"From what I can see, you've done a wonderful job." Martha stood up. "I really must go now, and please don't worry. She's in good hands."
Violet watched from the doorway, as Martha went out to the van. The roof-rack was loaded with skis, and the rear area was filled with luggage, boots, and poles. Lila sat up front, Pam and Linda behind her, and George and Chicken in back.
"Okay, let's roll it," said Martha, as she got into the van and started up. "Call out for pit stops, but let's try and keep it to a minimum, okay?"
There was a murmur of assent. Head-to-head, Martha said, Let's have your reports. Pam?
Nothing unusual. She seems like a nice kid. I don't think we'll have any trouble with her.
If we have any trouble, it won't come from Lila. Linda, anything?
Same as Pam.
George?
She's sort of… innocent. We'd better watch our language with her.
Good point. Chicken? There was no answer. Chicken? Martha sighed to herself. As usual, Chicken wasn't tuned in. Will one of you please poke him?
George, who was sitting next to Chicken, did it. He did not do it gently. Chicken jumped, and was about to poke back when George nodded at Martha.
Chicken, do you read me?
Uh… yeah, I got you.
I know it hurts, but you have to stay tuned to me. Will you do that, Chicken?
I'm sorry, I'll try. What do you want?
I was asking the others about Lila. What do you think of her?
I think she's cute.
Great.
Well, she is.
Go back to sleep. The rest of you, keep alert.
All this in the time that it took to start the car, and pull away from the curb. Martha drove down Linden Avenue, and made a left at the corner. She had already made her turn when another van, which once had been white and now was matted with rust, pulled out to follow.
8
SNAKE parked the rental Trans-Am at the curb in front of the Southern Manor, and sat there with the motor and the air-conditioning running, reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the car. The Florida sun was heavy, unkind, and her destination did not beckon. The Southern Manor was a two-story house of faded stucco with a sagging wooden porch, a sign that said ROOMS embedded in a graveled yard, and a rusted flagpole without a flag. The other houses on the street were much the same. This was hardscrabble Florida, tracts of land that were virtually treeless, flat and sandy, dull and discouraging.
She looked again at the Southern Manor. David Ogden wanted it burned, and at the moment that didn't seem like such a bad idea.
I am, she told herself, about to become a house-sitter. I am supposed to sit around on my butt and make sure that somebody doesn't torch this monstrosity, which is just plain stupid. I love Sammy, he's my brother and I know that he's got the brains in the outfit, but he sure screwed up on this assignment. He gives the college gig to Vince, and I can't argue with that because I don't know the first thing about basketball, and I don't want to. He gives Ben the cruise ship, and that makes sense. But he gives Martha the Simms girl, and he makes me the house-sitter, which is all wrong. Martha is soft, and I'm steel. Martha is sweet, and I'm sharp. Martha says please, and I say gimme. The Simms kid needs a hard-nosed, hard-assed bitch. That's me. This job needs an earth mother who can make friends and talk to people. That's Martha. So why, Sammy?
She stared at the house with distaste, and the house stared back. The only way to guard the place effectively was from the inside, which meant renting a room. She dredged up memories of cheap rooming houses: lumpy mattresses, stiff grey sheets, ancient air-conditioning, one bathroom to a floor, and a sign in every room that said NO COOKING. Someday, Sammy. Someday.
She went into the house to rent a room, and ten minutes later she was still trying. Bertha Costigan, the owner of the Southern Manor, was a cheerful woman of middle years who was perfectly happy to sit her down, give her a cold Coke, chat with her, and complain about the weather. What Bertha Costigan could not do was rent her a room. "I wish I could, but I simply can't," she explained. "I have six rooms, and they're all occupied. I wish I had six more, a dozen more. I'd rent them all this time of year."
"What about doubling up?" Snake asked. "Maybe I could share a room."
"Afraid not. I don't have any other young women staying with me right now, and even if I did, most people don't like to share."
"Anybody leaving soon?"
"Not likely. You see, I don't have what you call transients here. Most of my people have been with me for quite a while. Now, Mrs. Moskowitz, she's been here close to five years, Mr. Pasco the same, and the Roveres maybe four. Poor Mr. Teague has been here the longest." She lowered her voice. "He's an invalid, can't move around." Her voice shifted up. "Then there's Mr. Krill, about a year, and Mr. Ramirez, six months or so." She lowered her voice again. "Mr. Ramirez, he's Cuban, but he's one of the good ones." She showed the palms of her hands. "So you see, there's nothing I can do for you."
"If it's a question of money-something extra?"
"I'm sorry." A firm shake of the head. "You'll have to try somewhere else."
"I was counting on this place."
"There are plenty of others. There's nothing special about the Southern Manor."
You got that right, thought Snake. What do I do now, pitch a tent in the street? The time frame starts tomorrow.
The front doorbell rang, and the landlady went to answer it. Snake caught a glimpse of a heavy-set woman standing on the porch. Mrs. Costigan said, "Morning, Ellen, right on time."
"You know me, like clockwork," said the woman. "How about this weather?"
"Pressure cooker."
"And it's gonna get worse." The woman came in, and disappeared down a hallway.
"Ellen Coombs, county nurse," Mrs. Costigan explained to Snake. "Comes by every day to see to Mr. Teague."
"What's wrong with him?"
"Nothing wrong with the man except he's got the disposition of a junkyard dog. Believe me, I know, I was a nurse once, myself. And not any country nurse, either. I was an R.N. in a hospital, Buffalo General up north. Trained at St. Mary's."
Snake tried to look admiring. "If there's nothing wrong with him, why does he need a nurse?"
"It's just that he can't move around anymore, bedbound they call it. Stays in his room all day and all night. Ellen comes by to make sure he's clean and cared for. I could do it myself, but my nursing days are over.
"Sounds like he belongs in a nursing home."
"That's what they say, but he won't have it. Stubborn old goat, he says this is his home, and this is where he stays." She added proudly. "That's what I mean about my people. Real loyal."
"Bertha?" The nurse poked her head out of the hallway. "I have to shift his bed today. Can you get someone to give me a hand?"
"Hold on for a minute." The nurse's head vanished, and Mrs. Costigan said with quiet contempt, "County people. That woman doesn't know what real nursing is. Can't even move a bed by herself."
"Can I help?" asked Snake.
"Bless you, no. I'll get Barney." She went to the foot of the stairs, and called up, "Barney? Barney, you up there? Ellen needs some help."
There was the sound of a door opening, and a voice called, "Be right there."
A young man came scampering down the stairs. He wore only shorts and sandals. His torso was a muscular V, and his skin glistened. He looked as if he worked out daily. When he saw Snake, he flashed a smile at her. To Mrs. Costigan, he said, "What's up, Mom?"
"Ellen needs a hand with Mr. Teague. Would you mind?"
"Sure thing." He looked at Snake with interest. "Hi, you just visiting, or are you moving in?"