STORMY WEATHER By CARL HIAASEN

Best of all, Snapper wouldn’t have to pay for the motel room in the Keys, because Johnny Horn owed him a favor. Two years back, Snapper had more or less repossessed a Corvette convertible from the freeloading boyfriend of one of Johnny Horn’s ex-wives. Snapper had driven the Corvette straight to the Port of Miami and, in broad daylight, parked it on a container ship bound for Cartagena. It was a high-risk deal, and Johnny said for Snapper to call the Paradise Palms anytime he needed a place to crash or hide out or take some girl.

Snapper had dreamed up the plan for old man Stichler all by himself, without Edie’s input. He surely didn’t want to throw all that cleverness out the window, but he couldn’t conceive of how to fit the new intruders into his scheme, and he was too fogged from the pills to improvise. It seemed easier to kill the one-eyed freak and his woman companion-and as long as Snapper was being so bold, why not do loony old Levon as well? That way, Snapper reasoned, he wouldn’t have to pay the two whores anything, except for gas money and possibly a seafood dinner.

On the downside: How to get rid of three dead bodies? The logistics were daunting. Snapper suspected that his droopy brain wasn’t up to the challenge. Killing took energy, and Snapper all of a sudden felt like sleeping for three weeks solid.

He worked up a pep talk for himself, recalling what a wise guy once told him in prison: Dumping bodies is like buying real estate-location, location, location. Snapper thought: Look around, boy. You got your mangrove islands, your Everglades, your Atlantic-mother-fucking-Ocean. What more you want? A fast shot to the head, then let the sharks or the gators or the crabs finish the job. What’s so damn difficult about that?

But Jesus, the stakes were high; one measly fuckup and it’s back to Raiford for the rest of my life. Probably locked in a ten-by-ten with some humongous horny black faggot weight lifter. Clean and jerk my skinny ass till I walk like Julia Roberts.

And shooting people is awful noisy. Edie Marsh wouldn’t go for it, Snapper knew for a fact. She’d make quite a stink. And killing Edie with the others was impractical because (a) he didn’t have enough bullets and (b) he couldn’t cash the insurance checks without her. Damn.

“What is it?” Edie shouted over Reba.

Snapper made a sarcastic zipper motion across his lips. He thought: I’m so goddamn tired. If only I could have a nap, it would come to me. A new plan.

The one-eyed stranger began to sing along with the stereo. Snapper scrutinized him coldly. How’d he know about the lady trooper? Snapper’s hands had a slight tremor. His lips were as dry as ash. What if the bitch had gone and died? What if first she’d gotten a good look at him, or maybe the Jeep? What if it was already on TV, and every cop in Florida was in the hunt?

Snapper told himself to knock it off, think positive. For the first time in days, his busted-up knee didn’t hurt so much. That was something to be glad about.

The young woman in the back seat joined her flaky companion in song. She was winging it with the lyrics, but that was all right with Snapper; her voice was pretty.

Edie Marsh tapped the rim of the steering wheel and acted peeved at the amateur chorus. After about three minutes she reached out and poked the Off button on the CD player. Reba fell silent, and so did the chorus.

Snapper announced that the next selection was Travis Tritt.

“Spare us,” Edie said. “Hell’s your problem?”

The woman in the back seat spoke up: “My name’s Bonnie. This is the governor. He prefers to be called

‘captain.'”

“Skink will be fine,” said the one-eyed man. “And I would kill for some Allman Brothers.”

Snapper demanded to know what they wanted, why they’d been snooping at the Torres house. The man who called himself Skink said: “We were looking for you.”

“How come?”

“As a favor to a friend. You wouldn’t know him.”

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