chiaasen.stormyweather-第62节

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　in　Dania；　Florida。　The　victim　was　not　just　a　garden…variety　crack　dealer；　as　Snapper　claimed　after　the　incident。　In　truth；　Sunny　Shea　was　his　longtime　business　partner。　The　scope　of　their　enterprises　extended　beyond　drugs　to　stolen　guns；　jewelry；　clothing；　patio　furniture；　stereos；　even　a　shipment　of　baby　food　on　one　occasion。　Eventually　Sunny　Shea　came　to　suspect　Snapper　of　cheating　him　on　the　proceeds；　and　confronted　him　with　the　accusation　one　humid　summer　night　in　the　doorway　of　the　Satellite　Grille；　before　sixteen　eyewitnesses。
　
　Snapper's　indignant　response　was　to　display　a　9mm　Clock　（swiped　from　the　glove　box　of　an　unmarked　Coral　Springs　police　car）　and　attempt　to　empty　said　weapon　into　Sunny　Shea。　In　all；　Snapper　fired　eleven　times　from　a　distance　of　eight　feet。　Only　six　rounds　struck　Sunny　Shea；　and　not　one　nicked　a　vital　organ…quite　a　feat；　considering　that　Sunny　Shea　weighed　only　one　hundred　thirty　pounds　and　hadn't　an　ounce　of　fat　on　his　body。　The　hapless　shooting　exhibition　was　even　more　remarkable　because　Snapper　was　stone　sober　at　the　time。
　
　Sunny　Shea　never　lost　consciousness；　and　was　extremely　cooperative　when　police　inquired　about　the　identity　of　his　assailant。　The　two　detectives　who　hauled　Lester　Maddox　Parsons　to　the　Broward　County　Jail　ridiculed　him　mercilessly　about　his　lousy　aim。
　
　The　next　morning；　when　they　came　to　his　cell　to　inform　him　that　the　charge　of　attempted　first…degree　murder　had　been　upgraded；　Snapper　glowed　with　vindication。　Then　he　learned　it　wasn't　one　of　his　shots　that　had　killed　his　scrawny；　obnoxious　partner…some　bone…head　in　the　emergency　room　had　injected　Theodore　〃Sunny〃　Shea　with　an　antibiotic　to　which　he　was　virulently；　and　fatally；　allergic。
　
　Snapper　pleaded　out　to　a　chickenshit　manslaughter　and　got　easy　time；　but　his　confidence　in　the　efficacy　of　handguns　was　ruined　forever。　Two　bullets　in　a　。357　was　scarcely　better　than　no　bullets　at　all。
　
　Which　was　why　he　didn't　want　to　waste　them　on　Avila；　the　whiny　spic。　He　was　the　last　guy　on　earth　that　Snapper　expected　to　see　at　Paradise　Palms。　He'd　materialized　like　a　drowned　ghost　out　of　the　rainstorm；　bitching　about　the　roofing　deposit　that　Snapper　had　ripped　off　from　Mrs。　Whitmark。
　
　〃You　know　who　she　is？　You　know　who　she's　married　to？〃　Avila　was　screeching。　Skink　and　the　two　women　retreated　to　a　dry　vantage；　under　the　eaves　of　the　motel；　while　Avila　chased　Snapper　around　the　parking　lot　like　a　terrier。　Their　conversation　was　difficult　to　follow；　but　Edie　Marsh　got　the　substance　of　it：　Snapper　had　made　a　seven…thousand…dollar　score。
　
　Funny　how　he'd　forgotten　to　tell　her　about　it。　Same　as　the　wedding　ring。
　
　The　pistol　in　Snapper's　possession　worried　Avila　but　didn't　deter　him。　For　eighty　miles　he'd　been　praying　for　Change's　protection；　and　felt　moderately　imbued。　Snapper　appeared　frazzled　and　shaky；　possibly　visited　by　black　spirits。
　
　Avila　said；　〃Gimme　the　money。〃
　
　〃Eat　shit；〃　Snapper　growled。
　
　When　he　turned　away；　Avila　hopped　on　his　back。
　
　Snapper　shook　him　off。　Avila　pounced　again；　ripping　Snapper's　suit　and　knocking　the　Johnnie　Walker　from　his　hand。　The　two　men　locked　together；　spinning　in　the　mist。　Ultimately　Snapper　backed　into　a　sabal　palm　tree；　slamming　Avila　against　the　trunk。　He　made　a　true　squeak　as　he　slid　to　the　ground。
　
　Snapper；　panting；　weaved　toward　Edie：　〃Hold　the　damn　gun　while　I　strangle　this　fucker。〃
　
　Halfheartedly　she　took　the　pistol　and　held　it　on　Bonnie　and　Skink。　Snapper　fell　upon　Avila　and　breathlessly　beat　him。　Avila　was　surprised　by　the　clarity　of　the　pain。　When　his　nose　exploded　under　Snapper's　fist；　he　realized　he'd　been　foolhardy　to　count　on　beatific　intervention。　Evidently　Chango　hadn't　forgiven　him　for　the　aborted　coati　sacrifice。
　
　As　Snapper's　grimy　fingernails　closed　upon　his　throat；　Avila　inventoried　the　multiple　sources　of　his　agony：　the　fractured　nose；　the　sliver　of　broken　whiskey　bottle　in　his　right　thigh；　the　unhealed　crucifixion　hole　in　his　left　hand；　the　goat…related　goring　in　his　groin　and；　soon；　a　crushed　larynx。
　
　He　thought：　Forget　the　seven　grand。　Screw　Gar　Whit…mark。　It's　time　to　run。
　
　Avila　brought　his　right　knee　hard　to　Snapper's　crotch。　Snapper's　eyelids　fluttered　but　he　didn't　release　his　grip　on　Avila's　neck。　Avila　kneed　him　twice　more；　ultimately　producing　the　desired　result。　Snapper　moaned　and　rolled　away。　Avila　struggled　to　his　feet。　He　took　three　steps　and　slipped。　When　he　got　up　again；　he　heard　Snapper　rising　behind　him。　Frantically　Avila　bolted　for　the　road。
　
　The　rain　made　it　hard　to　discern　the　details　of　the　two　men　running　along　Highway　One。　Neither　was　large　enough　to　be　the　governor；　or　physically　fit　enough　to　be　Augustine。　From　where　his　Highway　Patrol　car　was　parked；　a　hundred　yards　away；　Jim　Tile　was　unable　to　see　if　the　tall　man　had　a　crooked　jaw。　He　might　have　been　any　old　Keys　drunk　in　a　soggy　pinstriped　suit。
　
　The　black　Jeep　was　still　parked　at　the　Paradise　Palms。　The　trooper　decided　to　sit　still　and　wait。
　
　Avila　made　it　half　a　mile　before　he　ran　out　of　strength。　He　stopped　on　the　Tea…Table　Bridge　and　doubled　over；　sucking　air。　He　tried　to　flag　passing　motorists；　but　none　found　room　in　their　icy　hearts　for　a　bedraggled；　saliva…flecked；　blood…spattered　hitchhiker。　Avila　was　further　dejected　to　see；　framed　in　the　window　of　a　speeding　Airstream；　a　freckle…faced　teenaged　girl；　snapping　his　photograph。
　
　What　a　sick　world；　he　thought；　when　an　injured　human　being　bees　a　roadside　amusement。
　
　Meanwhile；　out　of　the　veil　of　rain　came　Snapper。　He　was　shambling　like　a　zombie　across　the　bridge。　For　a　weapon　he'd　selected　a　rusty　axle　from　an　abandoned　Jet　Ski　trailer。
　
　Avila　raised　both　arms　in　supplication。　〃Let's　forget　the　whole　thing；　OK？〃
　
　〃Don't　move。〃　Snapper　gripped　the　axle　at　one　end　and　brought　it　high　over　his　head；　like　a　sledgehammer。
　
　With　a　morose　peep；　Avila　hurled　himself　sideways　off　the　bridge。　The　drop　was　only　fourteen　feet；　but　given　his　dread　of　heights；　it　might　as　well　have　been　fourteen　stories。　Avila　was　mildly　amazed　to　survive　the　impact。
　
　The　water　was　warm　and　the　tide　was　strong。　He　let　it　carry　him　out　the　channel　toward　the　ocean；　because　he　wasn't　strong　enough　to　swim　against　it。　When　the　sodden　weight　of　his　clothing　began　to　drag　him　under；　he　kicked　off　his　shoes　and　pants；　and　stripped　out　of　his　shirt。　Soon　the　lights　from　the　Overseas　Highway　were　absorbed　by　darkness　and　bad　weather。　Avila　could　see　nothing　but　the　occasional　high…altitude　flash　of　heat　lightning。　When　a　heavy　object　thumped　him　in　the　small　of　the　back；　he　was　sure　it　was　the　snout　of　a　great　white　shark　and　that　death　was　imminent。
　
　But　it　was　only　a　piece　of　plywood。　Avila　clung　to　it　like　a　crippled　frog。　He　thought　of　a　sublime　irony…　what　if　the　life…saving　lumber　had　blown　off　one　of　the　roofs　that　he'd　been　bribed　not　to　inspect？　Perhaps　it　was　Change's　idea　of　a　practical　joke。
　
　All　night　long；　adrift　in　the　chop；　Avila　cursed　the　hurricane　for　bringing　him　such　misery：　the　sadistic　doughnut　man；　Whitmark　and；　of　course；　Snapper。　The　rainfall　stopped　at　dawn　but　the　sun　never　broke　free　of　the　clouds。　It　was　midafternoon　before　Avila　heard　an　engine。　As　he　shouted　for　help；　a　tall　white　fishing　boat　idled　within　hailing　distance。　Avila　waved。　The　skipper　and　his　tropically　garbed　clients　waved　back。
　
　〃Hang　in　there；　amigo；〃　the　skipper　yelled；　and　trolled　away。
　
　Twenty　minutes　later；　a　Coast　Guard　boat　arrived　and　took　Avila　aboard。　The　crew　gave　him　dry　clothes；　hot　coffee　and　homemade　chili。　He　ate　in　appreciative　silence。　Afterwards　he　was　led　belowdeck　to　a　small　briefing　room；　where　he　was　greeted　by　a　man　from　the　Immigration　and　Naturalization　Service。
　
　In　halting　Spanish；　the　immigration　man　asked　Avila　for　the　name　of　the　Cuban　port　he　had　fled。　Avila　laughed　and　explained　that　he　was　from　Miami。
　
　〃Then　what're　you　doing　out　here　in　your　underwear？〃
　
　Avila　said　a　robber　was　chasing　him　down　the　road；　so　he　jumped　off　a　bridge　in　Islamorada。
　
　〃Tell　the　truth；〃　the　immigration　man　said　sternly。　〃Obviously　you're　a　rafter。　Now　where　did　you　e　from…Havana？　Mariel？〃
　
　Avila　was　about　to　argue　when　it　dawned；　on　him　that　there　was　no　faster　way　to　shed　his　burdens。　What　could　he　look　forward　to　in　his　current　life　but　an　unforgiving　wife；　a　traumatized　mother…in…law；　personal　bankruptcy；　the　wrath　of　Gar　Whitmark　and　a　possible　criminal　indictment？
　
　He　asked　the　immigration　man：　〃What　will　happen　to　me　if　I　confess？〃
　
　〃Nothing。　You'll　be　processed　at　Krome　and　most　likely　released。〃
　
　〃If　I　am　a　political　refugee。〃
　
　〃That's　the　usual　procedure。〃
　
　〃Si；〃　Avila　said。　〃Yo　soy　balsero。〃　I　am　a　rafter。
　
　The　immigration　man　seemed　so　relieved　that　Avila　was　left　to　conclude　（as　a　former　civil　servant　himself）　that　he'd　saved　the　man　mountains　of　paperwork。
　
　〃Su　nombre；　par　favor？〃
　
　〃Juan；〃　Avila　replied。　〃Juan　Gomez。　From　Havana。〃
　
　〃And　your　occupation　in　Cuba？〃
　
　〃I　was　a　building　inspector。〃
　
　
　
　CHAPTER　TWENTY…SEVEN
　
　
　They　waited　in　the　Jeep…Edie　Marsh　up　front；　holding　the　revolver；　Bonnie　Lamb