Stormy Weather

That's when he'd asked Augustine for The Club.

He turned his back to the others while he fitted it under Snapper's papery gray lips. Bo

Skink bent over him. "Lester?"

"Mmmmmfrrrttthh."

"Lester Maddox Parsons!"

Snapper's eyelids fluttered. The governor asked Augustine to take a bucket down to the creek and get some water to wake up the sorry sonofabitch.

The pink-orange parfait of dawn failed to elevate Edie's spirits. She was sticky, scratched, hot, parched, filthy, as wretched as she'd ever been. She wanted to cry and pull at her hair and scream. She wanted to make a scene. Most of all she wanted to escape, but that was impossible. She was trapped on all sides by humming crackling wilderness; it might as well have been a twelve-foot wall of barbed wire. Her hands and feet weren't shackled. The governor held no gun to her head. Nothing whatsoever prevented her from ru

She approached the governor. "I want to talk."

He was mumbling to himself, feeling around in his shirt. "Damn," he said. "Out of toad." He glanced at Edie: "You're a woman of the world. Ever smoke Bufo?"

"We need to talk," she said. "Alone."

"If it's about the suitcase, forget it."

"It's not that."

"All right, then. Soon as I finish chatting with Lester."

"No, now!"

Skink cupped her chin in one of his huge, rough palms. Edie Marsh sensed that he could break her neck as effortlessly as twisting the cap off a beer. He said, "You've got shitty ma

Bo

She said, "We've got to do something." It came out like a command.

Augustine was showing Bo

"But who is he?" She pointed toward Skink. Then, facing Bo

"Last night I was," Bo

Augustine told Edie to quiet down. "It'll be over when he says so. In the meantime, please do your best not to piss him off."

Edie was jarred by the harshness of Augustine's tone. He jerked a thumb toward Snapper, agape by the campfire. "What're you doing with that shitbird, anyway?"

Bo

"No, it's all right. I want to explain," said Edie. "It was just business. We were working a deal together."

"A scam."

"Insurance money," she admitted, "from the hurricane." She caught Bo

"So when's the big payoff?" Augustine asked.

Edie laughed ruefully. "The adjuster said any day. Said it was coming Federal Express. And here I am, lost in the middle of the fucking Everglades."

"It's not the Everglades," said Augustine. "In fact, this is Saint-Tropez compared to the Everglades. But I can see why you're upset, watching two hundred grand fly away."

Edie Marsh was dumbfounded. Bo

"Two hundred and one." Augustine chided Edie with a wink.

She asked, almost inaudibly: "How'd you know?"

"You left something in the house on Calusa."

"Oh shit."

He unfolded the pink carbons of the Midwest Casualty claim-Edie recognized the cartoon badger at the top of the page. Augustine ripped the carbons into pieces. He said, "I were you, I'd come up with a clever excuse why your pocketbook might be in that particular kitchen. The police'll be mighty curious."

"Shit."

"What I'm saying is, don't be in such a rush to get back to civilization." He turned back to the governor's books.

Edie bit her lower lip. Lord, sometimes it was tough to stay cool. She felt like breaking down a'gain. "What's this all about-some kind of game?"

"I don't think so," Bo

"Jesus Christ."

"Ride it out. Hang on till it's over."

Not me, thought Edie. No fucking way.

The Club exaggerated Snapper's pre-exaggerated features. It pushed the top half of his mug into pudgy creases, like a shar-pei puppy; the eyes were moist slits, the nose pugged nearly to his brow. The rest was all maw.

"An authentic mouth-breather," Skink said, studying him as if he were a museum piece.

"Fhhhrrrggaaah," Snapper retorted. His elbows stung from scrapes received when the lunatic had dragged him to the creek.

Now the lunatic was saying: "God, I hate the word 'nigger.' Back at the motel I considered killing you when you said it. Blowing your three pitiful teaspoons of brain matter all over the Jeep. Even if you hadn't shot my friend, the thought would've crossed my mind."

Snapper stopped moaning. Worked at controlling his slobber. Watched gnats and mosquitoes float in and out of his mouth.

"Nothing to be done about that." Skink flicked at the insects. He'd already spread a generous sheen of repellent on his captive's neck and arms. " 'Not to be taken internally.' Says so right on the package."

Snapper nodded submissively.

"Lester Maddox Parsons is the name on your license. Wild guess says you're named after that clay-brained Georgia bigot. Am I right?"

A weaker nod.

"So you started out two strikes against you. That's a shame, Lester, but I expect even if your folks had called you Gandhi, you still would've grown up to be a world-class dickhead. Here, let me show you something."