Stormy Weather (37 page)

On Plantation Key the highway narrowed again, and as the traffic merged to two lanes, Jim Tile thought he spotted the black Cherokee not far ahead. Quickly he turned off the blue lights. It had to be the same Jeep; the shiny mud flaps were as preposterous as Augustine had described them.

Four vehicles separated Jim Tile from the Jeep—three passenger cars, and a station wagon towing a fishing boat on a wobbly trailer. The boat was tall and beamy enough to make it hard for those in the Jeep to see the marked police car in the stacked traffic behind them. Already the rain was falling, fat drops popping sporadically on the hood of the Ford. The thickening sky promised a deluge.

The station wagon in front of Jim Tile began an untimely, though predictable, deceleration. Bad omens abounded: Michigan license plates suggested unfamiliarity with local landmarks; the driver and a female passenger were gesticulating heatedly, indicating a marital-type disagreement. Most distressing, from Jim Tile’s point of view: A third passenger clearly could be seen unfolding a road map as large as a tablecloth.

They’re lost, the trooper thought. Lost in the Florida Keys. Where there was only one way in and out. Amazing.

Now the map was being passed to the front seat, where the driver and his wife pawed at it competitively. The station wagon began snaking back and forth, followed somewhat indecisively by the boat trailer. Two McDonald’s bags flew from one of the car’s windows, exploding unwanted French fries and ketchup packets on the shoulder of the highway.

“Pigs,” Jim Tile said aloud. He scowled at the speedometer: thirty-two damn miles per hour. If he tried to pass, the guy in the Jeep might see him coming. The trooper boiled. As the rain fell harder, he went to his windshield wipers and headlights.

The sluggish station wagon stayed ahead of him for the entire length of Plantation Key, until its sole operative brake light began to flicker. The rig meandered to a dead stop.

Dispiritedly, Jim Tile put the patrol car in Park, thinking: This ain’t my day.

Ahead rose the Snake Creek drawbridge. The black Jeep and the three cars behind it easily crossed before the warning gates came down. The moron in the station wagon would have beaten it, too, had he ventured to touch the accelerator.

Now the trooper was stuck. The Jeep was on the other side of the waterway, out of sight. Jim Tile stepped from his car and slammed the door. With raindrops trickling off the brim of his Stetson, he approached the witless driver of the station wagon and asked for a license, registration and proof of insurance. In the eight minutes that passed before the Snake Creek bridge came down, the trooper managed to weigh the bewildered tourist with seven separate traffic citations, at least three of which would inconveniently require a personal appearance in court.

On the way to the Torres house, Fred Dove stopped to buy flowers and white wine. He wanted Edie Marsh to know he was proud of her performance as Neria, devoted wife of Tony.

When the insurance man pulled up to 15600 Calusa, he saw that the Jeep wasn’t in the driveway. His heart quickened at the possibility that Snapper was gone, leaving him alone with Edie. Not that she was fussy about privacy, but Fred Dove was. He couldn’t perform at full throttle, sexually, as long as a homicidal maniac was watching TV in an adjoining room. Snapper’s loud and truculent presence was deflating in all respects.

Nobody answered when the insurance man rapped on the wooden doorjamb. He stepped into the Torres house and called Edie’s name. The only reply came from the two miniature dachshunds, barking in the backyard; they sounded tired and hoarse.

The ugly Naugahyde recliner in the living room was unoccupied, and the television was off. Fred Dove was encouraged—no Snapper. Inside the house, the light was fading. When the insurance man flipped a lamp switch, nothing happened. The generator wasn’t running; out of gas, probably. He found Snapper’s flashlight and peeked in the rooms, hoping to spy Edie napping languorously on a mattress. She wasn’t.

Fred Dove saw her purse on the kitchen counter. Her wallet lay open on top. Inside he found twenty-two dollars and a Visa card. Fred Dove was relieved; at least the house hadn’t been robbed. He held Edie’s driver’s license under the flashlight; her expression in the photograph spooked him. It was not a portrait of pure trustworthiness and devotion.

Oh well, he thought, lots of girls look like Lizzie Borden on their driver’s license.

The insurance man returned to the living room, lit a candle and sat in the recliner. He wondered where Edie had gone and why she’d left her purse when she knew the streets were crawling with looters. It seemed like she’d departed in a hurry, probably in the Jeep with Snapper.

Fred Dove settled in for a wait. The candle smelled of vanilla. The cozy way it lighted the walls reminded him of the night they nearly made love on the floor, the night Snapper barged in. The humiliation of that moment still stung; it had invested Snapper with indomitable power over the insurance man. That, plus the loaded gun. Fred Dove could hardly wait until the psycho thug was paid off. Then he and Edie would be free of him.

Every so often the insurance man switched on the flashlight and reexamined Edie’s picture on the driver’s license. The vulturine eyes did not soften. Fred Dove wondered if it was her deviousness that he found so arousing. The notion disturbed him, so he retreated to innocuous diversions. He hadn’t known, for example, that her middle name was Deborah. It was a name he liked: plucky, Midwestern and reliable-sounding. He was willing to bet that if you went through every women’s prison in America, you wouldn’t find a half-dozen
Deborahs. Perhaps the name had been taken from one of Edie’s grandmothers, or that of a special aunt. In any event, he regarded it as a positive sign.

He wondered, too, about the apartment listed as her address in West Palm: what kind of art Edie had hung on the walls, what color towels were folded in the bathroom, what sort of homey magnets were stuck on her refrigerator door. Linus and Snoopy? Garfield the Cat?
If only
, Fred Dove thought. He thought about Edie’s bed, too. He hoped it was king-sized, brass or a big wooden four-poster—anything but a water bed, which negatively affected his thrusting techniques. Fred Dove hoped the sheets on Edie’s bed were imported silk, and that one day she would invite him to lie down on them.

The insurance man stayed in the recliner for more than two hours, long after the neighborhood chain saws and hammers had fallen silent. He finally arose to take a position near a windowpane, in glum preparation to witness the vandalism of his rental car by a group of swaggering, loud-talking teenagers. Mercifully they ignored Fred Dove’s drab sedan, but minutes after they passed the house he heard a pop-pop that could have been the backfire of an automobile, or gunshots. In the backyard Donald and Marla dissolved in frenzy, striking up an irksome chorus with half a dozen other vigilant dogs on the block. Fred Dove’s nerves were fraying fast. He returned Edie’s driver’s license to the purse. Hurriedly he arranged the flowers in a vase and placed it next to the unopened wine on the dining-room table. Then he blew out the candle and went outside to check on the dachshunds.

Tangled impressively in their leashes, the animals whimpered out of hunger, loneliness and general anxiety. Their low-density memories still twitched from the near-fatal encounter with the prowling bear. The moment Fred Dove set them free, the dachshunds clambered up his lap and licked his chin shamelessly. He was suckered into giving them a short walk.

Admiring the unfettered mirth with which Donald and Marla pranced and peed, the insurance man was bothered by the idea that they might spend the whole night outdoors and unattended. He wrote Edie a note and folded it on top of her purse. Then he led the two wiener dogs to his rented sedan, drove back to the motel and smuggled them in a laundry bag up to his room. It was marginally better than all-night movies on cable.

•  •  •

The motels in the Upper Keys were filling with out-of-town insurance adjusters. The clerk at the Paradise Palms said she felt uncomfortable, profiting off the hurricane.

“But a customer’s a customer. Can I have your name?”

Augustine introduced himself as Lester’s brother. “I phoned earlier. What’s his room number?”

“He’s not here yet.” The clerk leaned across the counter and whispered: “But your sisters checked in about twenty minutes ago. Room 255. I mean, I’m assuming sisters, on account of they’re Parsons, too.”

“Parsons indeed.” Augustine nodded and acted pleased. Sisters? He couldn’t imagine.

He paid for his room with cash. The clerk said, “Those girls know how to dress for a party, I’ll sure say that.”

“Oh boy,” said Augustine. “What have they done now?”

“Don’t you go fussing—let ’em have their fun, all right?” She handed him his key. “You’re in 240. I tried to put you in the unit next door, but some wise guy from Prudential, he didn’t want to switch.”

“That’s quite all right.”

Once inside his room, Augustine put the loaded .38 on the bureau, near the door. He took the parts of the dart rifle from the gym bag and laid them on the bedspread. The muscles of his neck were in knots. He wished he’d brought a few skulls, for relaxation.

Augustine turned up the TV while he assembled the tranquilizer gun. He was surprised that he’d beaten the black Jeep to Islamorada, hadn’t even passed it on the eighteen-mile stretch south of Florida City. He wondered if they’d turned on Card Sound Road, or stopped someplace else—and why. His worst fear, the thing he kept pushing out of his mind, was that the creep with the crooked jaw had already killed Skink and Bonnie, and dumped them. There were only about a hundred ideal locations between Homestead and Key Largo; years might pass before the bodies were found.

Well, he’d know soon enough. If the asshole showed up without them, then Augustine would know.

If the asshole showed up at all. Augustine still wasn’t sure if “Lester Parsons” was the man with the crooked jaw.

He stood the dart rifle in a closet and put the pistol in his waistband, under the tail of his shirt. Rain whipped his face as soon as he
stepped out the door. He shielded his eyes and hurried along the walkway to Room 255. He knocked seven times in a neighborly cadence—shave-and-a-haircut, two bits—to give the false impression that he was expected.

The door was flung open by a fragrant redheaded woman in high heels and a luminous green bikini. Augustine recognized her as the hooker in fishnets from 15600 Calusa.

An orange sucker was tattooed on the freckled slope of her left breast. In her left hand was a frosty Rum Runner.

She said, “Shit, I thought you were Snapper.”

“Wrong room,” said Augustine. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Another woman came out of the bathroom, saying, “Goddamn this rain. I wanted to go in the pool.” She wore a silver one-piece suit, an explosive white-blonde wig and gold hoop earrings. When she saw Augustine in the doorway, she said, “Who’re you?”

“I thought this was my sister’s room, but I guess I’m at the wrong motel.”

The redhead introduced herself as Bridget. “You wanna come in and dry off?”

“Not if it gets Snapper mad.” Augustine was thinking: Snapper—now what the hell kind of name is
that
?

The redhead laughed. “Yeah, he’s quite the jealous maniac. Come on in.”

The blonde said, “Jesus, Bridget, they’re gonna be here any second—”

But Augustine was already inside the room, scouting unobtrusively: an overnight bag, two cosmetic cases, a cocktail dress on a hanger. Nothing out of the ordinary. Bridget tossed him a towel. She said her friend’s name was Jasmine. They were from Miami.

“My name’s George,” said Augustine, “from California.” Inanely he shook hands with the hookers.

Bridget held on, examining his ring finger. “Not married?”

“Afraid not.” Augustine gently tugged free.

Jasmine told Bridget to forget it, they didn’t have enough time. Bridget said they wouldn’t need much.

“George looks like a fast starter.” She winked somewhat mechanically at Augustine. “You want some fun until the rain stops?”

“Thanks, but I really can’t stay.”

“Hundred bucks,” Bridget suggested. “Double date.”

Jasmine pulled a long white T-shirt over her swimsuit. She griped: “Hey, do I get a vote in this? A hundred for what?”

Bridget slipped a milky arm around Augustine’s waist and pulled him close. The obvious implant in her left breast felt like a sack of nickels against his rib cage. “Seventy-five,” she said, dropping her eyes to the bright tattoo, “and I’ll give you a taste of my Tootsie Pop.”

“Can’t,” Augustine said. “Diabetic.”

Jasmine gave a biting laugh. “You’re both pitiful. Bridget, let ‘George from California’ go find his sisters.” She sat cross-legged on the bed and applied pungent glue to a broken artificial fingernail. “Boy, this weather’s suck-o,” she muttered, to no one.

Bridget’s motivational hug went slack, and slowly she recoiled from Augustine’s side. “Our man George has a gun.” She announced it with a mix of alarm and regret. “I felt it.”

Jasmine, blowing on her glue job, looked up. “Goddamn, Bridget, I knew it! You happy now? We’re busted.”

“No you’re not.” Augustine took out the pistol and displayed it in a loose and casual way, hoping to quell their concerns. “I’m not a cop, I promise.”

Jasmine’s eyes narrowed. “Shit,
now
I know. The squeaker sent you.”

“Who?”

“Avila.”

“Never heard of him.”

Bridget backpedaled to the bed and sat next to her friend. Nervously she crossed her arms over her breasts. “Then who the hell are you,
George
? What is it you’re after?”

“Information.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Really. I just want you to tell me about this ‘Snapper,’” said Augustine, “and I also want to know if you two ladies can keep a secret.”

The professor’s VW van ran out of gas two miles shy of the Fort Drum service plaza. Neria Torres stood by the Turnpike and flagged down a truck. It was an old Chevy pickup; three men in the cab, four others sprawled in the bed. They were from Tennessee. Neria wasn’t crazy about the odds.