Stormy Weather

"Get that stinking thing outta here," said the gunman.

"Did you know mastodons once roamed Florida? Eons before your ancestors began their ruinous copulations. Mastodons as big as cement trucks!" Skink put the toad out the window. Then he wiped the toad pee on the sleeve of the gunman's pinstriped suit.

"You fuck!" Snapper took aim at Skink's good eye.

The woman at the wheel told him to cool it-other drivers were staring. She turned off at the next exit and pulled into an abandoned service station. The hurricane had blown down the gas pumps like dominoes. Looters had cleaned out the garage. On the roof lay the remains of a Mazda Miata, squashed upside down like a bright lady-bug.

While the gunman left the Jeep to relieve himself behind the building, the woman reluctantly took charge of the .357. She looked so uncomfortable that Bo

But he didn't. Instead he smiled at the woman in the driver's seat and said, "You're truly pretty. And aware of it, of course. The guiding force for most of your life, I imagine-your good looks."

The woman blushed, then toughened.

"Where'd you spend the storm?" Skink asked.

"In a motel. With Mel Gibson there," the woman said, nodding toward Snapper, "and a hooker."

"I was tied to a bridge. You should try it sometime."

"Right."

Bo

The woman shifted the .357 to her other hand. "What on earth are you people doing? Who sent you to the house-Tony's wife?" She turned around on her knees, bracing her gun arm on the front seat. "Bo

"Would you believe I'm on my honeymoon."

"You're joking." The woman glanced doubtfully at Skink.

Bo

"Boy, are you ever lost," said the woman.

Bo

The storm had knocked down the traffic signal at Florida City, or what was left of Florida City. A tired policeman in a yellow rainsuit directed traffic at the intersection. Edie Marsh tensed behind the wheel of the Jeep. She told Snapper to make sure the gun was out of sight. As they passed the officer, Bo

Most of the street signs remained down from the hurricane, but Bo

"There's a toll," she noted.

"So?"

"I left my purse at the house."

Snapper said, "Jesus, I got money."

"I bet you do." Edie Marsh couldn't stop thinking about what the one-eyed stranger had said: Snapper assaulting a woman cop and swiping her mother's ring.

"How much did you get for it?" she asked.

"For what?"

"The ring." Edie stared ahead at the flat strip of road, which stretched eastward as far as she could see.

Snapper muttered obscenely. He fished in his coat and came out with a plain gold wedding band. He held it three inches from Edie's face.

"Happy?" he said.

The sight of the stolen ring affected Edie in an unexpected way: She felt repulsed, then dejected. She tried to picture the policewoman, wondered if she was married or had children, wondered what dreadful things Snapper had done to her.

Lord, Edie thought. What a small, disappointing life I've made for myself. She wanted to believe it would've been different if only she'd talked that shy young Ke

"I couldn't pawn it," Snapper was saying. "Damn thing's engraved, nobody'll touch it."

"What does it say?" Edie asked quietly. "On the ring."

"Who cares."

"Come on. What does it say?"

The woman in the back seat sat forward, also curious, as Snapper read the inscription aloud: "'For My Cynthia. Always.'" He gave a scornful laugh and hung his bony arm out the window, preparing to toss the ring from the truck.

"Don't do that," Edie said, backing off the accelerator.

"The fuck not? If I can't hock the goddamn thing, I'm gone dump it. Case we get pulled over."

Edie Marsh said, "Just don't, OK?"

"Oops. Too late." He cocked his arm and threw the ring as far as he could. It plopped into a roadside canal, breaking the surface with concentric circles.

Edie saw everything from the corner of her eye. "You lousy prick." Her voice was as hard as marble. The woman in the back seat felt the Jeep gain speed.

Defiantly Snapper waved the heavy black pistol. "Maybe you never heard of somethin' called 'possession of stolen property'-it's a motherfuckin' felony, case you didn't know. Here's another beauty: Vi-o-lay-shun o' pro-bay-shun! Translated: My ski

Edie Marsh said nothing. She willed herself to concentrate on the slick two-lane blacktop, which intermittently was strewn with pine boughs, palmetto fronds and loose sheets of plywood. A regular obstacle course. Edie checked the speedometer: ninety-two miles per hour. Not bad for a city girl.

Snapper, ordering her to slow down, couldn't keep the raw nervousness out of his voice. Edie acted as if she didn't hear a word.

The one who called himself Skink didn't stir from his nap, trance, coma, whatever it was. Meanwhile the young newlywed (Edie noticed in the rearview) carefully removed her own wedding band from her finger.

The tollbooth was empty and the gate was up. Edie didn't bother to slow down. Bo

When they blew through the narrow lane, Snapper exclaimed, "Jesus!"

As the Jeep climbed the steep bridge, Skink raised his head. "This is the place."

"Where you spent the storm?" Bo