chiaasen.stormyweather-第40节

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k　of　interest　in　returning　home　to　begin　her　new　marriage　。。。　confusing　emotions；　indeed。
　
　〃I　still　don't　feel　very　well；　Max。　Maybe　it's　exhaustion。〃
　
　〃You　can　sleep　on　the　plane。　Or　in　a　damn　motel。〃
　
　〃All　right；　honey；　I'll　get　a　room。〃
　
　〃Has　he　tried　anything？〃
　
　〃No！〃　Bonnie　said　sharply。　〃He's　been　a　perfect　gentleman。〃　Thinking：　I'm　the　one　you've　got　to　worry　about；　buddy　boy。
　
　〃I　don't　trust　him。〃　Max　Lamb's　normal　vibrant　voice　had　returned；　indicating　a　beneficial　drop　in　blood　pressure。
　
　Bonnie　decided　it　was　safe　to　point　out　that　if　it　weren't　for　Augustine；　Max　would　still　be　kidnapped。
　
　That　provoked　a　grinding　silence　on　the　other　end。　Then：　〃There's　something　not　right　about　him。〃
　
　〃Oh；　and　you're　perfectly　normal；　Max。　Driving　hundreds　of　miles　to　take　movies　of　wrecked　houses　and　crying　babies。〃
　
　A　movement　by　Augustine　caught　Bonnie　Lamb's　attention。　With　a　mischievous　grin；　he　produced　three　plump　grapefruits　and　began　to　juggle；　dancing　barefoot　around　the　kitchen。　Bonnie　covered　her　mouth　to　keep　from　giggling　into　the　phone。
　
　She　heard　Max　say；　〃I'm　flying　to　Mexico　tomorrow。　When　I　get　back；　I　expect　you　to　be　here。〃　Bonnie's　eyes　followed　the　flying　citrus。　〃Of　course　I'll　be　there。〃　The　promise　sounded　so　anemic　that　her　husband　couldn't　possibly　have　believed　it。　Bonnie　felt　a　wave　of　sadness。　Max　wasn't　stupid；　surely　he　knew　something　was　wrong。　She　took　a　slow　deep　breath。　Augustine　slipped　out　of　the　kitchen　and　left　her　alone。　〃Bonnie？〃
　
　〃Yes；　honey。〃
　
　〃Don't　you　want　to　know　why　I'm　going　to　Mexico？〃
　
　〃Mexico；〃　she　said；　pensively。　
　
　Thinking：　He's　going　to　Mexico。
　
　Asking：　〃Will　you　be　gone　long；　Max？〃
　
　And　wondering：　Who's　this　strange；　reckless　woman　who　has　climbed　inside　my　skin！
　
　Avila　didn't　tell　his　wife　about　his　harrowing　brush　with　crucifixion；　for　she　would've　massaged　it　into　a　divine　parable　and　shared　it　with　all　the　neighbors。　Once；　Avila's　wife　had　seen　the　face　of　the　Virgin　Mary　in　a　boysenberry　pancake；　and　phoned　every　TV　station　in　Miami。　No　telling　how　far　she'd　run　with　a　lion　story。　Locking　himself　in　the　bathroom；　Avila　bandaged　his　throbbing　hand　and　waited　for　his　wife　to　depart　for　the　grocery　store。　When　the　coast　was　clear；　he　grabbed　a　shovel　from　the　garage；　crept　to　the　backyard　and　excavated　a　Tupperware　box　full　of　cash　that　was　buried　under　a　mango　tree。　The　money　was　his　wife's　brother's　share　of　a　small…time　marijuana　venture。　Avila's　wife's　brother　resided　in　state　prison　for　numerous　felony　convictions　unrelated　to　the　pot；　so　Avila　and　his　wife　had　promised　to　baby…sit　the　cash　until　his　parole；　sometime　around　the　turn　of　the　century。　Avila　didn't　approve　of　pilfering　a　relative's　life　savings；　but　it　was　an　emergency。　If　Gar　Whitmark　didn't　get　his　seven　grand　immediately　he　would　call　the　authorities　and　have　Avila　thrown　in　a　cell　with　a　voracious　pervert。　That's　how　powerful　Whitmark　was；　or　so　Avila　believed。
　
　He　dug　energetically　for　the　Tupperware；　ignoring　the　pain　of　the　nail　wound。　He　was　spurred　by　the　putrid…sweet　stench　of　rotting　mangos；　and　a　fear　that　one　of　his　many　in…laws　would　arrive　unannounced…Avila　wanted　nobody　to　know　he'd　been　ripped　off　by　one　of　his　own　crooked　roofers。　He　unearthed　the　container　without　difficulty；　and　eagerly　pried　off　the　lid。　He　removed　seventy　damp　one…hundred…dollar　bills　and　wadded　them　into　a　pocket。　But　something　wasn't　right：　Money　appeared　to　be　missing　from　his　wife's　brother's　stash。　Avila's　suspicion　was　confirmed　by　a　hasty　count；　the　Tupperware　box　was　short　by　an　additional　four　grand。
　
　Dumb　bitches！　Avila　steamed。　They've　been　losing　at　Indian　bingo　again。　His　wife　and　her　mother　were　practically　addicted。
　
　To　confront　the　women　would　have　given　Avila　great　pleasure；　but　it　also　would've　exposed　his　own　clandestine　filching。　Ruefully　he　reburied　the　Tupperware；　and　concealed　the　disturbed　topsoil　with　a　mat　of　leaves　and　lawn　cuttings。　Then　he　drove　to　the　Gar　Whitmark　Building；　where　he　was　made　to　wait　in　the　lobby　for　ninety　minutes；　like　a　mon　peon。
　
　When　a　secretary　finally　led　him　into　Gar　Whitmark's　private　office；　Avila　spoiled　any　chance　for　a　civil　exchange　by　asking　the　corporate　titan　what　the　hell　was　wrong　with　his　scalp；　was　that　a　fungus　or　what？　Avila；　who　had　never　before　seen　hair　plugs；　hadn't　meant　to　be　rude；　but　Gar　Whitmark　reacted　explosively。　He　shoved　Avila　to　the　floor；　snatched　the　seven　grand　from　his　hand；　knelt　heavily　on　his　chest　and　spewed　verbal　abuse。　Whitmark　wasn't　a　large　man；　but　he　was　fit　from　many　afternoons　of　country…club　tennis。　Avila　chose　not　to　resist；　he　was　thinking　lawsuit。　Whitmark's　eyes　bulged　in　rage；　and　he　cursed　himself　breathless；　but　he　did　not　punch　Avila　even　once。　Instead　he　got　up；　smoothed　the　breast　of　his　Italian　suit；　straightened　his　necktie　and　presented　the　disheveled　con　man　with　an　itemized　estimate　from　Killebrew　Roofing　Co。　for　the　staggering　sum　of　23；250。
　
　Avila　was　crestfallen；　though　not　totally　surprised：　Whitmark　had　selected　the　best；　and　most　expensive；　roofers　in　all　South　Florida。　Also；　the　most　honest。　From　his　days　as　a　crooked　inspector；　Avila　sourly　recalled　the　few　times　he'd　tried　to　shake　down　Killebrew　crews　for　payoffs；　only　to　be　chased　like　a　skunk　from　the　construction　sites。　Killebrew；　like　Gar　Whitmark；　had　some　heavy　juice　downtown。
　
　Avila　pretended　to　study　the　estimate　while　he　thought　up　a　diplomatic　response。
　
　Whitmark　said：　〃They　start　work　next　week。　Adjust　your　finances　accordingly。〃
　
　〃Jesus；　I　don't　have　twenty…three　grand。〃　There…　he'd　said　it。
　
　〃You're　making　me　weep。〃　Gar　Whitmark　clicked　his　teeth。
　
　With　a　bandaged　hand　Avila　waved　the　Killebrew　paper　in　tepid　indignation。　〃I　could　do　this　same　job　for　half　as　much！〃
　
　Whitmark　snorted。　〃I　wouldn't　let　you　put　the　roof　on　a　fucking　doghouse。〃　He　handed　Avila　a　Xeroxed　clipping　from　the　newspaper。　〃You　either　e　up　with　the　money　or　go　to　jail。　prende；　Sefior　Dipshit？〃
　
　The　newspaper　article　said　the　Dade　State　Attorney　was　appointing　a　special　squad　of　prosecutors　to　crack　down　on　dishonest　contractors　preying　on　hurricane　victims。
　
　〃One　phone　call；〃　said　Whitmark；　〃and　you're　on　your　way　to　the　buttfuck　motel。〃
　
　Avila　bowed　his　head。　The　sight　of　his　blackened　fingernails　reminded　him　of　the　buried　Tupperware　box。　Hell；　there　was　only　twelve；　maybe　thirteen　grand　left　in　it。　He　was　screwed。
　
　〃My　wife's　still　a　wreck　from　what　your　people　did。　You　wouldn't　believe　the　goddamn　pharmacy　bill。〃　Whitmark　pointed　at　the　door　and　told　Avila　good…bye。　〃We'll　talk；〃　he　said；　ominously。
　
　On　the　way　home；　Avila　dejectedly　mulled　his　options。　How　often　could　he　turn　to　Chango　without　offending　Him；　or　appearing　selfish？　Yet　the　santero　priest　who　trained　Avila　had　mentioned　no　numerical　limit　on　supernatural　requests。　Tonight；　Avila　decided；　I'll　do　a　goat…no；　two　goats！
　
　And　tomorrow　I　will　hunt　that　bastard　Snapper。
　
　The　Church　of　High　Pentecostal　Rumination；　headquartered　in　Chicoryville；　Florida；　attended　all　natural　disasters　in　the　western　hemisphere。　Earthquake；　flood　and　hurricane　zones　proved　fertile　territories　for　conversion　and　recruitment　of　sinners。　Less　than　thirty…six　hours　after　the　killer　storm　smashed　Dade　County；　an　experienced　team　of　seven　Ruminator　missionaries　was　dispatched　in　a　leased　Dodge　minivan。　Hotel　beds　were　scarce；　so　they　shared　a　room　at　a　Ramada　Inn　off　the　Turnpike。　There　was　no　plaining。
　
　Every　morning；　the　missionaries　preached；　consoled　and　distributed　pamphlets。　Then　they　stood　in　line　for　free　army　lunches　at　the　tent　city；　and　returned　to　the　motel　for　two　hours　of　quiet　contemplation　and　gin　rummy。　The　Ramada　offered　free　cable　TV；　which　allowed　the　Ruminators　to　view　a　half…dozen　different　religious　broadcasts　at　any　time　of　day。　One　afternoon；　in　the　absence　of　a　pure　Pentecostal　preacher；　they　settled　on　Pat　Robertson　and　the　700　Club。　The　Ruminators　didn't　share　Robertson's　paranoid　worldview；　but　they　admired　his　life…or…death　style　of　fund…raising　and　hoped　to　pick　up　some　pointers。
　
　Toward　the　end　of　the　program；　Reverend　Robertson　closed　his　eyes　and　prayed。　The　Ruminators　joined　hands…no　easy　task；　since　four　of　them　were　on　one　bed　and　three　were　on　the　other。　The　prayer　was　not　one　they　recognized　from　the　Scriptures；　evidently　Reverend　Robertson　had　posed　it　personally；　since　it　contained　several　references　to　his　post　office　box　in　Virginia。　Nonetheless；　it　was　a　pretty　good　prayer；　fervently　rendered；　and　the　Ruminator　missionaries　were　enjoying　it。
　
　No　sooner　had　Reverend　Robertson　exhaled　the　word　〃Amen〃　when　the　motel　room　was　rocked　by　a　muffled　detonation；　and　the　television　set　exploded　before　the　missionaries'　startled　eyes。　Reverend　Robertson's　squinting　visage　vaporized　in　a　gout　of　acrid　blue　smoke；　and　his　whiny　beseechment　faded　in　a　sprinkle　of　falling　glass。　The　Ruminators　scrambled　off　the　beds；　dropped　to　their　knees　and　burst　into　a　hymn；　〃Nearer　My　God　to　Thee。〃　That's　how　the　manager　of　the　Ramada　found　them；　fifteen　minutes　later；　when　he　came