Stormy Weather

Snapper had dreamed up the plan for old man Stichler all by himself, without Edie's input. He surely didn't want to throw all that cleverness out the window, but he couldn't conceive of how to fit the new intruders into his scheme, and he was too fogged from the pills to improvise. It seemed easier to kill the one-eyed freak and his woman companion-and as long as Snapper was being so bold, why not do loony old Levon as well? That way, Snapper reasoned, he wouldn't have to pay the two whores anything, except for gas money and possibly a seafood di

On the downside: How to get rid of three dead bodies? The logistics were daunting. Snapper suspected that his droopy brain wasn't up to the challenge. Killing took energy, and Snapper all of a sudden felt like sleeping for three weeks solid.

He worked up a pep talk for himself, recalling what a wise guy once told him in prison: Dumping bodies is like buying real estate-location, location, location. Snapper thought: Look around, boy. You got your mangrove islands, your Everglades, your Atlantic-mother-fucking-Ocean. What more you want? A fast shot to the head, then let the sharks or the gators or the crabs finish the job. What's so damn difficult about that?

But Jesus, the stakes were high; one measly fuckup and it's back to Raiford for the rest of my life. Probably locked in a ten-by-ten with some humongous horny black faggot weight lifter. Clean and jerk my ski

And shooting people is awful noisy. Edie Marsh wouldn't go for it, Snapper knew for a fact. She'd make quite a stink. And killing Edie with the others was impractical because (a) he didn't have enough bullets and (b) he couldn't cash the insurance checks without her. Damn.

"What is it?" Edie shouted over Reba.

Snapper made a sarcastic zipper motion across his lips. He thought: I'm so goddamn tired. If only I could have a nap, it would come to me. A new plan.

The one-eyed stranger began to sing along with the stereo. Snapper scrutinized him coldly. How'd he know about the lady trooper? Snapper's hands had a slight tremor. His lips were as dry as ash. What if the bitch had gone and died? What if first she'd gotten a good look at him, or maybe the Jeep? What if it was already on TV, and every cop in Florida was in the hunt?

Snapper told himself to knock it off, think positive. For the first time in days, his busted-up knee didn't hurt so much. That was something to be glad about.

The young woman in the back seat joined her flaky companion in song. She was winging it with the lyrics, but that was all right with Snapper; her voice was pretty.

Edie Marsh tapped the rim of the steering wheel and acted peeved at the amateur chorus. After about three minutes she reached out and poked the Off button on the CD player. Reba fell silent, and so did the chorus.

Snapper a

"Spare us," Edie said. "Hell's your problem?"

The woman in the back seat spoke up: "My name's Bo

"Skink will be fine," said the one-eyed man. "And I would kill for some Allman Brothers."

Snapper demanded to know what they wanted, why they'd been snooping at the Torres house. The man who called himself Skink said: "We were looking for you."

"How come?"

"As a favor to a friend. You wouldn't know him."

Edie Marsh said, "You're not making a damn bit of sense."

Something shifted in the bed of the Jeep. The sound was followed by a faint quavering moan.

From the woman, Bo

Edie Marsh rolled her eyes. Bo

Snapper said, "Fuckin' idiots, the both of 'em."

"All I meant," said Bo

"I'm Farrah Fawcett," Edie said. Nodding at Snapper: "He's Ryan O'Neal."

In discouragement, Bo

A warm hand settled on Edie's shoulder. "Whoever you are," Skink said intimately, "you make a truly lovely couple."

"Fuck you."

Snapper lunged across the seat and stuck the barrel of the .357 in a crease of the stranger's cheek. "You think I don't got the balls to shoot?"

Skink nonchalantly pushed the gun away. He eased back in the seat and folded his arms. His fearless attitude distracted Edie Marsh. Snapper commanded her to pull off at the next exit. He needed to find a bathroom.

Having never been abducted at gunpoint, Bo

She wondered what Max Lamb would think if he could see her now. Probably best that he couldn't. She felt terrible about hurting her husband, but did she miss him? It didn't feel like it. Perhaps she was doing Max the biggest favor of his life. Having waited all of one week to commit adultery with a near-total stranger, Bo

She vowed not to depress herself by overanalyzing her instant attraction to Augustine. She wished he were there, and wondered how he would ever find them on the road. Bo

"South," the governor reported. "And south is good."

The man with the pistol snarled: "Quiet, asshole."

Suddenly Bo

From a pocket Skink withdrew a squirming Bufo toad, which immediately peed on him. The man with the .357 sneered.

The woman who was driving glanced over her shoulder. "What now?" she grumbled.

"Smoke the sweat," Skink said, cupping the toad and its amber piddle in his palm, "and then you see mastodons."