chiaasen.stormyweather-第12节

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　〃Mister　Torres　says　it's　built　to　go　through　a　hurricane。〃
　
　〃I　find　that　hard　to　believe；　Momma。〃
　
　〃Oh　yes；　Mister　Jackson；　your　mother's　right。　Our　prefabricated　homes　are　made　to　withstand　gusts　up　to　one　hundred　twenty　miles　per　hour。　That's　d　U。S。　government　regulation。　Otherwise　we　couldn't　sell　'em！〃
　
　Ira　Jackson　was　in　Chicago；　beating　up　some　scabs　for　a　Teamsters　local；　when　he'd　heard　about　the　hurricane　headed　for　South　Florida。　He'd　phoned　his　mother　and　urged　her　to　move　to　a　Red　Cross　shelter。　She　said　it　was　out　of　the　question。
　
　〃I　can't　leave　Donald　and　Maria；〃　she　told　her　son。
　
　Donald　and　Maria　were　Mrs。　Jackson's　beloved　miniature　dachshunds。　The　hurricane　shelter　wouldn't　allow　pets。
　
　So　Ira's　mother　had　stayed　home　out　of　loyalty　to　her。　dogs　and　a　misplaced　confidence　that　the　mobile…home　salesman　had　told　the　truth　about　how　safe　it　was。　Donald　and　Maria　survived　the　hurricane　by　squeezing　under　an　oak　credenza　and　sharing　a　rawhide　chew　toy　to　pass　the　long　night。　A　neighbor　had　rescued　them　the　next　morning　and　taken　them　to　a　vet。
　
　Beatrice　Jackson　was　not　so　lucky。　Moments　after　the　hurricane　stripped　the　north　wall　off　her　double…wide；　she　was　killed　by　a　flying　barbecue　that　belonged　to　one　of　her　neighbors。　The　imprint　of　the　grill　remained　visible　on　her　face；　peaceful　as　it　was；　lying　in　the　Dade　County　morgue。
　
　Beatrice's　death　had　no　effect　whatsoever　on　the　mood　of　her　dachshunds；　but　her　son　was　inconsolable。　Ira　Jackson　raged　at　himself　for　letting　his　mother　buy　the　trailer。　It　had　been　his　idea　for　her　to　move　to　Florida…but　that's　what　guys　in　his　line　of　work　did　for　their　widowed　mothers；　got　them　out　of　the　cold　weather　and　into　the　sunshine。
　
　God　help　me；　Ira　Jackson　thought；　tossing　restively　on　the　mechanical　mattress。　I　should've　held　off　another　year。　Waited　till　I　could　afford　to　put　her　in　a　condo。
　
　That　cocksucker　Torres。　A…hundred…twenty…mile…per…hour　gusts。　What　kind　of　scum　would　lie　to　a　widow？
　
　〃Excuse　me！〃
　
　Ira　Jackson　bolted　upright　to　see　a　gray…haired　man　in　a　white　undershirt　and　baggy　pants。　Skin　and　bones。　Wire…rimmed　eyeglasses　that　made　him　look　like　a　heron。　In　one　arm　he　carried　a　brown　shopping　bag。
　
　〃Have　you　seen　an　urn？〃　he　asked。
　
　〃Jesus；　what？〃
　
　〃A　blue　urn。　My　wife's　ashes。　It's　like　a　bottle。〃
　
　Ira　Jackson　shook　his　head。　〃No；　I　haven't　seen　it。〃　He　rose　to　his　feet。　He　noticed　that　the　old　man　was　shaking。
　
　〃I'm　going　to　kill　him；〃　he　said　angrily。
　
　Ira　Jackson　said；　〃Who？〃
　
　〃That　lying　sonofabitch　who　sold　me　the　double…wide。　I　saw　him　here　after　the　hurricane；　but　he　took　off。〃
　
　〃Torres？〃
　
　〃Yeah。〃　The　old　man's　cheeks　colored。　〃I'd　murder　him；　swear　to　God；　if　I　could。〃
　
　Ira　Jackson　said；　〃You'd　get　a　medal　for　it。〃　Humoring　the　guy；　hoping　he'd　run　out　of　steam　and　go　away。
　
　〃Hell；　you　don't　believe　me。〃
　
　〃Sure　I　do。〃　He　was　tempted　to　tell　the　old　man　to　quit　worrying；　Senor　Tony　Torres　would　be　taken　care　of。　Most　definitely。　But　Ira　Jackson　knew　it　would　be　foolish　to　draw　attention　to　himself。
　
　The　old　man　said：　〃My　name's　Levon　Stichler。　I　lived　four　lots　over。　Was　it　your　mother　that　died　here？〃
　
　Ira　Jackson　nodded。
　
　Levon　Stichler　said；　〃I'm　real　sorry。　I'm　the　one　found　her　two　dogs…they're　at　Dr　Tyler's　in　Naranja。〃
　
　〃She'd　appreciate　that；　my　mother。〃　Ira　Jackson　made　a　mental　note　to　pick　up　the　dachshunds　before　the　vet's　office　closed。
　
　The　old　man　said；　〃My　wife's　ashes　blew　away　in　the　hurricane。〃
　
　〃Yeah；　well；　if　I　e　across　a　blue　bottle…〃
　
　〃What　the　hell　could　they　do　to　me？〃　Levon　Stichler　wore　a　weird　quavering　smirk。　〃For　killing　him；　what　could　they　do？　I'm　seventy…one　goddamn　years　old…　what；　life　in　prison？…Big　deal。　I　got　nothing　left　anyhow。〃
　
　Ira　Jackson　said；　〃I　was　you；　I'd　put　it　out　of　my　mind。　Scum　like　Torres；　they　usually　get　what　they　deserve。〃
　
　〃Not　in　my　world；〃　said　Levon　Stichler。　But　the　widow　Jackson's　son　had　taken　the　wind　out　of　his　sails。　〃Hell；　I　don't　know　how　to　find　the　sonofabitch　anyhow。　Do　you？〃
　
　〃Wouldn't　have　a　clue；〃　Ira　Jackson　said。
　
　Levon　Stichler　shrugged　in　resignation；　and　returned　to　the　heap　that　once　was　his　home。　Ira　Jackson　watched　him　poking　through　the　rubble；　stooping　every　so　often　to　examine　a　scrap。　All　around　the　trailer　court；　other　neighbors　of　the　late　Beatrice　Jackson　could　be　seen　hunched　and　scavenging；　picking　up　pieces。
　
　Her　son　opened　his　wallet；　which　contained：　six　hundred　dollars　cash；　a　picture　of　his　mother　taken　in　Atlantic　City；　three　fake　driver's　licenses；　a　forged　Social　Security　card；　a　stolen　Delta　Airlines　frequent　flyer　card；　and　numerous　scraps　of　paper　with　numerous　phone　numbers　from　the　718　area　code。　The　wallet　also　held　a　few　legitimate　business　cards；　including　one　that　said：
　
　Antonio　Torres　
　Senior　Sales　Associate　
　PreFab　Luxury　Homes　
　（305）　555…2200
　
　The　trailer　salesman　had　jotted　his　home　number　on　the　back　of　the　business　card。　Ira　Jackson　kicked　through　his　mother's　storm…soaked　belongings　until　he　found　a　Greater　Miami　telephone　directory。　The　salesman's　home　number　matched　the　one　belonging　to　an　A。　R。　Torres　at　15600　Calusa　Drive。　Ira　Jackson　tore　the　page　from　the　phone　book。　Carefully　he　folded　it　to　fit　inside　his　wallet；　with　the　other　important　numbers。
　
　Then　he　drove　his　fraudulently　registered　Coupe　de　Ville　to　a　convenience　store；　where　he　purchased　a　Rand　McNally　road　map　of　Dade　County。
　
　
　
　CHAPTER　SIX
　
　
　The　vagabond　monkey　chose　to　forgo　the　airboat　experience。　Max　Lamb　was　given　no　choice。　The　one…eyed　man　strapped　him　to　the　passenger　seat　and　off　they　went　at　fifty　miles　an　hour；　skimming　the　grass；　cattails　and　lily　pads。　For　a　while　they　followed　a　canal　that　paralleled　a　two…lane　highway；　Max　could　make　out　the　faces　of　motorists　gaping　at　him　in　his　underwear。　It　didn't　occur　to　him　to　signal　for　help；　the　electrified　dog　collar　had　conditioned　total　passivity。
　
　Riding　high　in　the　driver's　perch；　the　man　who　called　himself　Skink　sang　at　the　top　of　his　lungs。　It　sounded　like　〃Desperado；〃　an　old　Eagles　tune。　The　familiar　melody　surfed　above　the　ear…splitting　roar　of　the　air…boat's　engine；　more　than　ever；　Max　Lamb　believed　he　was　in　the　grip　of　a　madman。
　
　Soon　the　airboat　made　a　wide　turn　away　from　the　road。　It　plowed　a　liquid　trail　through　thickening　marsh；　the　sawgrass　hissing　against　the　metal　hull。　The　hurricane　had　bruised　and　gouged　the　swamp；　smashed　cypresses　and　pines　littered　the　waters。　Skink　stopped　singing　and　began　to　emit　short　honks　and　toots　that　Max　Lamb　assumed　to　be　either　wild　bird　calls　or　a　fearsome　attack　of　sinusitis。　He　was　afraid　to　inquire。
　
　At　noon　they　stopped　at　a　dry　hammock；　its　once…lush　branches　now　skeletal　from　the　storm。　Skink　tied　the　airboat　to　a　knuckled　stand　of　roots。　Evidence　of　previous　campfires　reassured　Max　Lamb　that　other　humans　had　been　there　before。　The　kidnapper　didn't　bother　to　tie　him；　there　was　no　place　to　run。　With　Skink's　permission；　Max　put　on　his　clothes　to　protect　himself　from　the　horseflies　and　mosquitoes。　When　he　plained　of　being　thirsty；　Skink　offered　his　own　canteen。　Max　took　a　tentative　swallow。
　
　〃Coconut　milk？〃　he　asked；　hopefully。
　
　〃Something　like　that。〃
　
　Max　suggested　that　wearing　the　shock　collar　was　no　longer　necessary。　Skink　whipped　out　the　remote　control；　pushed　the　red　button　and　said：　〃If　you've　got　to　ask；　then　it's　still　necessary。〃
　
　Max　jerked　wordlessly　on　the　damp　ground　until　the　pain　stopped。　Skink　caught　a　mud　turtle　and　made　soup　for　lunch。　Tending　the　fire；　he　said；　〃Max；　I'll　take　three　questions。〃
　
　〃Three？〃
　
　〃For　now。　Let's　see　how　it　goes。〃
　
　Max　warily　eyed　the　remote。　Skink　promised　there　would　be　no　electronic　penalty　for　dumb　queries。　〃So　fire　away。〃
　
　Max　Lamb　said；　〃All　right。　Who　are　you？〃
　
　〃My　name　is　Tyree。　I　served　in　the　Vietnam　conflict；　and　later　as　a　governor　of　this　fair　state。　I　resigned　because　of　disturbing　moral　and　philosophical　conflicts。　The　details　would　mean　nothing　to　you。〃
　
　Max　Lamb　failed　to　mask　his　disbelief。　〃You　were　governor？　e　off　it。〃
　
　〃Is　that　question　number　two？〃
　
　Impatiently；　Max　fingered　the　dog　collar。　〃No；　the　second　question　is：　Why　me？〃
　
　〃Because　you　made　a　splendid　target　of　yourself。　You　with　your　video　camera；　desecrating　the　habitat。〃
　
　Max　Lamb　got　defensive。　〃I　wasn't　the　only　one　taking　pictures。　I　wasn't　the　only　tourist　out　there。〃
　
　〃But　you　were　the　one　I　saw　first。〃　Skink　poured　hot　soup　into　a　tin　cup　and　handed　it　to　his　sulking　prisoner。　〃A　hurricane　is　a　holy　thing；〃　he　said；　〃but　you　treated　it　as　an　amusement。　Pissed　me　off；　Max。〃
　
　Skink　lifted　the　pot　off　the　hot　coals　and　tipped　it　to　his　lips。　Steam　wisped　from　his　mouth；　fogging　his　glass　eye。　He　put　the　pot　down　and　wiped　the　turtle　drippings　from　his　chin。　〃I　was　tied　up　on　a　bridge；〃　he　said；　〃watching　the　storm　roll　out　of　the　ocean。　God；　what　a　thing！〃
　
　He　stepped　toward　Max　Lamb　and　lifted　him　by　the　shirt；　causing　Max　to　drop　the　soup　he　had　not　touched