Stormy Weather

He nodded. "Glorious."

Beneath them, broken sunlight painted Biscayne Bay in shifting stripes of copper and slate. Ahead, a bloom of lavender clouds dumped chutes of rain on the green mangrove shorelines of North Key Largo. As the truck crested the bridge, Skink pointed out a pod of bottle-nosed dolphins rolling along the edge of a choppy boat cha

"Just look," said Bo

Even Edie Marsh was impressed. She curbed the Jeep on the downhill slope and turned off the key. She strained to keep the rollicking dolphins in view.

Snapper fumed impatiently. "What is this shit?" He jabbed Edie in the arm with the .357. "Hey you, drive."

"Take it easy."

"I said fucking drive."

"And I said take it fucking easy."

Edie was livid. The last time Snapper had seen that hateful glare was moments before she'd bludgeoned his leg with the crowbar iron. He cocked the revolver. "Don't be a cunt."

"Excuse me?" One eyebrow arched. "What'd you say?"

Bo

The governor was unaware. He had everted the upper half of his torso out the window to watch the dolphins make their way north, and also to enjoy a fresh sprinkle that had begun to fall. Bo

"You heard me," Snapper was saying.

"So that was you," Edie said, "calling me a cunt."

Violently Snapper twisted the gun barrel, bunching the fabric of Edie's blouse and wringing the soft flesh beneath it. God, Bo

Edie Marsh didn't let it show.

"Drive!" Snapper told her again.

"When I'm through watching Flipper."

"Fuck Flipper." Snapper raised the .357 and fired once through the top of the Jeep.

Bo

Snapper cheerlessly eyed the hole in the roof of the truck; the acrid whiff of cordite made him sneeze. "God bless me," he said, with a dark chuckle.

A door opened. Skink got out of the Jeep to stretch. "Don't you love this place!" He unfolded his long arms toward the clouds. "Don't it bring out the beast in your soul!"

Glorious, Bo

"Get back in the car," Snapper barked.

Skink obliged, shaking the raindrops from his hair like a sheep dog. Without a word, Edie Marsh started the engine and drove on.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"What do you mean, no roosters?"

The owner of the botdnica apologized. It had been a busy week for fowl. He offered Avila a sacrificial billy goat instead.

Avila said, "No way, Jose." The sutures from his goring itched constantly. "I never heard anyone ru

"Turtles."

"I don't got time to do turtles," Avila said. Removing the shells was a messy chore. "You got any pigeons?"

"Sorry, meng."

"Lambs?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"How about cats?"

"No, meng, hiss no legal."

"Yeah, like you give a shit." Avila checked his wristwatch; he had to hurry, do this thing then get on the road to the Keys. "OK, senor, what do you got?"

The shop owner led him to a small storage room and pointed at a wooden crate. Inside, Avila could make out a furry brown animal the size of a beagle. It had shoe-button eyes, an anteater nose, and a long slender tail circled with black rings.

Avila said, "What, some kinda raccoon?"

"Coatimundi. From South America."

The animal chittered inquisitively and poked its velvety nostrils through the slats of the crate. It was one of the oddest creatures Avila had ever seen.

"Big medicine," promised the shop owner.

"I need something for Chango."

"Oh, Chango would love heem." The shop owner had astutely pegged Avila for a rank amateur who knew next to nothing about santeria. The shop owner said, "Si, es muy bueno por Chango."

Avila said, "Will it bite?"

"No, my freng. See?" The botanica man tickled the coati's moist nose. "Like a puppy dog."

"OK, how much?"

"Seventy-five."

"Here's sixty, chico. Help me carry it to the car."

As he drove up to the house, Avila saw the Buick backing out of the driveway; his wife and her mother, undoubtedly off to Indian bingo. He waved. They waved.

Avila gloated. Perfect timing. For once I'll have the place to myself. Quickly he dragged the wooden crate into the garage and lowered the electric door. The coati huffed in objection. From a cane-wicker chest Avila hastily removed the implements of sacrifice-tarnished pe

For sustenance Chango was known to favor dry wine and candies; the best Avila could do, on short notice, was a pitcher of sangria and a roll of stale wintergreen Life Savers. He lighted three tall candles and arranged them triangularly on the cement floor of the garage. Inside the triangle, he began to set up the altar. The coatimundi had gone silent; Avila felt its stare from between the slats. Could it know? He whisked the thought from his mind.

The final item to be removed from the wicker chest was the most important: a ten-inch hunting knife, with a handle carved from genuine elk antler. The knife was an antique, made in Wyoming. Avila had received it as a bribe when he worked as a county building inspector– a Christmas offering from an unlicensed roofer hoping that Avila might overlook a seriously defective scissor truss. Somehow Avila had found it in his heart to do just that.