Stormy Weather (16 page)

Only one man held the runaway governor’s complete trust—the Highway Patrol trooper who had been assigned to guard him during the gubernatorial campaign and later had come to work at the governor’s mansion; the same trooper who was driving the limousine on the day Clinton Tyree disappeared. It was he alone who knew the man’s whereabouts, kept in touch and followed his movements; who was there to help when Clinton Tyree went around the bend, which he sometimes did. The trooper had been there soon after his friend lost an eye in a vicious beating; again after he shot up some rental cars in a roadside spree; again after he burned down an amusement park.

Some years were quieter than others.

“But he’s been waiting for this hurricane,” Jim Tile said, twirling a spoonful of spaghetti. “There’s cause to be concerned.”

Augustine said: “I’ve heard of this guy.”

“Then you understand why I need to talk to Mrs. Lamb.”

“Mrs. Lamb,” Bonnie said, caustically, “can’t believe what she’s hearing. You think this lunatic’s got Max?”

“An old lady in the neighborhood saw a man fitting the governor’s description carrying a man fitting your husband’s description. Over his shoulder. Buck naked.” Jim Tile paused to allow Mrs. Lamb to form a mental picture of the scene. He said, “I don’t know about the lady’s eyesight, but it’s worth checking out. You mentioned a tape you made—the kidnapper’s voice.”

“It’s back at the house,” said Augustine.

“Would you mind if I listened to it?”

Bonnie said, “This is ludicrous, what you’re saying—”

“Humor me,” said Jim Tile.

Bonnie pushed away her plate of lasagna, half eaten. “What’s your interest?”

“He’s my friend. He’s in trouble,” the trooper said.

“All I care about is Max.”

“They’re both in danger.”

Bonnie demanded to know about the fat man in the morgue. The trooper said he’d been strangled and impaled on a TV satellite dish. The motive didn’t appear to be robbery.

“Did your ‘friend’ do that, too?”

“They’re talking to some dumb goober from Alabama, but I don’t know.”

To Bonnie, it was all incredible. “You did say ‘impaled’?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The trooper didn’t mention the mock crucifixion. Mrs. Lamb was plenty upset already.

Through clenched teeth she said, “This place is insane.”

Jim Tile was in full agreement. Tiredly he looked at Augustine. “I’m just tracking down a few leads.”

“Come on back to the house. We’ll play that tape for you.”

Ira Jackson’s intention had been to kill the mobile-home salesman and then drive home to New York and arrange his mother’s funeral. To his dismay, the murder of Tony Torres left him restless and unfulfilled. Driving through the gutted hurricane zone, Ira Jackson realized what a pitifully insignificant little fuck Tony Torres had been. South Florida was crawling with guys who cheerfully sold death traps to widows. The evidence was plain: Ira Jackson knew shitty construction when he saw it, and he saw it everywhere. Homes in one subdivision came out of the storm with scarcely a shingle out of place; across the street, an equally high-priced development was obliterated, every house blown to pieces.

A goddamn disgrace, Ira Jackson thought. This was exactly the kind of thing that gave corruption a bad name. He recalled the cocky proclamation of Tony Torres:
Every home we sold passed inspection
.

Undoubtedly it was true. Dade County’s code inspectors were as culpable for the destruction as schmuck salesmen like Torres. To Ira
Jackson’s experienced eye, the substandard construction was too widespread to be explained by mere incompetence; a blind man would have red-tagged some of those cardboard subdivisions. Inspectors most certainly had been paid off with cash, booze, dope, broads, or all of the above. It happened in Brooklyn, too, but Brooklyn didn’t get many hurricanes.

Ira Jackson angrily thought of the tie-downs that were supposed to anchor his late mother’s double-wide trailer. Someone from the county should have noticed the rotted straps; someone should have examined the augers, to make sure they hadn’t been sawed off. Ira Jackson wondered who that someone was, and how much he’d been bribed not to do his job.

He drove to the Metro building-and-zoning department to find out.

Snapper had sweated through his cheap suit. Mr. Nathaniel Lewis was giving him a hard time about the deposit. Out in the truck, the phony roofers were drinking warm beer and arguing about sports.

“Four thousand down is totally out of line,” Nathaniel Lewis was saying.

“All depends on how soon you want a roof. I figured you’s in a hurry.”

“Sure we’re in a hurry. Just look at this place.”

Snapper agreed that the house was in terrible shape; the Lewises had cut up plastic garbage bags and tacked them to the bare beams, to keep out the rain. “Look,” said Snapper, “everybody’s roof got blown away. Our phone’s ringing off the hook. Four grand puts you top of the list. Priority One.”

Nathaniel Lewis was sharper than Snapper preferred. “If your phone’s ringin’ off the hook, how is it you come knockin’ on my door like some damn Jehovah. And how is it your crew’s sittin’ on their butts in the truck, if they’s so much work to be done?”

“They’re on a break,” Snapper lied. “We’re doing that duplex two blocks over. Save on gas money if we pick up a few more jobs in the neighborhood.”

Lewis said, “Three down—and that’s only if you start right away.”

“We can handle that.”

The crew ascended the skeleton of Lewis’s roof. Snapper didn’t have to tell the men to take their time; that came naturally. Avila had
said it was important to make lots of noise, like legitimate roofers, so the black guys staged a truss-hammering contest, with the Latin guy as referee. The white crackhead was left to cut plywood for the decking.

Snapper waited in the cab of the truck, which smelled like stale Coors and marijuana. Mercifully the sky darkened after about an hour, and a hard thunderstorm broke loose. While the roofers scrambled to load the truck, Snapper told Nathaniel Lewis they’d return first thing in the morning. Lewis handed him a cashier’s check for three thousand dollars. The check was made out to Fortress Roofing, Avila’s bogus company. Snapper thought it was a very amusing name.

He got in the stolen Jeep Cherokee and headed south. The crew followed in the truck. Avila had advised Snapper to move around, don’t stay in one area. A smart strategy, Snapper agreed. They made it to Cutler Ridge ahead of the weather. Snapper found an expensive ranch-style house sitting on two acres of pinelands. Half the roof had been torn off by the hurricane. A Land Rover and a black Infiniti were parked in the tiled driveway.

Jackpot, Snapper thought.

The lady of the house let him in. Her name was Whitmark, and she was frantic for shelter. She’d been scouting the rain clouds on the horizon, and the possibility of more flooding in the living room had sent her dashing to the medicine chest. The “roofing foreman” listened to Mrs. Whitmark’s woeful story:

The pile carpet already was ruined, as was Mr. Whitmark’s state-of-the-art stereo system, and of course mildew had claimed all the drapery, the linens and half her winter evening wardrobe; the Italian leather sofa and the cherry buffet had been moved to the west wing, but—

“We can start this afternoon,” Snapper cut in, “but we need a deposit.”

Mrs. Whitmark asked how much. Snapper pulled a figure out of his head: seven thousand dollars.

“You take cash, I assume.”

“Sure,” Snapper said, trying to sound matter-of-fact, like all his customers had seven grand lying around in cookie jars.

Mrs. Whitmark left Snapper alone while she went for the money. He raised his eyes to the immense hole in the ceiling. At that moment, a sunbeam broke through the bruised clouds, flooding the house with golden light.

Snapper shielded his eyes. Was this a sign?

When Mrs. Whitmark returned, she was flanked by two black-and-silver German shepherds.

Snapper went rigid. “Mother of Christ,” he murmured.

“My babies,” said Mrs. Whitmark, fondly. “We don’t have a problem with looters. Do we, sugars?” She stroked the larger dog under its chin. On command, both of them sat at her feet. They cocked their heads and gazed expectantly at Snapper, who felt a spasm in his colon.

His hands trembled so severely that he was barely able to write up the contract. Mrs. Whitmark asked what had happened to his face. “Did you fall off a roof?”

“No,” he said curtly. “Bungee accident.”

Mrs. Whitmark gave him the cash in a scented pink envelope. “How soon can you start?”

Snapper promised that the crew would return in half an hour. “We’ll need to pick up some lumber. It’s a big place you’ve got here.”

Mrs. Whitmark and her guard dogs accompanied Snapper to the front door. He kept both hands jammed in his pockets, in case one of the vicious bastards lunged for him. Of course, if they were trained like police K-9s, they wouldn’t bother with his hands. They’d go straight for the balls.

“Hurry,” Mrs. Whitmark said, scanning the clouds with dilated pupils. “I don’t like the looks of this sky.”

Snapper walked to the truck and gave the crew the bad news. “She didn’t go for it. Says her husband’s already got a roofer lined up for the job. Some company from Palm Beach, she said.”

“Thank God,” said one of the black guys, yawning. “I’m beat, boss. How about we call it a day?”

“Fine by me,” said Snapper.

Jim Tile rewound the tape and played it again.

“Honey, I’ve been kidnapped—”

“Abducted!
Kidnapping implies ransom, Max. Don’t fucking flatter yourself.…
”

Bonnie Lamb said, “Well?”

“It’s him,” the trooper said.

“You’re sure?”

“I love you, Bonnie. Max forgot to tell you, so I will. Bye now.…”

“Oh yeah,” said Jim Tile. He popped the cassette out of the tape deck.

Bonnie asked Augustine to call his agent friend at the FBI. Augustine said it wasn’t such a hot idea.

The trooper agreed. “They’ll never find him. They don’t know where to look, they don’t know how.”

“But you do?”

“What will probably happen,” Jim Tile said, “is the governor will keep your husband until he gets bored with him.”

“Then what?” Bonnie demanded. “He kills him?”

“Not unless your husband tries something stupid.”

Augustine thought: We might have a problem.

The trooper told Bonnie Lamb not to panic; the governor wasn’t irrational. There were ways to track him, make contact, engage in productive dialogue.

Bonnie excused herself and went to take some aspirin. Augustine walked outside with the trooper. “The FBI won’t touch this,” Jim Tile said, keeping his voice low. “There’s no ransom demand, no interstate travel. It’s hard for her to understand.”

Augustine observed that Max Lamb wasn’t helping matters, calling New York to check on his advertising accounts. “Not exactly your typical victim,” he said.

Jim Tile got in the car and placed his Stetson on the seat. “I’ll get back with you soon. Meanwhile go easy with the lady.”

Augustine said, “You don’t think he’s crazy, do you.”

The trooper laughed. “Son, you heard the tape.”

“Yeah. I don’t think he’s crazy, either.”

“‘Different’ is the word. Seriously different.” Jim Tile turned up the patrol car’s radio to hear the latest hurricane dementia. The Highway Patrol dispatcher was directing troopers to the intersection of U.S. 1 and Kendall Drive, where a truck loaded with ice had overturned. A disturbance had erupted, and ambulances were on the way.

“Lord,” Jim Tile said. “They’re murdering each other over ice cubes.” He sped off without saying good-bye.

Back in the house, Augustine was surprised to find Bonnie Lamb sitting next to the kitchen phone. At her elbow was a notepad upon which she had written several lines. He was struck by the elegance of her handwriting. Once, he’d dated a woman who dotted her
i’
s with
perfect tiny circles; sometimes she drew happy faces inside the circles, sometimes she drew frowns. The woman had been a cheerleader for her college football team, and she couldn’t get it out of her system.

Bonnie Lamb’s handwriting bore no trace of retired cheerleader. “Directions,” she replied, waving the paper.

“Where?”

“To see Max and this Skink person. They left directions on my machine.”

She was excited. Augustine sat next to her. “What else did they say?”

“No police. No FBI. Max was very firm about it.”

“And?”

“Four double-A batteries and a tape of
Exile on Main Street
. Dolby chrome oxide, whatever that means. And a bottle of pitted green olives, no pimientos.”

“This would be the governor’s shopping list?”

“Max hates green olives.” Bonnie Lamb put her hand on Augustine’s arm. “What do we do? You want to hear the message?”

“Let’s go talk to them, if that’s what they want.”

“Bring your gun. I’m serious.” Her eyes flashed. “We can kidnap Max from the kidnapper. Why not!”

“Settle down, please. When’s the meeting?”

“Midnight tomorrow.”

“Where?”

When she told him, he looked discouraged. “They’ll never show. Not there.”

“You’re wrong,” Bonnie Lamb said. “Where’s that gun of yours?”

Augustine went to the living room and switched on the television. He channel-surfed until he found a Monty Python rerun; a classic, John Cleese buying a dead parrot. It never failed to make Augustine laugh.

Bonnie sat beside him on the sofa. When the Monty Python sketch ended, he turned to her and said, “You don’t know a damn thing about guns.”

Max Lamb awoke to these words: “You need a legacy.”

He and Skink had bummed a ride in the back of a U-Haul truck. They were bucking down U.S. Highway One among two thousand cans of Campbell’s broccoli cheese soup, which was being donated to hurricane victims by a Baptist church in Pascagoula, Mississippi. What the shipment lacked in variety it made up for in Christian goodwill.

“This,” said the kidnapper, waving at the soup boxes, “is what people do for each other in times of catastrophe. They give help. You, on the other hand—”