Stormy Weather

"Keep talkin' that way," warned Tony Torres, "and I'll sue your ass for slander."

Even before it was made a specified condition of his parole, Ira Jackson had never possessed a firearm. In his many years as a professional goon, it had been his experience that men who brandished guns invariably got shot with one. Ira Jackson favored the more personal touch afforded by crowbars, aluminum softball bats, nunchaku sticks, piano wire, cutlery, or gym socks filled with lead fishing sinkers. Any would have done the job nicely on Tony Torres, but Ira Jackson had brought nothing but his bare fists to the salesman's house.

"What is it you want?" Tony Torres demanded.

"An explanation."

"Which I just gave you." Tony's eyes watered from peering into the sun's glare, and he was growing worried. Edie the Ice Maiden had disappeared with Ira Jackson's dogs-what the hell was that all about? Were they in on something? And where was the freak in the bad suit, his so-called bodyguard?

Tony said to Ira Jackson: "I think it's time for you to go." He motioned with the shotgun toward the street.

"This is how you treat dissatisfied customers?"

A jittery laugh burst from the salesman. "Sport, you ain't here for no refund."

"You're right." Ira Jackson was pleased by the din of the neighborhood-hammers, drills, saws, electric generators. All the folks preoccupied with putting their homes back together. The noise would make it easier to cover the ruckus, if the mobile-home salesman tried to put up a struggle.

Tony Torres said, "You think I don't know to use this twelve-gauge, you're makin' a big mistake. Check out the hole in that garage door."

Ira Jackson whistled. "I'm impressed, Mister Torres. You shot a house."

Tony's expression hardened. "I'm counting to three."

"My mother was hit by a damn barbecue."

"One!" the salesman said. "Every second you look more like a looter, mister."

"You promised her the place was safe. All those poor people-how the hell do you sleep nights?"

"Two!"

"Relax, you fat fuck. I'm on my way." Ira Jackson turned and walked slowly toward the street.

Tony Torres took a deep breath; his tongue felt like sandpaper. He lowered the Remington until it rested on one of his kneecaps. He watched Beatrice Jackson's son pause in the driveway and kneel as if tying a shoe.

Craning to see, Tony shouted: "Move it, sport!"

The cinder block caught him by surprise-first, the sheer weight of it, thirty-odd pounds of solid concrete; second, the fact that Ira Jackson was able to throw such a hefty object, shot-putter style, with such distressing accuracy.

When it struck the salesman's chest, the cinder block knocked the shotgun from his hands, the beer from his bladder and the breath from his lungs. He made a sibilant exclamation, like a water bed rupturing.

So forceful was the cinder block's impact that it doubled Tony Torres at the waist, causing the chaise longue to spring on him like an oversized mousetrap. The moans he let out as Ira Jackson dragged him to the car were practically inaudible over the chorus of his neighbors' chain saws.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Dade County Medical Examiner's Office was quiet, neat and modern-nothing like Bo

A friendly secretary brought coffee to Bo

When he returned, the medical examiner said the morgue had two unidentified corpses that loosely matched the physical description of Max Lamb. Augustine relayed the news to Bo

"You up for this?" he asked.

"If you go with me."

It was a long walk to the autopsy room, where the temperature seemed to drop fifteen degrees. Bo

"No," she said. "It's just ... God, I thought they'd all be covered with sheets."

"Only in the movies."

The first John Doe had lank hair and sparse, uneven sideburns. He was the same race and age, but otherwise bore no resemblance to Max Lamb. The dead man's eyes were greenish blue; Max's were brown. Still, Bo

"How did he die?"

Augustine asked: "Is it Max?"

She shook her head sharply. "But tell me how he died."

With a Bic pen, the young medical examiner pointed to a dime-sized hole beneath the dead man's left armpit. "Gunshot wound," he said.

Augustine and Bo

Bo

"Look at his hands," the medical examiner said.

"No wedding ring," Augustine observed.

"Please. I want her to look," the medical examiner said. "We remove the jewelry for safekeeping."

Bo

"Ma'am, what about the hands?"

Bo