Stormy Weather

Her gaze settled for the first time on the purse. A woman's purse, opened, on the kitchen counter. On top was a note printed in block letters and signed with the initials "F.D." The note said the author was keeping the dogs at the motel. The note began with "My Sexy Darling" and ended with "Love Always."

Dogs? Neria Torres thought.

She wondered if Tony was the same man as "F.D." and, if so, what insipid nickname the initials stood for. Fat Dipshit?

Curiously she went through the contents of the purse. A driver's license identified the owner as Edith Deborah Marsh. Neria noted the date of birth, working the arithmetic in her head. Twenty-nine years old, this one.

Tony, you dirty old pen.

Neria appraised the face in the photograph. A ball-buster; Tony must've had his fat hands full. Neria took unaccountable satisfaction from the fact that young Edith was a dagger-eyed brunette, not some dippy blonde.

From behind her came the sound of roupy breathing. Neria wheeled, to find Matthew looming at her shoulder.

"Christ!"

"I dint mean to scare ya."

"What is it? What do you want?"

"It's started up to rain."

"I noticed."

"Seemed like a good spot for a break. We was headed to a hardware store for some roof paper, nails, wood– stuff like that."

"Lumber," Neria Torres said archly. "In the construction business, it's called 'lumber.' Not wood."

"Sure." He was scratching at his Old Testament tattoos.

She said, "So go already."

"Yeah, well, we need some money. For the lumber."

"Matthew, there's something I've got to tell you."

"Sure."

"My husband's been murdered. A police detective is coming out here soon."

Matthew took a step back and said, "Sweet Jesus, I'm so sorry." He began to improvise a prayer, but Neria cut him off.

"You and your crew," she said, "you are licensed in Dade County, aren't you? I mean, there won't be any problem if the detective wants to ask some questions ... ?"

The Te

She also thought of the many things she didn't want to do, such as move back into the gutted husk at 15600 Calusa. Or be interviewed by a homicide detective. Or go to the morgue to view her estranged husband's body.

Money was the immediate problem. Neria wondered if careless Tony had left her name on any of the bank accounts, and what (if anything) remained in them. The most valuable item at the house was his car, untouched by the hurricane. Neria located the spare key in the garage, but the engine wouldn't turn over.

"Need some help?"

It was a clean-shaven young man in a Federal Express uniform. He had an envelope for Neria Torres. She signed for it, laid it on the front seat of Tony's Chevy.

The kid said, "I got jumpers in the truck."

"Would you mind?"

They had the car started in no time. Neria idled the engine and waited for the battery to recharge. The FedEx kid said it sounded good. Halfway to the truck, he stopped and turned.

"Hey, somebody swiped your license plate."

"Shit." Neria got out to see for herself. The FedEx driver said it was probably a looter.

"Everybody around here's getting ripped off," he explained.

"I didn't even notice. Thanks."

As soon as he left, Neria opened the FedEx envelope. Her delirious shriek drew nosy Mr. Varga to his front porch. He was shirtless, a toothbrush in one cheek. In fascination he watched his neighbor practically bound up the sidewalk into her house.

The envelope contained two checks made out to Antonio and Neria Torres. The checks were issued by the Midwest Life and Casualty Company of Omaha, Nebraska. They totaled $201,000. The stubs said: "Hurricane losses."

Shortly after noon, when Detective Brickhouse arrived at 15600 Calusa, he found the house empty again. The Chevrolet was gone, as was the widow of Antonio Torres. A torn Federal Express envelope lay on the driveway, near the rusty Oldsmobile. Mr. Varga, the neighbor, informed the detective that Neria Torres sped off without even waving good-bye.

Brickhouse was backing out of the driveway when a rental car pulled up. A thin blond man wearing round eyeglasses got out. Brickhouse noticed the man had tan Hush Puppies and was carrying a box of Whitman chocolates. High-pitched barking could be heard from the back seat of the visitor's car.

The detective called the man over. "Are you looking for Mrs. Torres?"

The man hesitated. Brickhouse identified himself. The man blinked repeatedly, as if his glasses were smudged.

He said, "I don't know anybody named Torres. Guess I've got the wrong address." Speedily he returned to his car.

Brickhouse leaned out the window. "Hey, who's the candy for?"

"My mother!" Fred Dove replied, over the barking.

The detective watched the confused young man drive away, and wondered why he'd lied. Even crackheads know how to find their own mother's house. Brickhouse briefly considered tailing the guy, but decided it would be a waste of time. Whoever crucified Tony Torres wasn't wearing Hush Puppies. Brickhouse would have bet his pension on it.

Augustine parked at a phone booth behind a gas station. The governor had them wait while he made a call. He came back humming a Beatles tune.

"Jim's alive," he said.

Edie Marsh leaned forward. "Your friend! How do you know?"

"There's a number where we leave messages for each other."

Bo

"Nope. He took it in the vest."

Augustine shook a fist in elation. Everybody's mood perked up, even Edie's. Skink told Bo

"Mom, something's happened."

"I guessed as much."