chiaasen.stormyweather-第5节

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　The　black　trooper　had　been　sent　to　Miami　all　the　way　from　Liberty　County；　in　northern　Florida；　to　help　clear　traffic　for　the　rescue　convoys。　At　the　mand　center　he'd　caught　a　glimpse　of　the　incident　notation　in　the　dispatch　log…〃White　male；　40…50　yrs　old；　190…220　lbs；　gray　hair/beard；　possible　psych；　case〃…and　decided　to　sneak　down　to　North　Key　Largo　for　a　look。　Technically　he　was　assigned　to　Homestead；　but　in　the　post…storm　chaos　it　was　easy　to　roam　and　not　be　missed。　He　had　asked　the　other　trooper　to　ride　with　him；　and　even　though　she　was　off　duty　she'd　said　yes。
　
　Now　motorists　crossing　the　steetj　bridge　braked　in　curiosity　at　the　sight　of　the　two　troopers　at　the　top。　What're　they　looking　at；　Mom？　Is　there　a　dead　body　in　the　water？
　
　Raindrops　trickled　from　the　brim　of　the　black　trooper's　Stetson　as　he　gazed　across　Biscayne　Bay；　leaden　and　frothy　after　the　dreadful　storm。　He　reached　over　the　rail　and　hauled　up　the　soggy　rope。　After　examining　the　end　of　it；　he　showed　the　rope　to　the　other　trooper　and　said；　with　a　weariness：　〃That's　my　boy。〃
　
　The　rope　hadn't　snapped　in　the　hurricane。　It　had　been　cut　with　a　knife。
　
　
　
　CHAPTER　THREE
　
　
　Tony　Torres　sat　in　what　remained　of　his　living　room　and　sipped　what　remained　of　his　Chivas。　He　found　it　amusing　that　his　〃Salesman　of　the　Year〃　award　had　survived　the　hurricane；　it　was　all　that　remained　hanging　on　the　rain…soaked　walls。　Tony　Torres　recalled　the　party　two　months　earlier；　when　they'd　given　him　the　cheap　laminated　plaque。　It　was　his　reward　for　selling　seventy…seven　double…wide　house　trailers；　eighteen　more　than　any　other　salesman　in　the　history　of　PreFab　Luxury　Homes；　formerly　Tropic　Trailers；　formerly　A…Plus　Affordable　Homes；　Ltd。　In　the　cutthroat　world　of　mobile…home　sales；　Tony　Torres　had　bee　a　star。　His　boss　had　presented　the　Chivas　and　a　thousand…dollar　bonus　along　with　the　plaque。　They'd　paid　a　waitress　to　dance　topless　on　a　table　and　sing　〃For　He's　a　Jolly　Good　Fellow。〃
　
　Oh　well；　Tony　Torres　thought。　Life's　a　fucking　roller　coaster。　He　stroked　the　stock　of　the　shotgun　that　lay　across　his　globe…shaped　lap；　and　remembered　things　he　wished　he　didn't。　For　instance；　that　bullshit　in　the　sales　pitch　about　U。S。　government　safety　regulations　。。。
　
　The　Steens　had　questioned　him　thoroughly　about　hurricanes。　So　had　the　Ramirezes　and　the　pain…in…the…ass　Stichlers。　So　had　Beatrice　Jackson；　the　widow；　and　her　no…neck　son。　Tony　Torres　always　said　what　he'd　been　coached　to　say；　that　PreFab　Luxury　Homes　built　state…of…the…art　homes　guaranteed　to　withstand　high　winds。　Uncle　Sam　set　the　specs。　It's　all　there　in　the　brochure！
　
　So　Tony's　customers　secured　their　mortgages　and　bought　up　the　double…wides；　and　then　the　hurricane　came　and　blew　them　away。　All　seventy…seven。　The　trailers　imploded；　exploded；　popped　off　the　tiedowns　and　took　off　like　fucking　aluminum　ducks。　Not　one　of　the　damn　things　made　it　through　the　storm。　One　minute　they　were　pleasant…looking　middle…class　dwellings；　with　VCRs　and　convertible　sofas　and　baby　cribs　。。。　and　the　next　minute　they　were　shrapnel。　Tony　Torres　had　driven　to　the　trailer　park　to　see　for　himself。　The　place　looked　like　a　war　zone。　He　was　about　to　get　out　of　the　car　when　somebody　recognized　him…old　man　Stichler；　who　began　spluttering　insanely　and　hurling　jagged　debris　at　the　salesman。　Tony　drove　off　at　a　high　rate　of　speed。　Later　he　learned　that　the　widow　Jackson　was　found　dead　in　the　wreckage　of　the　trailer　court。
　
　Tony　Torres　was　unfamiliar　with　remorse；　but　he　did　feel　a　stab　of　sorrow。　The　Chivas　took　care　of　that。　How　was　I　to　know？　he　thought。　I'm　a　salesman；　not　a　goddamn　engineer。
　
　The　more　Tony　drank；　the　less　sympathy　he　retained　for　his　customers。　They　goddamn　well　knew。。　Knew　they　were　buying　a　tin　can　instead　of　a　real　house。　Knew　the　risks；　living　in　a　hurricane　zone。　These　were　grown…ups；　Tony　Torres　told　himself。　They　made　a　choice。
　
　Still；　he　anticipated　trouble。　The　shotgun　was　a　fort。　Unfortunately；　anybody　who　wanted　to　track　him　down　had　only　to　look　in　the　Dade　County　phone　book。　Being　a　salesman　meant　being　available　to　all　of　humanity。
　
　So　let　'em　e！　Tony　thought。　Any　moron　customers　got　a　problem；　let　'em　see　what　the　storm　did　to　my　house。　They　get　nasty；　I　turn　the　matter　over　to　Sefior　Remington　here。
　
　Shouts　rousted　Tony　Torres　from　the　sticky　embrace　of　his　BarcaLounger。　He　took　the　gun　and　a　flashlight　to　the　front　of　the　house。　Standing　in　the　driveway　was　a　man　with　an　unfortunate　pin…striped　suit　and　a　face　that　appeared　to　have　been　modified　with　a　crowbar。
　
　〃My　sister！〃　the　man　exclaimed；　pointing　at　a　pile　of　busted　lumber。
　
　Tony　Torres　spotted　the　prone　form　of　a　woman　under　the　trusses。　Her　eyes　were　half　closed；　and　a　fresh　streak　of　blood　colored　her　face。　The　woman　groaned　impressively。　The　man　told　Tony　to　call　911　rightaway。
　
　〃First　tell　me　what　happened；〃　the　salesman　said。
　
　〃Just　look…part　of　your　damn　roof　fell　down　on　her！〃
　
　〃Hmmm；〃　said　Tony　Torres。
　
　〃For　Christ's　sake；　don't　just　stand　there。〃
　
　〃Your　sister；　huh？〃　Tony　walked　up　to　the　woman　and　shined　the　flashlight　in　her　eyes。　The　woman　squinted　reflexively；　raising　both　hands　to　block　out　the　light。
　
　Tony　Torres　said；　〃Guess　you're　not　paralyzed；　darling。〃
　
　He　tucked　the　flashlight　under　one　arm　and　raised　the　shotgun　toward　the　man。　〃Here's　the　deal；　sport。　The　phones　are　blown；　so　we　won't　be　calling　911　unless　you　got　a　cellular　in　your　pants；　and　that　looks　more　like　a　pistol　to　me。　Second　of　all；　even　if　we　could　call　911　we'll　be　waiting　till　Halloween。　Every　ambulance　from　here　to　Key　West　is　busy　because　of　the　storm。　Your　'sister'　should've　thought　of　that　before　her　accident…〃
　
　〃What　the　hell　you…〃
　
　Tony　Torres　took　the　pistol　from　the　man's　waist。　〃Third　of　all；〃　the　salesman　said；　〃my　damn　roof　didn't　fall　on　nobody。　Those　trusses　came　off　the　neighbor's　house。　That　would　be　Mister　Leonel　Varga；　next　door。　My　own　personal　roof　is　lying　in　pieces　somewhere　out　in　the　Everglades；　is　my　guess。〃
　
　From　beneath　the　lumber；　the　woman　said：　〃Shit；　Snapper。〃　The　man　shot　her　a　glare；　then　looked　away。
　
　Tony　Torres　said：　〃I'm　in　the　business　of　figuring　people　out　quick。　That's　what　a　good　salesman　does。　And　if　she's　your　sister；　sport；　then　I'm　twins　with　Mel　Gibson。〃
　
　The　man　with　the　crooked　jaw　shrugged。
　
　〃Point　is；〃　Tony　said；　〃she　ain't　really　hurt。　You　ain't　really　her　brother。　And　whatever　fucked…up　plan　you　had　for　ripping　me　off　is　now　officially　terminated。〃
　
　The　man　scowled　bitterly。　〃Hey；　it　was　her　idea。〃
　
　Tony　ordered　him　to　lift　the　wooden　trusses　off　his　partner。　When　the　woman　got　up；　the　salesman　noticed　she　was　both　attractive　and　intelligent…looking。　He　motioned　with　the　shotgun。
　
　〃Both　of　you　e　inside。　Hell；　inside　is　pretty　much　outside；　thanks　to　that　goddamn　storm。　But　e　in；　anyhow；　'cause　I'd　love　to　hear　your　story。　I　could　use　a　laugh。〃
　
　The　woman　smoothed　the　front　of　her　dress。　〃We　made　a　bad　mistake。　Just　let　us　go；　OK？〃
　
　Tony　Torres　smiled。　〃That's　funny；　darling。〃　He　swung　the　Remington　toward　the　house　and　pulled　the　trigger。　The　blast　tore　a　hole　the　size　of　a　soccer　ball　in　the　garage　door。
　
　〃Hush；〃　said　the　drunken　salesman；　cupping　a　hand　to　one　ear。　〃Hear　that？　Dead　fucking　silence。　Shoot　off　a　twelve…gauge　and　nobody　cares。　Nobody　es　to　see。　Nobody　es　to　help。　Know　why？　Because　of　the　hurricane。　The　whole　place　is　a　madhouse！〃
　
　The　man　with　the　crooked　jaw　asked；　more　out　of　curiosity　than　concern：　〃What　is　it　you　want　with　us？〃
　
　〃I　haven't　decided；〃　said　Tony　Torres。　〃Let's　have　a　drinkypoo。〃
　
　A　week　before　the　hurricane；　Felix　Mojack　died　of　a　viper　bite　to　the　ankle。　Ownership　of　his　failing　wildlife…import　business　passed　to　a　nephew；　Augustine。　On　the　rainy　morning　he　learned　of　his　uncle's　death；　Augustine　was　at　home　practicing　his　juggling。　He　had　all　the　windows　open；　and　the　Black　Crowes　playing　on　the　stereo。　He　was　barefoot　and　wore　only　a　pair　of　royal…blue　gym　shorts。　He　stood　in　the　living　room；　juggling　in　time　to　the　music。　The　objects　that　he　juggled　were　human　skulls；　he　was　up　to　five　at　once。　The　faster　Augustine　juggled；　the　happier　he　was。
　
　On　the　kitchen　table　was　an　envelope　from　Paine　Webber。　It　contained　a　check　for　21；344。55。　Augustine　had　no　need　for　or　interest　in　the　money。　He　was　almost　thirty…two　years　old；　and　his　life　was　as　simple　and　empty　as　one　could　be。　Sometimes　he　deposited　the　Paine　Webber　dividends；　and　sometimes　he　mailed　them　off　to　charities；　renegade　political　candidates　or　former　girlfriends。　Augustine　sent　not　a　penny　to　his　father's　defense　lawyers；　that　was　the　old　man's　debt；　and　he　could　damn　well　settle　it　when　he　got　out　of　prison。
　
　Augustine's　juggling　was　a　private　diversion。　The　skulls　were　artifacts　and　medical　specimens　he'd　acquired　from　friends。　When　he　had　them　up　in　the　air…　three；　four；　five　skulls　arcing　fluidly　from　hand　to　hand…　Augustine　could　feel　the　full　rush　of　their　faraway　lives。　It　was　inexplicably　and　perhaps　unwholesomely　exhilarating。　Augustine　didn't　know　their　names；　or　how　they'd　lived　or　died；　but　from　touching