Stormy Weather (9 page)

Quickly she rose from the chair and crossed the road. The man was watching his dachshunds pee on the stem of a broken mailbox. He held both leashes in one hand, loosely. There was a melancholy slump to his shoulders that should have disappeared with the approach of a pretty woman, but did not.

Edie Marsh told him the dogs were adorable. When she stooped to pet them, the dachshunds simultaneously rolled over and began squirming like worms on a griddle.

“What’re their names?”

“Donald and Marla,” the man replied. He wasn’t tall, but he was built like a furnace. He wore a peach knit shirt and khaki slacks. He said to Edie: “You live at that house?”

She saw Tony Torres eyeing them from the chaise. She asked the stranger if he was from the Midwest Casualty insurance company. He motioned sarcastically toward the dogs and said, “Sure. And my associates here are from Merrill Lynch.”

The dachshunds were up, wagging their butts and licking at Edie’s bare ankles. The man jerked his double chin toward Tony Torres and said, “You related to him? A wife or sister maybe.”

“Please,” Edie Marsh said, with an exaggerated shudder.

“OK, then I got some advice. Take a long fucking walk.”

Edie’s mind began to race. She looked in both directions down the street, but didn’t see Snapper.

The man said, “The hell you waiting for?” He handed her the two leashes. “Go on, now.”

•  •  •

Augustine awoke to the smell of coffee and the sounds of a married woman fixing breakfast in his kitchen. It seemed a suitable time to assess the situation.

His father was in prison, his mother was gone, and his dead uncle’s wild animals had escaped among unsuspecting suburbanites. Augustine himself was free, too, in the truest and saddest sense. He had absolutely no personal responsibilities. How to explain such a condition to Bonnie Lamb?

My father was a fisherman. He ran drugs on the side, until he was arrested near the island of Andros.

My mother moved to Las Vegas and remarried. Her new husband plays tenor saxophone in Tony Bennett’s orchestra.

My most recent ex-girlfriend was a leg model for a major hosiery concern. She saved her modeling money and bought a town house in Brentwood, California, where she fellates only circumcised movie agents, and the occasional director.

But what about you? Mrs. Lamb will ask. What do you do for a living?

I read my bank statements.

And Mrs. Lamb will react with polite curiosity, until I explain about the airplane accident.

It happened three years ago while flying back from Nassau after visiting my old man in Fox Hill Prison. I didn’t realize the pilot was drunk until he T-boned the twin Beech into the fuselage of a Coast Guard helicopter, parked inside a hangar at the Opa-Locka airport.

Afterwards I slept for three months and seventeen days in the intensive care unit of Jackson Hospital. When I awoke, I was rich. The insurance carrier for the charter-air service had settled the case with an attorney whom I did not know and to this day have never met. A check for eight hundred thousand dollars appeared, and much to my surprise, I invested it wisely.

And Mrs. Lamb, if I’m reading her right, will then say: So what is it you
do
?

Honestly, I’m not certain.…

The conversation, over bacon and French toast, didn’t go precisely as Augustine had anticipated. At the end of his story, Bonnie Lamb looked over the rim of her coffee cup and asked: “Is that where you got the scar—from the plane crash?”

“Which scar?”

“The Y-shaped one on your lower back.”

“No,” said Augustine, guardedly. “That’s something else.” He made a mental note not to walk around without a shirt.

Later, clearing the kitchen table, Bonnie asked about his father.

“Extradited,” Augustine reported, “but he much prefers Talladega to the Bahamas.”

“Are you two close?”

“Sure,” said Augustine. “Only seven hundred miles.”

“How often do you go to see him?”

“Whenever I want to get angry and depressed.”

Augustine often wished that the plane crash had wiped out his memory of that last visit at Fox Hill Prison, but it hadn’t. They were supposed to talk about the extradition, about lining up a half-decent lawyer in the States, about maybe cutting a deal with prosecutors so that the old man might actually get out before the turn of the century.

But Augustine’s father wanted to talk about something else when his son came to see him. He wanted a favor.

—Bollock, you remember Bollock? He owes me a piece of a shipment.

—The answer is no.

—Come on, A.G. I got lawyers to pay. Take Leaker and Ape along. They’ll handle Bollock. Not the money, though. That I want in your hands only.

—Dad, I don’t believe this. I just don’t believe it.…

—Hey, go down to Nassau harbor. See what they done to my boat! Ape says they stripped the radar and all the electric.

—So what. You didn’t know how to use it anyway.

—Listen, wiseass, I was taking fire. It was the middle of the goddamn night.

—Still, it’s not easy to park a sixty-foot long-liner in nine inches of water. How exactly did you manage that?

—Watch your tone, son!

—Grown man, hangin’ out with guys called Leaker and Ape. Look where it got you.

—A.G., I’d love to keep strollin’ down memory lane, but the guard says we’re outta time. So will you do it? Go see Henry Bollock down on Big Pine. Get my slice and stick it in the Caymans. What’s the harm?

—Pathetic.

—What?

—I said, you’re pathetic.

—So I’ll take that as a “no,” you won’t do this for me?

—Jesus Christ.

—You disappoint me, boy.

—And I’m proud of you, too, Dad. I bust my buttons every time your name comes up.

And Augustine recalled thinking, as he sat in the Beechcraft on the runway at Nassau: He’s hopeless, my old man. He won’t learn. He’ll get out of prison and go right back to it.

A son looks a man square in the eye and calls him pathetic,
pathetic
, any other father would curse or cry or take a punch at the kid. Not mine. By God, not when there’s drug money needs collecting. So how about it, A.G.?

Fuck him, thought Augustine. Not because of what he’d done or what he’d been hauling, but because his stupid selfish greed had outlived the crime. Fuck him, Augustine thought, because it’s hopeless. He was supposed to raise me, goddammit, I wasn’t supposed to raise him.

And then the plane took off.

And then the plane went down.

And nothing was ever the same about the way Augustine saw the world, or his place in it. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if it was the accident that had changed him, or the visit with his father at Fox Hill Prison.

At FBI headquarters, Bonnie Lamb spent an hour talking with maddeningly polite agents. One of them dialed her answering machine and dubbed Max’s queer kidnap message. They urged her to notify the Bureau as soon as she received a credible ransom demand. Then, and only then, would a kidnap squad take over the case. The agents instructed Bonnie to check her machine often and be careful not to erase any tapes. They expressed no strong views about whether she ought to remain in Miami and search for her husband, or return to New York and wait.

The agents let Bonnie Lamb borrow a private office, where she tried with no luck to reach Max’s parents, who were traveling in Europe. Next Bonnie phoned her own parents. Her mother sounded sincere in her alarm; her father, as usual, sounded helpless. He
half-heartedly offered to fly to Florida, but Bonnie said it wasn’t necessary. All she could do was wait for Max or the kidnapper to call again. Bonnie’s mother promised to Fed Ex some cash and an eight-by-ten photograph of Max, for the authorities.

Bonnie Lamb’s last call was to Peter Archibald at the Rodale & Burns advertising agency in Manhattan. Max Lamb’s colleague was shocked at Bonnie’s news, but vowed to maintain the confidentiality requested by the FBI. When Bonnie passed along her husband’s frantic instructions about the cigaret billboard, Peter Archibald said: “You married a real trouper, Bonnie.”

“Thank you, Peter.”

Augustine took her to a fish house for lunch. She ordered a gin-and-tonic, and said: “I want your honest opinion about the FBI guys.”

“OK. I think they had problems with the tape.”

“Max didn’t sound scared enough.”

“Possibly,” Augustine said, “and, like I mentioned, he seemed a little too worried about the Marlboro account.”

“It’s Broncos,” Bonnie corrected. From the way she winced at the gin, Augustine could tell she wasn’t much of a drinker. “So they blew me off as a jilted wife.”

“Not at all. They started a file. They’re the best darn file-starters in the world. Then they’ll send your tape to the audio lab. They’ll probably even make a few phone calls. But you saw how deserted the place was—half their agents are home cleaning up storm damage.”

She said, angrily, “The world doesn’t stop for a hurricane.”

“No,” Augustine said, “but it wobbles like a sonofabitch. I’m having the shrimp, how about you?”

Mrs. Lamb didn’t speak again until they were in the pickup truck, heading south to the hurricane zone. She asked Augustine to stop at the county morgue.

He thought: She couldn’t have gotten this brainstorm
before
lunch.

Snapper had neither the ambition nor the energy to be a predator in the classic criminal mold. He saw himself strictly as a canny opportunist. He wouldn’t endeavor to commit a first-degree felony unless the moment presented itself. He believed in serendipity, because it suited his style of minimal exertion.

He heard the kids coming long before he saw them. The souped-up Cherokee blasted Snoop Doggy Dogg through the neighborhood,
rattling the few windows that the hurricane had not broken. The kids drove by once, circled the block, and cruised past again.

Snapper smiled to himself, thinking: It’s the damn pinstripes. They think I’m carrying money.

He kept walking. When the Cherokee came around a third time, the rap music had been turned off. Stupid, Snapper thought. Why not take out a billboard: Watch us mug this guy!

As the Jeep rolled up behind him, Snapper stepped to the side and slowed his pace. He slipped Tony Torres’s garden hose off his shoulder and carried it coiled in front of him. The Cherokee came alongside. One of the kids was hanging out the passenger window. He waved a chrome-plated pistol at Snapper.

“Hey, mud-fuckah,” the kid said.

“Good mornin’,” said Snapper. He deftly looped a coil of the garden hose around the kid’s head and jerked him out of the truck. When the kid hit the pavement, he dropped the gun. Snapper picked it up. He stepped on the kid’s chest and, with one hand, began twisting the hose tightly on the kid’s throat.

The other muggers piled out of the Cherokee with the intention of rescuing their friend and killing the butt-ugly geek in the shiny suit, but the plan changed when they saw who had the pistol. Then they ran.

Snapper waited until the kid on the ground was almost unconscious before loosening the hose. “I need to borrow some gas,” said Snapper, “to watch Sally Jessy.”

The kid sat up slowly and rubbed his neck, which bled from the place where his three gold chains had cut into his flesh. He wore a tank top to show off the tattoos on his left biceps—a gang insignia and the nickname “Baby Raper.”

Snapper said, “Baby, you got a gas can?”

“Fuck no.” The kid answered in a raw whisper.

“Too bad. I’ll have to take the whole truck.”

“I don’t care. Ain’t mine.”

“Yeah, that was my hunch.”

The kid said, “Man, wus wrong wid yo face?”

“Excuse me?”

“I axed what’s wrong wid yo mud-fuckin face.”

Snapper went in the Cherokee and removed the Snoop Doggy Dogg compact disc from the stereo. He used the shiny side of the CD like a small mirror, pretending to admire himself in it.

“Looks fine to me,” he said, after several moments.

The kid smirked. “Sheeeiiit.”

Snapper put the pistol to the kid’s temple and ordered him to get on his belly. Then he yanked the mugger’s pants down to his ankles.

A Florida Power and Light cherry picker came steaming down the street. The kid shouted for help, but the driver kept going.

Twisting to look over his shoulder, Baby Raper saw Snapper hold the CD up to the sky, like a chrome communion wafer.

Snapper said: “Worst fuckin’ excuse for music I ever heard.”

“Man, whatcha gone do wid dat?”

“Guess.”

Ira Jackson stood with his back to the sun. Tony Torres squinted, shielding his brow with one hand.

The salesman said: “Do I remember you? Course I remember you.”

“My mother was Beatrice Jackson.”

“I said I remember.”

“She’s dead.”

“So I heard. I’m very sorry.” Stretched in the chaise, Tony Torres felt vulnerable. He raised both knees to give himself a brace for the shotgun.

Ira Jackson asked Tony if he remembered anything else. “Such as what you promised my mother about the double-wide being as safe as a regular CBS house?”

“Whoa, sport, I said no such thing.” Tony Torres was itching to get to his feet, but that was a major project. One wrong move, and the flimsy patio chair could collapse under his weight. “‘Government approved,’ is what I told you, Mister Jackson. Those were my exact words.”

“My mother’s dead. The double-wide went to pieces.”

“Well, it was one hellacious hurricane. The Storm of the Century, they said on TV.” Tony was beginning to wonder if this dumb ape didn’t see the Remington aimed at his dick. “We’re talking about a major natural disaster, sport. Look how it wrecked these houses.
My
house. Hell, it blew down the entire goddamn Homestead Air Force Base! There’s no hiding from something like that. I’m sorry about your mother, Mister Jackson, but a trailer’s a trailer.”

“What happened to the tie-downs?”

Oh Christ, Tony thought. Who knew enough to look at the fucking tie-downs? He struggled to appear indignant. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

Ira Jackson said, “I found two of ’em hanging off a piece of the double-wide. Straps were rotted. Augers cut off short. No anchor disks—this shit I saw for myself.”