Stormy Weather

"But he's been waiting for this hurricane," Jim Tile said, twirling a spoonful of spaghetti. "There's cause to be concerned."

Augustine said: "I've heard of this guy."

"Then you understand why I need to talk to Mrs. Lamb."

"Mrs. Lamb," Bo

"An old lady in the neighborhood saw a man fitting the governor's description carrying a man fitting your husband's description. Over his shoulder. Buck naked." Jim Tile paused to allow Mrs. Lamb to form a mental picture of the scene. He said, "I don't know about the lady's eyesight, but it's worth checking out. You mentioned a tape you made-the kidnapper's voice."

"It's back at the house," said Augustine.

"Would you mind if I listened to it?"

Bo

"Humor me," said Jim Tile.

Bo

"He's my friend. He's in trouble," the trooper said.

"All I care about is Max."

"They're both in danger."

Bo

"Did your 'friend' do that, too?"

"They're talking to some dumb goober from Alabama, but I don't know."

To Bo

"Yes, ma'am." The trooper didn't mention the mock crucifixion. Mrs. Lamb was plenty upset already.

Through clenched teeth she said, "This place is insane."

Jim Tile was in full agreement. Tiredly he looked at Augustine. "I'm just tracking down a few leads."

"Come on back to the house. We'll play that tape for you."

Ira Jackson's intention had been to kill the mobile-home salesman and then drive home to New York and arrange that came naturally. Avila had said it was important to make lots of noise, like legitimate roofers, so the black guys staged a truss-hammering contest, with the Latin guy as referee. The white crackhead was left to cut plywood for the decking.

Snapper waited in the cab of the truck, which smelled like stale Coors and marijuana. Mercifully the sky darkened after about an hour, and a hard thunderstorm broke loose. While the roofers scrambled to load the truck, Snapper told Nathaniel Lewis they'd return first thing in the morning. Lewis handed him a cashier's check for three thousand dollars. The check was made out to Fortress Roofing, Avila's bogus company. Snapper thought it was a very amusing name.

He got in the stolen Jeep Cherokee and headed south. The crew followed in the truck. Avila had advised Snapper to move around, don't stay in one area. A smart strategy, Snapper agreed. They made it to Cutler Ridge ahead of the weather. Snapper found an expensive ranch-style house sitting on two acres of pinelands. Half the roof had been torn off by the hurricane. A Land Rover and a black Infiniti were parked in the tiled driveway.

Jackpot, Snapper thought.

The lady of the house let him in. Her name was Whitmark, and she was frantic for shelter. She'd been scouting the rain clouds on the horizon, and the possibility of more flooding in the living room had sent her dashing to the medicine chest. The "roofing foreman" listened to Mrs. Whitmark's woeful story: "The pile carpet already was ruined, as was Mr. Whit-mark's state-of-the-art stereo system, and of course mildew had claimed all the drapery, the linens and half her winter evening wardrobe; the Italian leather sofa and the cherry buffet had been moved to the west wing, but—"

"We can start this afternoon," Snapper cut in, "but we need a deposit."

Mrs. Whitmark asked how much. Snapper pulled a figure out of his head: seven thousand dollars.

"You take cash, I assume."

"Sure," Snapper said, trying to sound matter-of-fact, like all his customers had seven grand lying around in cookie jars.

Mrs. Whitmark left Snapper alone while she went for the money. He raised his eyes to the immense hole in the ceiling. At that moment, a sunbeam broke through the bruised clouds, flooding the house with golden light.

Snapper shielded his eyes. Was this a sign?

When Mrs. Whitmark returned, she was flanked by two blackand-silver German shepherds.

Snapper went rigid. "Mother of Christ," he murmured.

"My babies," said Mrs. Whitmark, fondly. "We don't have a problem with looters. Do we, sugars?" She stroked the larger dog under its chin. On command, both of them sat at her feet. They cocked their heads and gazed expectantly at Snapper, who felt a spasm in his colon.

His hands trembled so severely that he was barely able to write up the contract. Mrs. Whitmark asked what had happened to his face. "Did you fall off a roof?"

"No," he said curtly. "Bungee accident."

Mrs. Whitmark gave him the cash in a scented pink envelope. "How soon can you start?"

Snapper promised that the crew would return in half an hour. "We'll need to pick up some lumber. It's a big place you've got here."

Mrs. Whitmark and her guard dogs accompanied Snapper to the front door. He kept both hands jammed in his pockets, in case one of the vicious bastards lunged for him. Of course, if they were trained like police K-9s, they wouldn't bother with his hands. They'd go straight for the balls.

"Hurry," Mrs. Whitmark said, sca

Snapper walked to the truck and gave the crew the bad news. "She didn't go for it. Says her husband's already got a roofer lined up for the job. Some company from Palm Beach, she said."

"Thank God," said one of the black guys, yawning. "I'm beat, boss. How about we call it a day?"

"Fine by me," said Snapper.

Jim Tile rewound the tape and played it again.

"Honey, I've been kidnapped—"

"Abducted! Kidnapping implies ransom, Max. Don't fucking flatter yourself...."

Bo

"It's him," the trooper said.

"You're sure?"

"I love you, Bo