Charles Perrone blanched and stepped back from the minivan. "Sorry. I don't do prescriptions."
"Now hold on a second."
"I'm not that kind of doctor." He spun around and strode back to his house at an accelerated pace.
Tool grunted. That's one lame-ass quack, he can't even write scrips.
Two doors down, a middle-aged woman in a yellow linen robe came outside, leading two small animals on leashes. Tool guessed that they were dogs, although they resembled none he'd ever seen. Their roundish wrinkled faces were flattened, as if they'd run full bore into a cement truck. The woman herself had a fairly spooky mug, all slick and stretched out like a Halloween mask that was too small for her head. Tool was treated to a close-up view as she walked the strange pinch-faced dogs down the sidewalk. The woman must not have spotted him inside the minivan, for she nonchalantly allowed her critters to pee all over the right front tire.
Tool's instant response was to punch out the passenger window, raining glass upon the woman's sandaled feet. She bleated in fear as he stuck his head out the window and instructed her in the crudest terms to clean up the damn mess.
"What!" She yanked the dogs away from the van and gathered them into her arms. "Just who do you think you are, mister?"
"I'm the sumbitch gonna butt-fuck those puppies, you don't clean the piss off my tar."
He cracked the door enough for the woman to see all she needed. In a heartbeat she was on her knees, furiously dabbing at the wet tire with a wad of pink tissue while her pets whined and scrapped nearby.
When she was finished, Tool said, "I didn't hear no 'pology."
The woman made a spiteful sound and her cheeks turned red, yet her expression never changed. The skin from her forehead to her chin was so tight and glossy that Tool wondered if she might split open like a bad mango.
"Beat it," he said, and she did, sandals slapping in retreat. The accordion-faced dogs could barely keep up.
Minutes later, the doctor reappeared.
"What did you do to Mrs. Raguso?" he demanded.
"She let her damn mutts take a leak on my tar!" Tool protested. "I thought this was 'posed to be a class neighborhood, what they call 'upscale.' Hell, I live in a trailer and I wouldn't let my dogs pee on summon else's personal vee-hicle."
Charles Perrone said, "You'd better get out of here. Carmen Raguso is probably calling the police right this minute."
"What for? She's the one started it."
"You flashed her! I was watching from the living room." Charles Perrone had got himself quite worked up. "I don't want to deal with any more cops, you understand? Now hurry up, before she gets your license tag."
"But who's gonna watch your house?"
"Just keep driving," Charles Perrone said, "until you hear from Mr. Hammernut. He'll tell you what to do next."
"Shit," said Tool, and started backing down the street. At the corner he wheeled the minivan around, then shot forward at high speed toward the exit of West Boca Dunes Phase II. More than an hour passed before the cell phone rang, but by then Tool had scored two more fatality markers from the grass median of the Sawgrass Expressway. The flowers had rotted down to the ribbons, yet the crosses themselves were in mint condition. Consequently, Tool's outlook was much improved by the time Red Hammernut called.
"On this bodyguard thing," Red said, "the trick is, you gotta blend in."
"I never been too good at that."
"Okay. Lemme work up another plan."
"Meantime, can I swap out the minivan?" Tool asked.
"By all means."
"Get me somethin' with a decent AC."
"You bet."
"By the way, your boy ain't much of a doctor."
Red Hammernut chuckled. "Don't you dare tell a soul."
Mick Stranahan and Joey Perrone were surprised to see Chaz's yellow Humvee when they came around the corner at ten-thirty.
"Guess who's taking a sick day," Joey said.
Stranahan positioned the Suburban in the driveway of the fugitive telemarketers, same as the last time. Moments later, a panel truck turned onto the street and drove past the Perrone house, then braked, reversed and pulled in beside the Hummer. Painted in red lettering on the sides of the truck: sunshine locksmith.
"Damn," Stranahan said. "He's changing the locks."
"So what?"
"So the spare key in the bird feeder won't fit."
Joey raised an eyebrow. "Wait and see."
Soon another truck appeared. It was a small white pickup with magnetic signs on the doors: gold coast security systems.
"Now what?" Stranahan grumbled.
"He's reconnecting the alarm."
"Terrific."
"Would you please stop worrying?" Joey said.
"Just so you know, I'm not keen on B-and-E's."
"Translation?"
"Break-ins. They're messy," Stranahan said, "and very hard to explain if the cops show up. Are your window screens wired?"
"No, but there are motion detectors in the hallway and bedrooms. I suppose Chaz could put in more, depending on how spooked he is."
"I would say plenty spooked," said Stranahan, "based on what we're seeing."
"It was your phone call, Mick. The Moses impersonation."
"Let's not forget the snapshot under his pillow."
"Oh yeah." Joey would have given anything to see her husband's face when he found it.
By noon the locksmith and the alarm technician were gone, but Charles Perrone hadn't come out of the house. Joey was restless, ready to roll. She had tucked her hair under a Marlins cap and costumed herself in long pants and a loose-fitting work shirt. Instead of a Bible, her prop this time was a toolbox. Someone watching her come down the sidewalk might have mistaken her for a man, because of her height and long athletic stride.
"What if he's really sick in bed?" she said.
Stranahan was scanning the place with the binoculars. "Give him one more hour."
A blue car turned the corner and approached the Perrone residence. It was the Ford compact belonging to the woman with the kelly-green pubic hair.
Joey groaned. "You've got to be kidding."
"Take it easy, now."
"What, he can't even make it past lunch without getting his rocks hauled?"
Stranahan said, "Looks like she's not going in."
Two short honks came from the Ford, then the front door of the house opened. Out came Charles Perrone, carrying a brown paper bag.
"See that golf shirt he's wearing? I gave him that for his birthday," Joey said. "New set of irons, too."
Chaz got in on the passenger side and the blue car pulled away. Joey noted that the woman was wearing large Jackie Onassis-style sunglasses-"probably so she won't be recognized from her porno flicks."
Stranahan advised Joey to stay focused on her no-good husband. "What do you want to do?"
"I want to go back in the house. My house."
"But how?"
"Wait here," she said, "until you see the sprinklers come on."
Stranahan touched her wrist. "The second the alarm goes off, I'm rolling. Be sure to come out the front door, not the back, then walk very calmly to the street."
"Mick, don't you dare leave me stranded here. That would really suck."
"Come to think of it, I still owe you one."
"Not the stolen boat thing again." Joey sighed as she hopped out of the Suburban. "How many times did I say I was sorry? Like a dozen?"
Stranahan had been underestimating women for about forty years, so he was not flabbergasted to see the lawn sprinklers bloom at the former residence of Joey Perrone. He would have congratulated her merely for getting past the new locks; that she'd also thwarted the security alarm was truly impressive.