Bonnie looked away. "You don't know Max, what a workaholic he is."
Augustine pushed back from the table. Normally he wasn't wild about women who punched for no good reason.
"What do we do now?" She held the cup with both hands, shaking slightly. "You heard the man's tone."
"Yeah, I did."
"Let's agree he's not your average kidnapper. What is he?"
Augustine shook his head. "How would I know, Mrs. Lamb?"
"It's Bonnie." She stood up, perfectly calm now, tightening the sash on the robe he'd loaned her. "Maybe together we can figure him out."
Augustine emptied his coffee in the sink. "I think we both need some sleep."
On the way back to Tony Torres's house, Edie Marsh asked Snapper if he had a stopwatch.
"Why?"
"Because I want to put a clock on this jerk," she said, "see how long it takes before he tries to screw me."
Snapper, who had daydreamed of doing the same thing, said: "I give him two days before he makes a move.
"I give him two hours," Edie said. "So what'll you do? Ten grand's ten grand." Edie said, "You better be joking. I'd shove hot daggers in my eyes before I'd let that pig touch me." It was a long bleak slide from dating a Kennedy to fucking a mobile-home salesman.
"What if he don't let up?" asked Snapper.
"Then I walk."
"Yeah, but"
"Hey," Edie said, "you want the money so bad, you fuck him, OK? I think the two of you'd make a very cute couple."
Snapper didn't press the issue. He'd already hatched a backup plan, in case the Torres deal fell apart. Avila was in a happy mood when he'd called the motel. Apparently the santeria saints had informed him he could become very rich by starting his own roofing business. The saints had pointed out that the hurricane left two hundred thousand people without shelter, and that many of these poor folks were so desperate to get their houses repaired that they wouldn't think of asking to see a valid contractor's license, which of course Avila did not possess.
"But you're afraid of heights," Snapper had reminded him.
"That's where you come in," Avila had said. "I'm the boss, you're the foreman. All we need is a crew."
"Meaning you won't be joining us up on the roof with the boiling tar in the hot sun."
"Jesus, Snap, somebody's got to handle the paperwork. Somebody's got to write up the contracts."
Snapper had inquired about the split. Avila said guys he knew were charging fifteen grand per roof, a third of it up front. He said some home owners were offering cash, to speed the job. Avila said there was enough work around to keep them busy for two years.
"Thanks to you," Snapper had said.
Avila failed to see irony in the fact that corruptly incompetent building inspections were a chief reason that so many roofs had blown off in the storm, and that so much new business was now available for incompetent roofers.
"You guys plan it this way?" Snapper had asked.
"Plan what?"
Snapper didn't trust Avila as far as he could spit, but the roofing option was something to consider if Torres went sour.
The trailer salesman also happened to be in sunny spirits when Snapper and Edie Marsh arrived. He was sprawled, shirtless, in a chaise on the front lawn. He wore Bermuda shorts and monogrammed socks pulled high on his hairy shins. The barrel of the shotgun poked out from a stack of newspapers on his lap. When Edie Marsh and Snapper got out of the car, Tony clapped his hands and exclaimed: "I knew you'd be back!"
"A regular Nostradamus," said Edie. "Is the electricity up yet? We picked up some stuff for the refrigerator."
Tony reported that the power remained off, and the portable generator had run out of gas overnight. He was storing food in two large Igloo coolers, packed with ice he'd purchased from gougers for twenty dollars a bag. The good news: Telephone service had been restored.
"And I got through immediately to Midwest Casualty," Tony said. "They're sending an adjuster today or tomorrow."
Edie thought: Too good to be true. "So we wait?"
"We wait," Tony said. "And remember, it's Neria. N-e-r-i-a. Middle initial, G as in Gomez. What'd you buy?"
"Tuna sandwiches," Snapper replied, "cheese, eggs, ice cream, Diet Sprite and stale fucking Lorna Doones.
There wasn't much to choose from." He iced the groceries, found a pool chair and took a position upwind of the sweaty Tony Torres. The sky had cleared and the summer sun blazed down, but it was pointless to look for shade. There wasn't any; all the trees in Turtle Meadow were leveled.
Tony complimented Edie Marsh for costuming herself as an authentic housewife-jeans, white Keds, a baggy blouse with the sleeves turned up. His only complaint was the sea-green scarf in her hair. He said, "Silk is a little much, considering the circumstances."
"Because it clashes with those gorgeous Bermudas of yours?" Edie glared at Tony Torres as if he were a maggot on a wedding cake. She was disinclined to remove the scarf, which was one of her favorites. She had boosted it from a Lord & Taylor's in Palm Beach.
"Suit yourself," said Tony. "Point is, details are damn important. It's the little things people notice."
"I'll try and keep that in mind."
Snapper said, "Hey, Mister Salesman of the Year, can we run the TV off that generator?"
Tony said sure, if they only had some gasoline.
Snapper tapped his wristwatch and said, "Sally Jessy comes on in twenty minutes. Men who seduce their daughter-in-law's mother-in-law."
"No shit? We could siphon your car." Tony pointed at the rubble of his garage. "There's a hose in there someplace."
Snapper went to find it. Edie Marsh said it was a lousy idea to siphon fuel from the car, since they might be needing speedy transportation. Snapper winked and told her not to worry. Off he went, ambling down the street, the garden hose coiled on his left shoulder.
Edie expropriated the pool chair. Tony Torres perked up. "Scoot closer, darling."
"Wonderful," she said, under her breath.
The salesman fanned himself with the Miami Herald sports pages. He said, "It just now hit me: Men who steal their daughter-in-law's mother-in-law. That's pretty funny! He don't look like a comedian, your partner, but that's a good one."
"Oh, he's full of surprises." Edie leaned back and closed her eyes. The sunshine felt good on her face.
The hurricane had transformed the trailer court into a sprawling aluminum junkyard. Ira Jackson found Lot 17 because of the bright yellow tape, that police had roped around the remains of the double-wide mobile home where his mother, Beatrice, had died. After identifying her body at the morgue, Ira Jackson had driven directly to Suncoast Leisure Village, to see for himself.
Not one trailer had made it through the storm.
From the debris, Ira Jackson pulled his mother's Craftmatic adjustable bed. The mattress was curled up like a giant taco shell. Ira Jackson crawled inside and lay down.
He recalled, as if it were yesterday, the morning he and his mother met with the salesman to close the deal. The man's name was Tony. Tony Torres. He was fat, gassy and balding, yet extremely self-assured. Beatrice Jackson had been impressed with his pitch.
"Mister Torres says it's built to go through a hurricane."
"I find that hard to believe, Momma."