Stormy Weather (14 page)

“I don’t know where she is. That damn answering machine—”

“And the crap about you and her having a fight—”

“I didn’t want Peter to worry,” Max said.

“Well, God forbid.” Skink jammed the transmission into Park and flung himself out the door. He reappeared in the beam of the headlights, a hoary apparition crouched on the pavement. Max Lamb craned to see what he was doing.

Skink strolled back to the station wagon and tossed a dead opossum on the seat next to Max, who gasped and recoiled. A few miles later, Skink added a truck-flattened coachwhip snake to the evening’s menu. Max forgot about his bladder until they made camp at an abandoned horse barn west of Krome.

The horses were gone, scattered by the storm; the owners had come by to retrieve the saddles and tack, and to scatter feed in case any of the animals returned. Max Lamb stood alone in the musky darkness and relieved himself torrentially. He considered running, but feared he wouldn’t survive a single night alone in nature. In Max’s mind, all Florida south of Orlando was an immense swamp, humidly teeming with feral beasts. Some had claws and poisonous fangs, some drove airboats and feasted on roadkill. They were all the same to Max.

Skink appeared at his side to announce that dinner soon would be served. Max followed him into the stables. He asked if it was wise to make a campfire inside a barn. Skink replied that it was extremely dangerous, but cozy.

Max Lamb was impressed that the odor of horseshit could not be vanquished by a mere Force Four hurricane. On a positive note, the fragrance of dung completely neutralized the aroma of boiled
opossum and pan-fried snake. After supper Skink stripped to his boxer shorts and did two hundred sit-ups in a cloud of ancient manure dust. Then he retrieved the large cardboard box from the car and brought it inside the barn. He asked Max if he wanted a cigaret.

“No, thanks,” Max said. “I don’t smoke.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Never have,” Max said.

“But you sell the stuff—”

“We do the advertising. That’s it.”

“Ah,” Skink said. “Just the advertising.” He picked his trousers off the floor and went through the pockets. Max Lamb thought he was looking for matches, but he wasn’t. He was looking for the remote control to the shock collar.

When Max regained his senses, he lay in wet moldering hay. His eyeballs were jumping in their sockets, and his neck felt tingly and hot. He sat up and said, “What’d I do?”

“Surely you believe in the products you advertise.”

“Look, I don’t smoke.”

“You could learn.” With a pocketknife, Skink opened the cardboard box. The box was full of Bronco cigarets, probably four dozen cartons. Max Lamb failed to conceal his alarm.

The kidnapper asked how he could be sure of a product until he tested it himself. Grimly Max responded: “I also do the ads for raspberry-scented douche, but I don’t use the stuff.”

“Careful,” said Skink, brightly, “or you’ll give me another brainstorm.” He opened a pack of Broncos. He tapped one out and inserted it between Max’s lips. He struck a match on the wall of the barn and lit the cigaret.

“Well?”

Max spit out the cigaret. “This is ridiculous.”

Skink retrieved the soggy Bronco and replaced it in Max’s frowning mouth. “You got two choices,” he said, fingering the remote control, “smoke or be smoked.”

Reluctantly Max Lamb took a drag on the cigaret. Immediately he began to cough. It worsened as Skink tied him upright to a post. “You people are a riddle to me, Max. Why you come down here. Why you act the way you do. Why you live such lives.”

“For God’s sake—”

“Shut up now. Please.”

Skink dug through the backpack and took out a Walkman. He chose a damp corner of the barn and put on the headphones. He lighted what appeared to be a joint, except it didn’t smell like marijuana.

“What’s that?” Max asked.

“Toad.” Skink took a hit. After a few minutes, his good eye rolled back in his head and his neck went limp.

Max Lamb went through the Broncos like a machine. Whenever Skink opened an eye, he tapped a finger to his neck—a menacing reminder of the shock collar. Max smoked and smoked. He was finishing number twenty-three when Skink shook out of the stupor and rose.

“Damn good toad.” He plucked the Bronco from Max’s mouth.

“I feel sick, captain.”

Skink untied him and told him to rest up. “Tomorrow you’re going to leave a message for your wife. You’re going to arrange a meeting.”

“What for?”

“So I can observe the two of you together. The chemistry, the starry eyes, all that shit. OK?”

Skink went outside and crawled under the station wagon, where he curled up and began to snore. Max coughed himself to sleep in the barn.

Bonnie Lamb awoke in Augustine’s arms. Her guilt was diluted by the observation that he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She didn’t remember him dressing during the night, but obviously he had. She was reasonably sure that no sex had occurred; plenty of tears, yes, but no sex.

Bonnie wanted to pull away without waking him. Otherwise there might be an awkward moment, the two of them lying there embraced. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d know exactly what not to say. Clearly he was experienced with crying women, because he was exceptionally good at hugging and whispering. When she found herself thinking about how nice he smelled, Bonnie knew it was time to sneak out of bed.

As she’d hoped, Augustine had the good manners to pretend to stay asleep until she was safely in the kitchen, making coffee.

When he walked in, she felt herself blush. “I’m so sorry,” she blurted, “for last night.”

“Why? Did you take advantage of me?” He went to the refrigerator and took out a carton of eggs. “I’m a heavy sleeper,” he said. “Easy prey for sex-crazed babes.”

“Especially newlyweds.”

“Oh, they’re the worst,” said Augustine. “Ravenous harlots. You want scrambled or fried?”

“Fried.” She sat at the table. She tore open a packet of NutraSweet and managed to miss the coffee cup entirely. “Please believe me. I don’t usually sleep with strange men.”

“Sleeping is fine. It’s the screwing you want to watch out for.” He was peeling an orange at the sink. “Relax, OK? Nothing happened.”

Bonnie smiled. “Can I at least say thanks, for being a friend.”

“You’re very welcome, Mrs. Lamb.” He glanced over his shoulder. “What’s so funny?”

“The jeans.”

“Don’t tell me there’s a hole.”

“No. It’s just—well, you got up in the middle of the night to put them on. It was a sweet gesture.”

“Actually, it was more of a precaution.” The eggs sizzled when Augustine dropped them into the hot pan. “I’m surprised you even noticed,” he said, causing Bonnie to redden once more.

In the middle of breakfast, the phone rang. It was the Medical Examiner’s Office—another John Doe was being hauled to the county morgue. The coroner on duty wanted Bonnie to stop by for a look. Augustine said she’d call him back. He put the phone down and told her.

“Can they make me go?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Because it’s not Max,” Bonnie said. “Max is too busy talking to Rodale and Burns.”

“A white male is all they said. Apparent homicide.”

The last word hung in the air like sulfur. Bonnie put down her fork. “It can’t be him.”

“Probably not,” Augustine agreed. “We don’t have to go.”

She got up and went to the bathroom. Soon Augustine heard the shower running. He was washing the dishes when she came out. She was dressed. Her wet hair was brushed back, and she’d found the intern’s rose lipstick in the medicine chest.

“I guess I need to be sure,” she said.

Augustine nodded. “You’ll feel better.”

Snapper’s real name was Lester Maddox Parsons. His mother named him after a Georgia politician best known for scaring off black restaurant customers with an ax handle. Snapper’s mother believed Lester Maddox should be President of the United States and the whole white world. Snapper’s father leaned toward James Earl Ray. When Snapper was barely seven years old, his parents took him to his first Ku Klux Klan rally; for the occasion, Mrs. Parsons dressed her son in a costume sewn from white muslin pillowcases; she was especially proud of the pointy little hood. The other Klansmen and their wives fawned over Lester, remarking on the youngster’s handsome Southern features—baffling praise, because all that was visible of young Lester were his beady brown eyes, peeping through the slits of his sheet. He thought: I could be a Negro, for all they know!

Still, the boy enjoyed Klan rallies because there was great barbecue and towering bonfires. He was disappointed when his family stopped attending, but he couldn’t argue with his parents’ reason for quitting. They referred to it as The Accident, and Lester would never forget the night. His father had gotten customarily shitfaced and, when the climactic moment came to light the cross, accidentally ignited the local Grand Kleagle instead. In the absence of a fire hose, the frantic Klansmen were forced to save their blazing comrade by spritzing him with well-shaken cans of Schlitz beer. Once the fire was extinguished, they placed the charred Kleagle in the bed of Lester’s father’s pickup and drove to the hospital. Although the man survived, his precious anonymity was lost forever. A local television crew happened to be outside the emergency room when the Kleagle—hoodless, his sheet in scorched tatters—arrived. Once his involvement in the Klan was exposed on TV, the man resigned as district attorney and moved upstate to Macon. Lester’s father blamed himself, a sentiment echoed in harsher terms by the other Klansmen. Morale in the local chapter further deteriorated when a newspaper revealed that the young doctor who had revived the dying Kleagle was a black man, possibly from Savannah.

The Parsonses decided to leave the Klan while it was still their choice to do so. Lester’s father joined a segregated bowling league, while his mother mailed out flyers for J. B. Stoner, another famous
racist who periodically ran for office. Politics bored young Lester, who turned his pubescent energies to crime. He dropped out of school on his fourteenth birthday, although his preoccupied parents didn’t find out for nearly two years. By then the boy’s income from stealing backhoes and bulldozers was twice his father’s income from repairing them. The Parsonses strove not to know what their son was up to, even when it landed him in trouble. Lester’s mother worried that the boy had a mean streak; his father said all boys do. Can’t get by otherwise in this godforsaken world.

Lester Maddox Parsons was seventeen when he got his nickname. He was hot-wiring a farmer’s tractor in a peanut field when a game warden snuck up behind him. Lester dove from the cab and took a punch at the man, who calmly reconfigured Lester’s face with the butt of an Ithaca shotgun. He sat in the county jail for three days before a doctor came to examine his jaw, which was approximately thirty-six degrees out of alignment. That it healed at all was a minor miracle; Snapper was spitting out snips of piano wire until he was twenty-two years old.

The Georgia prison system taught the young man an important lesson: It was best to keep one’s opinions about race mingling to oneself. So when Avila introduced Snapper to the roofing crew, Snapper noted (but did not complain) that two of the four workers were as black as the tar they’d be mixing. The third roofer was a muscular young
Marielito
with the number “69” tattooed elegantly inside his lower lip. The fourth roofer was a white crackhead from Santa Rosa County who spoke a version of the English language that was utterly incomprehensible to Snapper and the others. Although each of the roofers owned long felony rap sheets, Snapper couldn’t say that his feelings toward the crew approached anything close to kinship.

Avila sat the men down for a pep talk.

“Thanks to the hurricane, there’s a hundred fifty thousand houses in Dade County need new roofs,” he began. “Only a damn fool couldn’t make money off these poor bastards.”

The plan was to line up the maximum number of buyers and perform the minimum amount of actual roofing. By virtue of owning a suit and tie, Snapper was assigned the task of bullshitting potential customers through the fine print of the “contract,” then collecting deposits.

“People are fucking desperate for new roofs,” Avila said buoyantly. “They’re getting rained on. Fried from the sun. Eat up by bugs. Faster they get a roof on their heads, the more they’ll pay.” He raised his palms to the sky. “Hey, do they really care about price? It’s insurance money, for Christ’s sake.”

One of the roofers inquired how much manual labor would be involved. Avila said they should repair a small section on every house. “To put the people’s minds at ease,” he explained.

“What’s a ‘small’ section?” the roofer demanded.

Another said, “It’s fucking August out here, boss. I know guys that dropped dead of heatstroke.”

Avila reassured the men they could get by with doing a square, maybe less, on each roof. “Then you can split. Time they figure out you won’t be back, it’s too late.”

The crackhead mumbled something about contracting licenses. Avila turned to Snapper and said, “They ask about our license, you know what to do.”

“Run?”

“Exactamente!”

Snapper wasn’t pleased with his door-to-door role in the operation, particularly the odds of encountering large pet dogs. He said to Avila: “Sounds like too much talking to strangers. I hate that shit. Why don’t you do the contracts?”

“Because I inspected some of these goddamn houses when I was with building-and-zoning.”

“The owners don’t know that.”

Chango had warned Avila to be careful. Chango was Avila’s personal
santería
deity. Avila had thanked him with a turtle and two rabbits.

“I’m keeping low,” Avila told Snapper. “B-and-Z’s got snitches all over the damn county. Somebody recognizes my face, we’re screwed.”

Snapper wasn’t sure if Avila was paranoid or purely lazy. “So where will you be exactly,” he said, “when we’re out on a job? Maybe some air-conditioned office.” He heard the roofers snicker, a hopeful sign of solidarity.

But Avila was quick to assert his authority. “Job? This isn’t no ‘job,’ it’s an act. You boys aren’t here ’cause you can mop tar. You’re here ’cause you look like you can.”