Stormy Weather

  “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.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  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—”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “—you, Max, arrive with a video camera.”

  Max Lamb lit a cigaret. The governor had been in a rotten mood all day. First his favorite Stones tape broke, then the batteries crapped out in his Walkman.

  Skink said, “The people who gave this soup, they went through Camille. Please assure me you know about Camille.”

  “Another hurricane?”

  “A magnificent shitkicker of a hurricane. Max, I believe you’re making progress.”

  The advertising man sucked apprehensively on the Bronco. He said, “You were talking about getting a boat.”

  Skink said, “Everyone ought to have a legacy. Something to be remembered for. Let’s hear some of your slogans.”

  “Not right now.”

  “I never see TV anymore, but some commercials I remember.” The kidnapper pointed at the canyon of red-and-white soup cans. “‘M’m, m’m good!’ That was a classic, no?”

  Unabashedly Max Lamb said, “You ever hear of Plum Crunchies? It was a breakfast cereal.”

  “A cereal,” said Skink.

  “‘You’ll go plum loco for Plum Crunchies!’”

  The kidnapper frowned. From his camo trousers he produced a small felt box of the type used by jewelry stores. He opened it and removed a scorpion, which he placed on his bare brown wrist. The scorpion raised its fat claws, pinching the air in confusion. Max stared incredulously. The skin on his neck heated beneath the shock collar. He drew up his legs, preparing to spring from the truck if Skink tossed the awful creature at him.

  “This little sucker,” Skink said, “is from Southeast Asia. Recognized him right away.” With a pinkie finger, he stroked the scorpion until it arched its venomous stinger.

  Max Lamb asked how a Vietnamese scorpion got all the way to Florida. Skink said it was probably smuggled by importers. “Then, when the hurricane struck, Mortimer here made a dash for it. I found him in the horse barn. Remember Larks? ‘Show us your Larks!’”

  “Barely.” Max was a kid when the Lark campaign hit TV.

  Skink said: “That’s what I mean by legacy. Does anyone remember who thought up Larks? But the Marlboro man, Christ, that’s the most successful ad campaign in history.”

  It was a fact. Max Lamb wondered how Skink knew. He noticed that the scorpion had become tangled in the gray-blond hair on the captain’s arm.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Max asked.

  No answer. He tried another strategy. “Bonnie is deathly afraid of insects.”

  Skink scooped the scorpion into the palm of one hand. “This ain’t no insect, Max. It’s an arachnid.”

  “Bugs is what I meant, captain. She’s terrified of all bugs.” Max was speaking for himself. Icy needles of anxiety pricked at his arms and legs. He struggled to connect the kidnapper’s scorpion sympathies with his views of the Marlboro man. What was the psychopath trying to say?

  “Can she swim, your Bonnie? Then she’ll be fine.” The governor popped the scorpion in his cheek and swallowed with an audible gulp.

  “Oh Jesus,” said Max.

  After a suitable pause, Skink opened his mouth. The scorpion was curled placidly on his tongue, its pincers at rest.

  Max Lamb stubbed out the Bronco and urgently lit another. He leaned his head against a crate of soup cans and said a silent prayer: Dear God, don’t let Bonnie say anything to piss this guy
off.

  Avila’s career as a county inspector was unremarkable except for the six months when he was the target of a police investigation. The cops had infiltrated the building department with an undercover man posing as a supervisor. The undercover man noticed, among a multitude of irregularities, that Avila was inspecting new roofs at a superhuman rate of about sixty a day, without benefit of a ladder. A surveillance team was put in place and observed that Avila never bothered to climb the roofs he was assigned to inspect. In fact, he seldom left his vehicle except for a regular two-hour buffet lunch at a nudie bar in Hialeah. It was noted that Avila drove past construction sites at such an impractical speed that contractors frequently had to jog after his truck in order to deliver their illicit gratuities. The transactions were captured with crystal clarity on videotape.

  When the police investigation became public, a grand jury convened to ponder the filing of felony indictments. To give the appearance of concern, the building-and-zoning department reassigned Avila and several of his crooked colleagues to duties that were considered low-profile and menial, a status confirmed by the relatively puny size of the bribes. In Avila’s case, he was relegated to inspecting mobile homes. It was a job for which he had no qualifications or enthusiasm. Trailers were trailers; to Avila, nothing but glorified sardine cans. The notion of “code enforcement” at a trailer park was oxymoronic; none of them, Avila knew, would survive the feeblest of hurricanes. Why go to the trouble of tying the damn things down?

  But he made a show of logging inspections, taking what modest graft the mobile-home dealers would toss his way—fifty bucks here and there, a bottle of Old Grand-dad, porno tapes, an eight-ball of coke. Avila wasn’t worried about police surveillance on his beat. Authorities were concerned with protecting the upwardly mobile middle-class home buyer; nobody gave a shit what happened to people who bought trailers.

  Except men like Ira Jackson, whose mother lived in one.

  With the exception of the bus depot in downtown Guatemala City, the Dade County building department was the most disorganized and institutionally indifferent place that Ira Jackson had ever seen. It took ninety minutes to find a clerk who admitted to fluency in English, and another hour to get his hands on the documents for the Suncoast Leisure Village trailer park. Under the circumstances, Ira Jackson was mildly surprised that the file still existed. From what he saw, others were vanishing by the carload. Realizing the hurricane would bring scandal to the construction industry, developers, builders and compromised inspectors were taking bold steps to obscure their own roles in the crimes. As Ira Jackson elbowed his way to an empty chair, he recognized—amid the truly aggrieved—faces of the copiously guilty: brows damp, lips tight, eyes pinched and fretful. They were men who feared the prospect of public exposure, massive lawsuits or prison.