concrete rail and stared down a long length of broken rope, dangling in the breeze over the choppy brown water.

Five motorists had phoned on their cellulars to report that a crazy man was tied to the Card Sound Bridge. That was only hours before the hurricane, when every police officer within fifty miles had been busy evacuating the sane. Nobody had time for jumpers, so nobody checked the bridge.

The black trooper had been sent to Miami all the way from Liberty County, in northern Florida, to help clear traffic for the rescue convoys. At the command center he’d caught a glimpse of the incident notation in the dispatch log—“White male, 40–50 yrs old, 190–220 lbs, gray hair/beard, possible psych. case”—and decided to sneak down to North Key Largo for a look. Technically he was assigned to Homestead, but in the post-storm chaos it was easy to roam and not be missed. He had asked the other trooper to ride with him, and even though she was off duty she’d said yes.

Now motorists crossing the steep bridge braked in curiosity at the sight of the two troopers at the top.
What’re they looking at, Mom? Is there a dead body in the water?

Raindrops trickled from the brim of the black trooper’s Stetson as he gazed across Biscayne Bay, leaden and frothy after the dreadful storm. He reached over the rail and hauled up the soggy rope. After examining the end of it, he showed the rope to the other trooper and said, with a weariness: “That’s my boy.”

The rope hadn’t snapped in the hurricane. It had been cut with a knife.

Tony Torres sat in what remained of his living room and sipped what remained of his Chivas. He found it amusing that his “Salesman of the Year” award had survived the hurricane; it was all that remained hanging on the rain-soaked walls. Tony Torres recalled the party two months earlier, when they’d given him the cheap laminated plaque. It was his reward for selling seventy-seven double-wide house trailers, eighteen more than any other salesman in the history of PreFab Luxury Homes, formerly Tropic Trailers, formerly A-Plus Affordable Homes, Ltd. In the cutthroat world of mobile-home sales, Tony Torres had become a star. His boss had presented the Chivas and a thousand-dollar bonus along with the plaque. They’d paid a waitress to dance topless on a table and sing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

Oh well, Tony Torres thought. Life’s a fucking roller coaster. He stroked the stock of the shotgun that lay across his globe-shaped lap, and remembered things he wished he didn’t. For instance, that bullshit in the sales pitch about U.S. government safety regulations…

The Steens had questioned him thoroughly about hurricanes. So had the Ramirezes and the pain-in-the-ass Stichlers. So had Beatrice Jackson, the widow, and her no-neck son. Tony Torres always said what he’d been coached to say, that PreFab Luxury Homes built state-of-the-art homes guaranteed to withstand high winds. Uncle Sam set the specs. It’s all there in the brochure!

So Tony’s customers secured their mortgages and bought up the double-wides, and then the hurricane came and blew them away. All seventy-seven. The trailers imploded, exploded, popped off the tie-downs and took off like fucking aluminum ducks. Not one of the damn things made it through the storm. One minute they were
pleasant-looking middle-class dwellings, with VCRs and convertible sofas and baby cribs… and the next minute they were shrapnel. Tony Torres had driven to the trailer park to see for himself. The place looked like a war zone. He was about to get out of the car when somebody recognized him—old man Stichler, who began spluttering insanely and hurling jagged debris at the salesman. Tony drove off at a high rate of speed. Later he learned that the widow Jackson was found dead in the wreckage of the trailer court.