“Damn,” he wheezed, “was that some bad toad!”
Augustine doubted Skink’s technique for removing the toxin and processing it for inhalation. Based on the man’s present state, it seemed likely that he’d bungled the pharmacology.
“Sit here by the fire,” Bonnie told him.
He held out his hands, which were filled with leathery, lightly freckled eggs. Augustine counted twelve in all. Skink palmed them like golf balls.
“Supper!” he exulted.
“What are they?”
“Eggs, my boy!”
“Of what?”
“I don’t have a clue.” The governor stalked toward the laborers’ camp, returning five minutes later with a fry pan and a squeeze bottle of ketchup.
Regardless of species, the eggs tasted dandy scrambled. Augustine was impressed, watching Bonnie dig in.
When they finished eating, Skink said it was time to hit the rack. “Big day ahead. You take the sleeping bags, I’ll be in the scrub.” And he was gone.
Augustine returned the fry pan to the Ohio contingent, which was amiably drunk and nonthreatening. He and Bonnie stayed up watching the flames die, sitting close but saying little. At the first onslaught of mosquitoes, they dove into one of the sleeping bags and zipped it over their heads. Like two turtles, Bonnie said, sharing the same shell.
They hugged each other in the blackness, laughing uncontrollably. After Bonnie caught her breath, she said, “God, it’s hot in here.”
“August in Florida.”
“Well, I’m taking off my clothes.”
“You aren’t.”
“Oh yes. And you’re going to help.”
“Bonnie, we should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
“I need a big night to take my mind off it.” She got tangled while wriggling out of her top. “Give me a hand, kind sir.”
Augustine did as he was told. They were, after all, rational, mature, intelligent adults.
CHAPTER
19
The death of Tony Torres did not go unnoticed by homicide detectives, crucifixions being rare even in Miami. However, most murder investigations were stuck on hold in the frenetic days following the hurricane. With the roadways in disorder, the police department was precariously shorthanded; every available officer of every rank was put to work directing traffic, chasing looters or escorting relief convoys. In the case of Juan Doe #92-312 (the whimsical caption on Tony Torres’s homicide file), the lack of urgency to investigate was reinforced by the fact that no friends or relatives appeared to identify the corpse, which indicated to police that nobody was searching for him, which further suggested that nobody much cared he was dead.
Two days after the body was found, a fingerprint technician faxed the morgue to say that a proper name now could be attached to the crucified man: Antonio Rodrigo Guevara-Torres, age forty-five. The prints of the late Mr. Torres were on file because he had, during one rocky stretch of his adult life, written thirty-seven consecutive bum checks. Had one of those checks not been made out to the Police Benevolent Association, Tony Torres likely would have escaped prosecution. To avoid jail, he pleaded guilty and swore to make full restitution, a pledge quickly forgotten amid the pressure of his demanding new job as a junior sales associate at a trailer-home franchise called A-Plus Affordable Homes.
Because the arrest report was old, the home address and telephone number listed for Tony Torres were no good. The current yellow pages showed no listing for A-Plus Affordable. Three fruitless inquiries sufficiently discouraged the young detective to whom the case of the crucified check-kiter had been assigned. He was relieved when his lieutenant ordered him to put the homicide file aside and drive down to Cutler Ridge, where he parked squarely in the center of the intersection of Eureka Drive and 117th Avenue in order to block traffic for the presidential motorcade.
The young detective didn’t think again of the murdered check-bouncing mobile-home salesman until two days later, when the police department got a call from an agitated woman claiming to be the victim’s wife.
Avila phoned the Gentlemen’s Choice escort service and asked for Morganna. She got on the line and said, “I haven’t used that name in six months. It’s Jasmine now.”
“OK. Jasmine.”
“Do I know you, honey?”
Avila reminded her of their torrid drunken night at the motel on West Flagler Street.
“Gee,” she said, “that narrows it down to about ninety guys.”
“You had a friend. Daphne, Diane, something like that. Redhead with a tattoo on her left tit.”
Jasmine said, “What kinda tattoo?”
“I think it was a balloon or something.”
“Don’t ring a bell.”
Avila said, “The guy you were with, you’d definitely remember. Scary dude with a seriously fucked-up face.”
“Little Pepe that got burned?”
“No, it wasn’t Pepe with the burns. Man’s name was Snapper. His jaws stuck out all gross and crooked. You remember. It was a party before he went upstate.”
“Nope, still no bell,” said Jasmine. “What’re you doing tonight, sweetheart? You need a date?”
What a cold shitty world, thought Avila. There was no such thing as a friendly favor anymore; everybody had their greedy paws out.
“Meet me at Cisco’s,” he told her tersely. “Nine o’clock at the bar.”
“That’s my boy.”
“You still a blonde?”
“If you want.”
Avila arrived twenty minutes late; he had taken a long hot shower following another furtive raid on the buried Tupperware stash. The stitches in his groin still stung from the soaking.
Jasmine sat at the bar, sipping Perrier from the bottle. She wore a subtle scarlet miniskirt and an alarming Carol Channing–style wig. Her perfume smelled like a fruit stand. Avila sat down carefully and ordered a beer. He folded a hundred-dollar bill into Jasmine’s empty hand.
She smiled. “I do remember you now.”
“What about Snapper?”
“You’re a squeaker.”
“Cómo?”
“You squeak when you fuck. Like a happy little hamster.”
Avila flushed, and lunged for his beer.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Jasmine said. She took his left wrist and examined the beads of his santería bracelet. “I remember this, too. Some sorta voodoo.”
Avila pulled away. “Has Daphne heard from Snapper lately?”
“It’s not Daphne anymore. It’s Bridget.” Jasmine dug a pack of Marlboros out of her purse. “Matter of fact, she spent the hurricane with him. Drunk as a skunk at some motel up in Broward.”
Avila made no move to light her cigaret. He said, “When’s the last time she saw him?”
“Just yesterday.”
“Yesterday!”
It was too good to be true! Thank you, mighty Chango! Avila was awestruck and humbled.
Jasmine said, “That Snapper calls all the time, ever since he got out of Sumter. She’s put her meathooks in that boy. By the way, her tattoo—it’s not a balloon, it’s a lollipop.” Jasmine laughed. “But you were on the money about which tit.”
“So where’s Snapper?”
“Sugar, how should I know. He’s Daphne’s trick.”
“You mean Bridget.”
Jasmine bowed. “Touché,” she said, good-naturedly.
Avila produced another hundred-dollar bill. He put it flat on the bar, beneath the Perrier bottle. “Is he at a motel?” he asked.
“A house, I think.”
“Where?”
“I gotta ask her,” Jasmine said.
“You need a quarter for the phone?”
“She’s working tonight. Give me your number.”
Avila wrote it in the margin of the damp C-note. Jasmine put it in her purse.
“I’m hungry,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“What’s the matter?” She gave his knee a squeeze. “Oh, I kno
w. I know why you’re pissed.”
“You don’t know a damn thing.”
“Yes I do. You’re mad ’cause of what I said about the way you are in bed.”
Avila shot to his feet and called for the check. Jasmine tugged him back to the barstool. Pressing her chest against his arm, she whispered, “Hey, it’s all right. I thought it was cute.”
“I don’t squeak,” Avila said coldly.
“You’re right,” said Jasmine. “You’re absolutely right. Come on, honey, couldn’t you go for a steak?”
Edie Marsh and Snapper had gotten into a nasty argument over the call girl. Edie had said it was no time for screwing—they needed to practice their husband-and-wife routine for when Fred Dove’s boss showed up. Snapper had told her to lighten up or shut her trap. Watching the panel of saucy prostitutes on Oprah had made him think about licking the former Daphne’s lollipop.
She was delighted to hear from him, the escort service business being slow as molasses after the hurricane. She caught a taxi to the Torres house, but got there late because the driver got lost in the pitch darkness and traffic confusion.
There was no door on which to knock, so Bridget strolled in unannounced. Edie Marsh and Snapper were glaring at each other by candlelight in the living room.
“Hello again,” Bridget said to Edie, who nodded testily.
Bridget scampered to the BarcaLounger and sprawled across Snapper’s lap. She scissored her chubby legs in the air and smooched his neck (the disaligned jaws made mouth-kissing problematic).
Snapper said, “You’re sittin’ on my gun.”
Bridget wriggled girlishly as he extricated the pistol. She said, “Baby, what happened to your leg?”
“Ask Little Miss Psychobitch.”
Bridget stared at Edie Marsh. “He hit me,” Edie said, remorselessly, “so I hit him back.”
“With a fucking crowbar.”
“Ouch,” said the hooker.
Snapper told Edie to go walk the damn dogs for a couple hours.
Bridget said, “You got dogs? Where?” She sat up excitedly. “I love dogs.”
“Just take off your clothes,” Snapper said. “Where’s the Stoli?”
“All the liquor stores were boarded up.”
“Mother of Christ!”
Edie Marsh said, “Look, Bridget, nothing personal against you. But we’ve got a very important meeting tomorrow morning—”
“Wait, now,” Snapper cut in. “You’re sayin’ there’s no vodka? Did I hear right?”
“Baby, the storm, remember? Everything’s shut down.”
“Bullshit. You didn’t even try.”
“Chill out,” said Bridget. “We don’t need booze for a party.”
Edie Marsh tried once more: “All I’m asking is that you’re gone in the morning, OK? There’s a man coming to the house, he won’t understand.”
“No problem, hon.”
“Nothing personal.”
Bridget laughed. “It’s not like I had my heart set on staying over in this dump.”
Edie said, “You should see the bathrooms. There’s mosquitoes this big hatching in the toilets!”
Bridget made a face and pressed her knees together. Snapper said: “Edie, I’m countin’ to ten. Get your lazy ass in gear.”
Donald and Marla began yipping in the backyard.
“Are those your puppies?” Bridget sprang from Snapper’s lap and hurried to what once had been French doors. “They sound adorable—what kind?” She peered expectantly into the night.
Snapper gimped to her side. “Fertilizer hounds,” he said.
“Fertilizer hounds?”
“When I get done with ’em, yeah. That’s the only goddamn thing they’ll be good for.” He raised the pistol and fired twice at the infernal yowling. Bridget let out a cry and covered her ears. Edie Marsh came up from behind and kicked Snapper in the crook of his bum right leg. He went down with a surprised grunt.
Outside, the volume of doggy racket increased by many decibels. Donald and Marla were hysterical with fear. Edie Marsh hurried outside to untangle the leashes before they garroted each other. Bridget knelt at Snapper’s side and scolded him for being such a meanie.
• • •
The way Levon Stichler figured it, he had nothing to lose. The hurricane had taken everything, including the urn containing the ashes of his recently departed wife. The life in which he had invested most of his military pension had been reduced to broken glass and razor tinsel. Hours of painstaking salvage had yielded not enough dry belongings to fill a tackle box. Levon Stichler’s neighbors at the trailer court were in the same abject fix. Within twenty-four hours, his shock and despair had distilled into high-octane anger. Someone must pay! Levon Stichler thundered. And logically that someone should be the smirking sonofabitch who’d sold them those mobile homes, the glib fat thief who’d promised them that the structures were government certified and hurricane-proof.
Levon Stichler had spotted Tony Torres at the trailer court on the morning after the hurricane, but the mangy prick had fled like a coyote. Levon Stichler had fumed for a few days, gathering what valuables he could find among the trailer’s debris until county workers showed up to bulldoze the remains. The old man considered returning to Saint Paul, where his only daughter lived, but the thought of long frigid winters—and sharing space with six hyperactive grandchildren—was more than he could face.
There would be no northward migration. Levon Stichler considered his life to be officially ruined, and considered one man to be morally responsible for the tragedy. He would know no peace until Tony Torres was dead. Killing the salesman might even make Levon Stichler a hero, at least in the eyes of his trailer-court neighbors—that’s what the old man convinced himself. He envisioned public sympathy and national headlines, possibly a visit from Connie Chung. And prison wouldn’t be such an awful place; a damn sight safer than a double-wide trailer. Haw! Levon Stichler told no one of his mission. The hurricane hadn’t actually driven him insane, but that’s what he intended to plead at the trial. The Alzheimer’s defense was another promising option. But first he had to devise a convincingly eccentric murder.
As soon as he settled on a plan, Levon Stichler called PreFab Luxury Homes. The phone rang over and over, causing the old man to wonder if the storm had put the trailer-home company out of business. In fact, PreFab Luxury was enjoying a banner week, thanks to a massive requisition from the Federal Emergency Management Agency. Uncle Sam, it seemed, was generously providing trailers to homeless storm victims. Many of the miserably displaced souls who’d been living in PreFab Luxury trailers when the hurricane wiped them out would be living in a PreFab Luxury product once again. Neither the company nor the federal government thought it necessary to inform tenants of the irony.
Eventually a receptionist answered the telephone, and made a point of mentioning how busy they all were. Levon Stichler asked to speak to Mr. Torres. The woman said that Tony apparently was taking some personal leave after the storm and that nobody knew when he’d return to the office. Levon Stichler gathered that he wasn’t the first dissatisfied customer to make inquiries. The receptionist politely declined to divulge the salesman’s home number.
From his sodden telephone directory, Levon Stichler carefully removed the page listing the names and addresses of all the Antonio Torreses in Greater Miami. Then he got in the car, filled up the tank and began the hunt.
On the first day, Levon Stichler eliminated from the list three auto mechanics, a scuba instructor, a thoracic surgeon, a palmist, two lawyers and a university professor. All were named Antonio Torres, but none was the scoundrel whom Levon Stichler sought. He was exhausted, but resolute.
On the second day, Levon Stichler continued to winnow the roster of candidates: a stockbroker, a nurseryman, a shrimper, a police officer, two electricians, an optometrist and a greenskeeper. Another Tony Torres, unkempt and clearly impaired, tried to sell him a bag of bootleg Dilaudids; still another threatened to decap
itate him with a hoe.
The third day of the manhunt brought Levon Stichler to the Turtle Meadow subdivision and 15600 Calusa Drive. By then he’d seen enough hurricane destruction to be utterly unmoved by the sight of another gutted, roofless home. At least it still had walls, which was more than Levon Stichler could say for his own.
A pretty Anglo woman met him at the open front doorway. She wore baggy jeans and a long lavender T-shirt. Levon Stichler noticed she was barefoot and (unless his seventy-one-year-old eyeballs were mistaken) she was not wearing a bra. Her toenails were the shade of red hibiscus.
He said, “Is this the Torres residence?”
The woman said yes.
“Antonio Torres? The salesman?”
“That’s right.” The woman held out a hand. “I’m Mrs. Torres. Come on in, we’ve been expecting you.”
Levon Stichler jerked and said, “What?”
He followed the barefoot braless woman into the house. She led him to the kitchen, which was a shambles.
“Where’s your husband?”
“In the bedroom. Is Mister Dove on the way?”
“I don’t know,” answered Levon Stichler, thinking: Who the hell is Mr. Dove?
“Listen, Mrs. Torres—”
“Please. It’s Neria.” The woman excused herself to tend the generator, which was in the garage. When she returned to the kitchen, she turned on the electric coffeemaker and made three cups.
Levon Stichler thanked her, stiffly, and took a sip. The wife would be a problem; he needed to have Tony Torres alone.
The barefoot woman stirred two spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee. “Is this your first stop of the day?”
“Sure is,” said Levon Stichler, hopelessly puzzled. Having never before murdered anybody, he was full of the jitters. He glanced at his wristwatch so often that the woman couldn’t help but notice.
She said, “Tony’s in the shower. He’ll be out very soon.”
“That’s OK.”
“Is the coffee all right? Sorry there’s no cream.”
Levon Stichler said, “It’s fine.”
She seemed like a nice enough person. What was she doing with a crooked slob like Torres?
He heard muffled noises from another room, two voices: a man’s guttural laughter and a woman’s high-pitched giggle. Levon Stichler reached slowly into the right pocket of his windbreaker. His hand tightened on the cool shaft of the weapon.