chiaasen.stormyweather-第14章

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　〃Just　let　'em　go；〃　he　said　to　Edie。
　
　The　moment　she　dropped　the　leashes；　the　two　dachshunds　curled　up　at　her　feet。
　
　〃Beautiful；〃　Snapper　said　with　a　grunt。　〃Hey；　look　what　I　found。〃　He　flashed　the　chrome…plated　pistol　he'd　taken　from　the　gangsters。　Palming　the　cheap　gun；　he　noticed　the　chambers　were　empty。　〃Damn　spades；〃　he　said；　heaving　it　into　the　murky　swimming　pool。
　
　Edie　Marsh　told　Snapper　about　the　tough　guy　with　the　New　York　accent　who　came　for　Tony　Torres。　〃You　picked　a　peachy　time　to　disappear；〃　she　added。
　
　〃Shut　the　fuck　up。〃
　
　〃Well；　Tony's　gone。　Even　his　damn　beach　chair。　Figure　it　out　yourself。〃
　
　〃Shit。〃
　
　〃He　won't　be　back；〃　Edie　said　gravely。　〃Not　in　one　piece；　anyway。〃
　
　A　concrete　block　occupied　the　spot　where　Tony's　chaise　had　been。　Snapper　cursed　his　rotten　timing。　The　ten　grand　was　history。　Even　in　the　unlikely　event　that　the　salesman　returned；　he'd　never　pay。　Snapper　had　fucked　up　big…time；　he　wasn't　cut　out　to　be　a　bodyguard。
　
　He　said；　〃I　don't　guess　you　got　a　new　plan。〃
　
　A　siren　drowned　Edie's　reply；　which　she　punctuated　with　a　familiar　hand　gesture。　An　ambulance　came　speeding　down　Calusa　Drive。　Snapper　figured　it　was　carrying　Baby　Raper　to　the　hospital；　for　some　unusual　surgery。　Snapper　wouldn't　be　surprised　to　read　about　it　in　a　medical　journal　someday。
　
　He　spotted　Tony　Torres's　Remington　shotgun；　broken　into　pieces　on　the　driveway。　Snapper　thought：　It's　definitely　time　to　abort　the　mission。　Tomorrow　he'd　call　Avila　about　the　roofer's　gig。
　
　〃I'll　give　you　a　lift；〃　he　said　to　Edie　Marsh；　〃but　not　those　damn　dogs。〃
　
　〃Jesus；　I　can't　just　leave　'em　here。〃
　
　〃Suit　yourself。〃　Snapper　scooped　three　Heinekens　from　Tony's　ice　cooler；　got　in　the　souped…up　Cherokee　and　drove　off　without　so　much　as　a　wave。
　
　Edie　Marsh　tethered　Donald　and　Maria　to　a　sprinkler　in　the　backyard。　Then　she　entered　the　ruined　shell　of　the　salesman's　house；　to　check　for　items　of　value。
　
　Skink　ordered　Max　Lamb　to　disrobe　and　climb　a　tree。　Max　did　as　he　was　told。　It　was　a　leafless　willow；　Max　sat　carefully　on　a　springy　limb；　his　bare　legs　dangling。　Beneath　him　Skink　paced；　fulminating。　In　one　hand　he　displayed　the　remote…control　unit　for　the　electronic　training　collar。
　
　〃You　people　e　down　here…fucking　yupsters　with　no　knowledge；　no　appreciation；　no　interest　in　the　natural　history　of　the　place；　the　ancient　sweep　of　life。　Disney　World…Christ；　Max；　that's　not　Florida！〃　He　pointed　an　incriminating　finger　at　his　captive。　〃I　found　the　ticket　stubs　in　your　wallet；　Tourist　Boy。〃
　
　Max　was　rattled；　he'd　assumed　everybody　liked　Disney　World。　〃Please；〃　he　said　to　Skink；　〃if　you　shock　me　now；　I'll　fall。〃
　
　Skink　pulled　off　his　flowered　cap　and　knelt　by　the　dead　embers　of　the　campfire。　Max　Lamb　was　acutely　worried。　Coal…black　mosquitoes　swarmed　his　pale　plump　toes；　but　he　didn't　dare　slap　at　them。　He　was　afraid　to　move　a　muscle。
　
　All　day　the　kidnapper's　spirits　had　seemed　to　improve。　He'd　eyen　taken　Max　to　a　rest　stop　along　the　Tamiami　Trail；　so　Max　could　call　New　York　and　leave　Bonnie　another　message。　While　Max　waited　for　the　pay　phone；　Skink　had　dashed　onto　the　highway　to　collect　a　fresh　roadkill。　His　mood　was　loose；　practically　convivial。　He　sang　during　the　entire　airboat　ride　back　to　the　cypress　hammock；　later　he　merely　chided　Max　for　not　knowing　that　Neil　Young　had　played　guitar　for　Buffalo　Springfield。
　
　Max　Lamb　believed　himself　to　be　blessed　with　a　winning　personality；　a　delusion　that　led　him　to　assume　the　kidnapper　had　grown　fond　of　him。　Max　felt　it　was　only　a　matter　of　time　before　he'd　be　able　to　shmooze　his　way　to　freedom。　He　put　no　stock　in　Skink's　oral　biography；　and　regarded　the　man　as　an　unbalanced　but　moderately　intelligent　derelict；　in　short；　a　confused　soul　who　could　be　won　over　with　a　thoughtful；　low…key　approach。　And　wasn't　that　an　advertiser's　forte…winning　people　over？　Max　believed　he　was　making　progress；　too；　with　tepid　conversation；　pointless　anecdotes　and　the　occasional　self…deprecatory　joke。　Skink　certainly　acted　calmer；　if　not　serene。　Three　hours　had　passed　since　he'd　last　triggered　the　canine　shock　collar；　an　encouraging　lull；　from　Max's　point　of　view。
　
　Now；　for　reasons　unknown；　the　one…eyed　brute　was　seething　again。　To　Max　Lamb；　he　announced：　〃Pop　quiz。〃
　
　〃On　what？〃
　
　Skink　rose　slowly。　He　tucked　the　remote　control　in　a　back　pocket。　With　both　hands　he　gathered　his　wild　hair　and　knotted　it　on　one　side　of　his　head；　above　the　ear…a　misplaced　mop　of　a　ponytail。　Then　he　removed　his　glass　eye　and　polished　it　with　spit　and　a　crusty　bandanna。　Max　became　further　alarmed。
　
　〃Who　was　here　first；〃　Skink　asked；　〃the　Seminoles　or　the　Tequestas？〃
　
　〃I；　uh…I　don't　know。〃　Max　gripped　the　branch　so　hard　that　his　knuckles　turned　pink。
　
　Skink；　replacing　the　artificial　eyeball；　retrieving　the　remote　control　from　his　pocket：　〃Who　was　Napoleon　Bonaparte　Broward？〃
　
　Max　Lamb　shook　his　head；　helplessly。　Skink　shrugged。　〃How　about　Marjory　Stoneman　Douglas？〃
　
　〃Yes；　yes；　wait　a　minute。〃　The　willow　limb　quivered　under　Max's　nervous　buttocks。　〃She　wrote　The　Yearling'。〃
　
　Moments　later；　regaining　consciousness；　he　found　himself　in　a　fetal　ball　on　a　mossy　patch　of　ground。　Both　knees　were　scraped　from　the　fall。　His　throat　and　arms　still　burned　from　the　dog　collar's　jolt。　Opening　his　eyes；　Max　saw　the　toes　of　Skink's　boots。　He　heard　a　voice　as　deep　as　thunder：　〃I　should　kill　you。〃
　
　〃No；　don't…〃
　
　〃The　arrogance　of　ing　to　a　place　like　this　and　not　knowing…〃
　
　〃I'm　sorry；　captain。〃
　
　〃…not　caring　to　learn…〃
　
　〃I　told　you；　I'm　in　advertising。〃
　
　Skink　slipped　a　hand　under　Max　Lamb's　chin。　〃What　do　you　believe　in？〃
　
　〃For　God's　sake；　it's　my　honeymoon。〃　Max　was　on　the　slippery　ledge　of　panic。
　
　〃What　do　you　stand　for？　Tell　me　that；　sir。〃
　
　Max　Lamb　cringed。　〃I　can't。〃
　
　Skink　chuckled　bitterly。　〃For　future　reference；　you　got　your　Marjories　mixed　up。　Rawlings　wrote　The　Yearling；　Douglas　wrote　River　of　Grass。　I　got　a　hunch　you　won't　forget。〃
　
　He　cleaned　the　bloody　scrapes　on　Max's　legs　and　told　him　to　put　on　his　clothes。　His　confidence　fractured；　Max　dressed　in　arthritic　slow　motion。　〃Are　you　ever　going　to　let　me　go？〃
　
　Skink　seemed　not　to　have　heard　the　question。　〃Know　what　I'd　really　like；〃　he　said；　stoking　a　new　fire。　〃I'd　like　to　meet　this　bride　of　yours。〃
　
　〃That's　impossible；〃　Max　said；　hoarsely。
　
　〃Oh；　nothing's　impossible。〃
　
　Among　the　stream　of　outlaws　who　raced　south　in　the　feverish　hours　following　the　hurricane　was　a　man　named　Gil　Peck。　His　plan　was　to　pass　himself　off　as　an　experienced　mason；　steal　what　he　could　in　the　way　of　advance　deposits；　then　haul　ass　back　to　Alabama。　The　scam　had　worked　flawlessly　against　victims　of　Hurricane　Hugo　in　South　Carolina；　and　Gil　Peck　was　confident　it　would　work　in　Miami；　too。
　
　He　arrived　in　a　four…ton　flatbed　carrying　a　small　but　authentic…looking　load　of　red　bricks；　which　he'd　ripped　off　from　an　unguarded　construction　site　in　Mobile…a　new　cancer　wing　for　a　pediatric　hospital。　Gil　Peck　had　caught　the　festive　groundbreaking　on　TV。　That　afternoon　he'd　backed　up　the　flatbed；　helped　himself　to　the　bricks　and　driven　nonstop　to　South　Florida。
　
　So　far；　business　was　booming。　Gil　Peck　had　collected　almost　twenty…six　hundred　dollars　in　cash　from　half　a　dozen　desperate　home　owners；　all　of　whom　expected　him　to　return　the　following　Saturday　morning　with　his　truckload　of　bricks。　By　then；　of　course；　Gil　Peck　would　be　northbound　and　gone。
　
　By　day　he　worked　the　hustle；　by　night　he　scavenged　hurricane　debris。　The　big　flatbed　conveyed　an　air　of　authority；　and　no　one　questioned　its　presence。　Even　after　curfew；　the　National　Guardsmen　waved　him　through　the　flashing　barricades。
　
　Many　valuables　had　survived　the　storm's　thrashing；　and　Gil　Peck　became　an　expert　at　mining　rubble。　An　inventory　of　his　two…day　bounty　included：　a　bagel　toaster；　a　Stairmaster；　a　silver　tea　set；　three　offbrand　assault　rifles；　a　Panasonic　cellular　telephone；　two　pairs　of　men's　golf　spikes；　a　waterproof　kilogram　package　of　hashish；　a　brass　chandelier；　a　scuba　tank；　a　gold　class　ring　from　the　University　of　Miami　（1979）；　a　set　of　police　handcuffs；　a　collection　of　rare　Finnish　pornography；　a　Michael　Jackson　hand　puppet；　an　unopened　bottle　of　100…milligram　Darvocets；　a　boxed　set　of　Willie　Nelson　albums；　a　Loomis　fly　rod；　a　birdcage　and　twenty…one　pairs　of　women's　bikini…style　panties。
　
　Exploring　the　demolished　remains　of　a　mobile…home　park；　Gil　Peck　was　a　happy　fellow。　There　was　a　bounce　to　his　step　as　he　followed　the　yellow　beam　of　the　flashlight　from　one　ruin　to　another。　Thanks　to　the　Guard；　the　Highway　Patrol　and　the　Dade　County　police；　Gil　Peck　was　pletely　alone　and　unmolested　in　the　summer　night；　free　to　plunder。
　
　And　what　he　spied　in　the　middle　of　a　shuffleboard　court　made　his　greedy　heart　flutter　with　joy：　a　jumbo　TV　dish。　The　hurricane　undoubtedly　had　uprooted　it　from　some　millionaire's　estate　and　tossed　it　here；　for　Gil　Peck　to　salvage。　With　the　flashlight　he　traced　the　outer　parabola　and　found　one　small　dent。　Otherwise　the　eight…foot　satellite　receiver　was　in　top　condition。
　
　Gil　Peck　grinned　and　thought：　Man；　I　must　be　living　right。　A　dish　that　big　was　worth　a　couple…grand；　easy。　Gil　Peck　thought　it　might　fit　nicely　in　his　own　backyard；　behind　the　chicken　coops。　He　envisioned　free　HBO　for　the　rest　of　his　natural　life。
　
　He　walked　around　to　the　other　side　to　make　sure　there　was　no　additional　damage。　He　was　shocked　by　what　his　flashlight　revealed：　Inside　the　TV　dish　was　a　dead　man；　splayed　and　mounted　like　a　butterfly。
　
　The　dead　man　was　impaled　on　the　cone　of　the　receiver　pipe；　but　it　wasn't　the　evil　work　of　the　hurricane。　His　hands　and　feet　had　been　meticulously　bound　to　the　gridwork　in　a　pose　of　crucifixion。　The　dead　man　himself　was　obese　and　balding；　and　bore　no　resemblance　to　the　Jesus　Christ　of　Gil　Peck's　strict　Baptist　upbringing。　Nonetheless；　the　sight　unnerved　the　bogus　mason　to　the　point　of　whimpering。
　
　He　switched　off　the　flashlight　and　sat　on　the　shuffle…board　court　to　steady　himself。　Stealing　the　TV　saucer　obviously　was　out　of　the　question；　Gil　Peck　was　working　up　the　nerve　to　swipe　the　expensive　watch　he'd　spotted　on　the　crucified　guy's　left　wrist。
　
　Except　for　kissing　his　grandmother　in　her　casket；　Gil　Peck　had　never　touched　a　corpse　before。　Thank　God；　he　thought；　the　guy's　eyes　are　closed。　Gingerly　Gil　Peck　climbed　into　the　satellite　dish；　which　rocked　under　the　added　weight。　Holding　the　flashlight　in　his　mouth；　he　aimed　the　beam　at　the　dead　man's　gold　Cartier。
　
　The　clasp　on　the　watchband　was　a　bitch。　Rigor　mortis　contributed　to　the　difficulty　of　Gil　Peck's　task；　the　crucified　guy　refused　to　surrender　the　timepiece。　The　more　Gil　Peck　struggled　with　the　corpse；　the　more　the　TV　saucer　rolled　back　and　forth　on　its　axis；　like　a　top。　Gil　Peck　was　getting　dizzy　and　mad。　Just　as　he　managed　to　slip　a　penknife　between　the　taut　skin　and　the　watch…band；　the　dead　man　expelled　an　audible　blast　of　postmortem　flatulence。　The　detonation　sent　Gil　Peck　diving　in　terror　from　the　satellite　dish。
　
　Edie　Marsh　paid　a　neighbor　kid　to　siphon　gas　from　Snapper's　abandoned　ca