Stormy Weather

But it was only a piece of plywood. Avila clung to it like a crippled frog. He thought of a sublime irony– what if the life-saving lumber had blown off one of the roofs that he'd been bribed not to inspect? Perhaps it was Change's idea of a practical joke.

All night long, adrift in the chop, Avila cursed the hurricane for bringing him such misery: the sadistic doughnut man, Whitmark and, of course, Snapper. The rainfall stopped at dawn but the sun never broke free of the clouds. It was midafternoon before Avila heard an engine. As he shouted for help, a tall white fishing boat idled within hailing distance. Avila waved. The skipper and his tropically garbed clients waved back.

"Hang in there, amigo," the skipper yelled, and trolled away.

Twenty minutes later, a Coast Guard boat arrived and took Avila aboard. The crew gave him dry clothes, hot coffee and homemade chili. He ate in appreciative silence. Afterwards he was led belowdeck to a small briefing room, where he was greeted by a man from the Immigration and Naturalization Service.

In halting Spanish, the immigration man asked Avila for the name of the Cuban port he had fled. Avila laughed and explained that he was from Miami.

"Then what're you doing out here in your underwear?"

Avila said a robber was chasing him down the road, so he jumped off a bridge in Islamorada.

"Tell the truth," the immigration man said sternly. "Obviously you're a rafter. Now where did you come from-Havana? Mariel?"

Avila was about to argue when it dawned, on him that there was no faster way to shed his burdens. What could he look forward to in his current life but an unforgiving wife, a traumatized mother-in-law, personal bankruptcy, the wrath of Gar Whitmark and a possible criminal indictment?

He asked the immigration man: "What will happen to me if I confess?"

"Nothing. You'll be processed at Krome and most likely released."

"If I am a political refugee."

"That's the usual procedure."

"Si," Avila said. "Yo soy balsero." I am a rafter.

The immigration man seemed so relieved that Avila was left to conclude (as a former civil servant himself) that he'd saved the man mountains of paperwork.

"Su nombre, par favor?"

"Juan," Avila replied. "Juan Gomez. From Havana."

"And your occupation in Cuba?"

"I was a building inspector."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

They waited in the Jeep-Edie Marsh up front, holding the revolver; Bo

It was Bo

Edie was thinking the same thing. Hoping it. The problem was, Snapper had the damn car keys. She asked the man in the shower cap: "You know how to hot-wire one of these?"

"That would be illegal."

The cinematic smile startled her. She said, "Why aren't you afraid?"

"Of what?"

"The gun. Dying. Anything."

Bo

"What is it," he said. "My hat?"

She lifted the .357. "You could take this away from me anytime you wanted. You know it."

"Maybe I don't want to."

That's what scared her. What was the point of holding a gun on a person like this?

He said, "I won't hurt you." Again with the smile.

Edie Marsh was a sucker for laugh lines around the eyes. She said to Bo

"We're just friends."

"Really? Then maybe you can tell me," Edie said, "what's he got pla

"I honestly don't know. I wish I did."

Edie was all clammy shakes, roiled emotions. In the motel room, depositing Mr. Stichler with the two hookers, she'd caught something on the TV that got her daydreaming-a news clip of the President of the United States touring the hurricane damage. At his side was a tall, boyishly attractive man in his thirties, whom the TV newscasters identified as the President's son. When they said he lived in Miami, Edie Marsh got a whimsical flash. So what if he wasn't a Ke

She put Snapper's gun on the seat. "Get out of here," she told Skink and Bo

Bo

"What about you?"

He shook his head. "I made a promise to Jim."

"Who the hell's Jim?" asked Edie Marsh.

Bo

Skink encouraged her to make a dash for it. "Go call Augustine. Let him know you're OK."

"Nope," Bo

"And your husband, too."

"No! Not until it's over."

Edie was exasperated, her nerves worn ragged. Snapper was right; they are nuts. "Fine," she said, "you two fruitballs stay if you want, but I'm outta here."

Skink said: "Excellent decision."

"Tell him I went to use the bathroom."

"No problem," said Bo

"I got my period or something."

"Right."

Skink leaned forward. "Could you hand me the gun?"

"Why not," Edie said. Perhaps the smiler would shoot Snapper dead. There were about forty-seven thousand reasons that Edie wasn't upset at the idea, not including the barrel-shaped bruise on her right breast.

She was passing the .357 to Skink when he waved her off, saying: "On second thought—"

Edie turned and let out a gasp. It was Snapper's face, dripping wet, pressed to the window of the Jeep. The bent nose and misshapen mouth made him look like a gargoyle.