Carl Hiassen - Stormy Weather

"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 sonofa-bitch. 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, hedropped the gun. Snapper picked it up. He stepped on the kid's chest and 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 "BabyRaper."

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."

"I'm sure you're mistaken. They passed inspection, Mister Jackson. Every home we sold passed inspection." The confidence was gone from the salesman's tone. He was uneasy, arguing with a faceless silhouette.

"Admit it," Ira Jackson said. "Somebody cut the damn augers to save a few bucks on installation."

"Keep talkin' that way," warned Tony Torres, "and I'll sue your ass for slander."

Even before it was made a specified condition of his parole, Ira Jackson had never possessed a firearm. In his many years as a professional goon, it had been his experience that men who brandished guns invariably got shot with one. Ira Jackson favored the more personal touch afforded by crowbars, aluminum softball bats, nunchaku sticks, piano wire, cutlery, or gym socks filled with lead fishing sinkers. Any would have done the job nicely on Tony Torres, but Ira Jackson had brought nothing but his bare fists to the salesman's house.

"What is it you want?" Tony Torres demanded.

"An explanation."

"Which I just gave you." Tony's eyes watered from peering into the sun's glare, and he was growing worried. Edie the Ice Maiden had disappeared with Ira Jackson's dogs-what the hell was that all about? Were they in on something? And where was the freak in the bad suit, his so-called bodyguard?

Tony said to Ira Jackson: "I think it's time for you to go." He motioned with the shotgun toward the street.

"This is how you treat dissatisfied customers?"

A jittery laugh burst from the salesman. "Sport, you ain't here for no refund."

"You're right." Ira Jackson was pleased by the din of the neighborhood-hammers, drills, saws, electric generators. All the folks preoccupied with putting their homes back together. The noise would make it easier to cover the ruckus, if the mobile-home salesman tried to put up a struggle.

Tony Torres said, "You think I don't know to use this twelve-gauge, you're makin' a big mistake. Check out the hole in that garage door."