chiaasen.stormyweather-第14节

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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；　god　dammit；　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　FedEx　some　cash　and　an　eight…by…ten　photograph　of　Max；　for　the　authorities。
　
　Bonnie　Lamb's　last　call　was　to　Peter　Archibald　at　the　Rodalp　8c　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　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　mit　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　ing　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　pact　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　munion　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；