STORMY WEATHER By CARL HIAASEN

“People have dreams, that’s all. Like the settlers of the old West.”

“Oh, child.”

“What?” Bonnie said, indignantly.

“Tell me what’s left to settle.” Skink lowered his head again.

She tugged on the sleeve of his camo shirt. “I want you to show me what you showed Max. The wildest part.”

§kink clucked. “Why? Your husband certainly wasn’t impressed.”

“I’m not like Max.”

“Let us fervently hope not.”

“Please. Will you show me?”

Once more, no reply. Bonnie wished Augustine would hurry back. She returned her attention to the house where the black Cherokee was parked, and thought about what they’d witnessed during the long hot morning.

A half hour after the old man had arrived, a taxi pulled up. Out the doorway of 15600 Calusa had scurried a redheaded woman in a tight shiny cocktail dress and formidable high heels. Augustine and Bonnie agreed she looked like a prostitute. As the woman had wriggled herself into the back of the cab, Skink remarked that her bold stockings would make a superb mullet seine.

A short time later, a teal-blue Taurus had stopped in the driveway. The governor said it had to be a rental, because only rental companies bought teal-blue cars.

Two men had gotten out of the Taurus; neither had a disfigured jaw. The younger one was a trim-looking blond who wore eyeglasses and carried a tan briefcase. The older, heavier one had cropped dark hair and carried a clipboard; his bearing was one of authority-probably ex-military, Skink guessed, a sergeant in his youth. The two men had stayed in the house for a long time. Finally the older one had come out alone. He’d sat in the driver’s side of the car, with the door open, and jotted notes. Soon the man with the briefcase had appeared around the corner of the house, from the backyard, and together they’d departed.

While the visitors didn’t appear to be violent desperadoes, Skink said that one could never be certain in Miami. Augustine got the hint, and went to fetch the guns from the pickup truck.

Now the governor had his forehead on the sill, and he’d begun to hum. Bonnie asked the name of the song.

” ‘Number Nine Dream,'”. he said.

“I don’t know that one.”

She wanted so much to hear about his life. She wanted him to open up and tell the most thrilling and shocking of true stories.

“Sing it for me,” she said.

“Some other time.” Skink pointed across the street. A man and a woman were leaving the house.

Bonnie Lamb stared. “What in the world are they doing?”

The governor rose quickly. “Come, child,” he said.

After the Sally Jessy show ended, Snapper made a couple of phone calls to set something up. Exactly what, Edie

Marsh wasn’t sure. Evidently he’d gotten a brainstorm about what to do with the old man, short of murder.

“Gimme hand,” he said to Edie, and began tearing the living-room drapes off the rods. The drapes were whorehouse pink, heavy and dank from rain. They spread the fabric in a crude square on the floor. Then they put Levon Stichler in the middle and rolled him up inside.

To Edie, it resembled an enormous strawberry pastry. She said, “I hope he can breathe.”

Snapper punched the pink bundle. “Hey, asshole. You got air?” \

The gagged old man responded with an expressive groan. Snapper said, “He’s OK. Let’s haul his ass out to the Jeep.”

Levon Stichler wasn’t easy to carry. Snapper took the heavy end, but each step was agony to his shattered knee. They dropped the old man several times before “they made it to the driveway. Each time it happened, Snapper swore vehemently and danced a tortured one-legged jig around the pink bundle. Edie Marsh opened the rear hatch of the Cherokee, and somehow they managed to fold Levon Stichler into the cargo well.

Snapper was leaning against the bumper, waiting for the searing pain in his leg to ebb, when he spotted the tall stranger coming toward them from the abandoned house across the street. The man was dressed in army greens. His long wild hair looked like frosted hemp. At first Snapper thought he was a street person, maybe a Vietnam vet or one of those cracked-out losers who lived under the interstate. Except he was walking too fast and purposefully to be a bum. He was moving like he had food in his stomach, good hard muscles, and something serious on his mind. Ten yards behind, hurrying to catch up, was a respectable-looking young woman.

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