“Just look-part of your damn roof fell down on her! “|
“Hmmm,” said Tony Torres.
“For Christ’s sake, don’t just stand there.”
“Your sister, huh?” Tony walked up to the woman and shined the flashlight in her eyes. The woman squinted reflexively, raising both hands to block out the light.
Tony Torres said, “Guess you’re not paralyzed, darling.”
He tucked the flashlight under one arm and raised the shotgun toward the man. “Here’s the deal, sport. The phones are blown, so we won’t be calling 911 unless you got a cellular in your pants, and that looks more like a pistol to me. Second of all, even if we could call 911 we’ll be waiting till Halloween. Every ambulance from here to Key West is busy because of the storm. Your ‘sister’ should’ve thought of that before her accident-”
“What the hell you-”
Tony Torres took the pistol from the man’s waist. “Third of all,” the salesman said, “my damn roof didn’t fall on nobody. Those trusses came off the neighbor’s house. That would be Mister Leonel Varga, next door. My own personal roof is lying in pieces somewhere out in the Everglades, is my guess.”
From beneath the lumber, the woman said: “Shit, Snapper.” The man shot her a glare, then looked away.
Tony Torres said: “I’m in the business of figuring people out quick. That’s what a good salesman does. And if she’s your sister, sport, then I’m twins with Mel Gibson.”
The man with the crooked jaw shrugged.
“Point is,” Tony said, “she ain’t really hurt. You ain’t really her brother. And whatever fucked-up plan you had for ripping me off is now officially terminated.”
The man scowled bitterly. “Hey, it was her idea.”
Tony ordered him to lift the wooden trusses off his partner. When the woman got up, the salesman noticed she was both attractive and intelligent-looking. He motioned with the shotgun.
“Both of you come inside. Hell, inside is pretty much outside, thanks to that goddamn storm. But come in, anyhow, ’cause I’d love to hear your story. I could use a laugh.”
The woman smoothed the front of her dress. “We made a bad mistake. Just let us go, OK?”
Tony Torres smiled. “That’s funny, darling.” He swung the Remington toward the house and pulled the trigger. The blast tore a hole the size of a soccer ball in the garage door.
“Hush,” said the drunken salesman, cupping a hand to one ear. “Hear that? Dead fucking silence. Shoot off a twelve-gauge and nobody cares. Nobody comes to see. Nobody comes to help. Know why? Because of the hurricane. The whole place is a madhouse!”
The man with the crooked jaw asked, more out of curiosity than concern: “What is it you want with us?”
“I haven’t decided,” said Tony Torres. “Let’s have a drinkypoo.”
A week before the hurricane, Felix Mojack died of a viper bite to the ankle. Ownership of his failing wildlife-import business passed to a nephew, Augustine. On the rainy morning he learned of his uncle’s death, Augustine was at home practicing his juggling. He had all the windows open, and the Black Crowes playing on the stereo. He was barefoot and wore only a pair of royal-blue gym shorts. He stood in the living room, juggling in time to the music. The objects that he juggled were human skulls; he was up to five at once. The faster Augustine juggled, the happier he was.
On the kitchen table was an envelope from Paine Webber. It contained a check for $21,344.55. Augustine had no need for or interest in the money. He was almost thirty-two years old, and his life was as simple and empty as one could be. Sometimes he deposited the Paine Webber dividends, and sometimes he mailed them off to charities, renegade political candidates or former girlfriends. Augustine sent not a penny to his father’s defense lawyers; that was the old man’s debt, and he could damn well settle it when he got out of prison.
Augustine’s juggling was a private diversion. The skulls were artifacts and medical specimens he’d acquired from friends. When he had them up in the air- three, four, five skulls arcing fluidly from hand to hand- Augustine could feel the full rush of their faraway lives. It was inexplicably and perhaps unwholesomely exhilarating. Augustine didn’t know their names, or how they’d lived or died, but from touching them he drew energy.
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