The motels in the Upper Keys were filling with out-of-town insurance adjusters. The clerk at the Paradise Palms said she felt uncomfortable, profiting off the hurricane.
“But a customer’s a customer. Can I have your name?”
Augustine introduced himself as Lester’s brother. “I phoned earlier. What’s his room number?”
“He’s not here yet.” The clerk leaned across the counter and whispered: “But your sisters checked in about twenty minutes ago. Room 255. I mean, I’m assuming sisters, on account of they’re Parsons, too.”
“Parsons indeed.” Augustine nodded and acted pleased. Sisters? He couldn’t imagine.
He paid for his room with cash. The clerk said, “Those girls know how to dress for a party, I’ll sure say that.”
“Oh boy,” said Augustine. “What have they done now?”
“Don’t you go fussing-let ’em have their fun, all right?” She handed him his key. “You’re in 240. I tried to put you in the unit next door, but some wise guy from Prudential, he didn’t want to switch.”
“That’s quite all right.”
Once inside his room, Augustine put the loaded .38 on the bureau, near the door. He took the parts of the dart rifle from the gym bag and laid them on the bedspread. The muscles of his neck were in knots. He wished he’d brought a few skulls, for relaxation.
Augustine turned up the TV while he assembled the tranquilizer gun. He was surprised that he’d beaten the black Jeep to Islamorada, hadn’t even passed it on the eighteen-mile stretch south of Florida City. He wondered if they’d turned on Card Sound Road, or stopped someplace else-and why. His worst fear, the thing he kept pushing out of his mind, was that the creep with the crooked jaw had already killed Skink and Bonnie, and dumped them. There were only about a hundred ideal locations between Homestead and Key Largo; years might pass before the bodies were found.
Well, he’d know soon enough. If the asshole showed up without them, then Augustine would know.
If the asshole showed up at all. Augustine still wasn’t sure if “Lester Parsons” was the man with the crooked jaw.
He stood the dart rifle in a closet and put the pistol in his waistband, under the tail of his shirt. Rain whipped his face as soon as he stepped out the door. He shielded his eyes and hurried along the walkway to Room 255. He knocked seven times in a neighborly cadence-shave-and-a-haircut, two bits-to give the false impression that he was expected.
The door was flung open by a fragrant redheaded woman in high heels and a luminous green bikini. Augustine recognized her as the hooker in fishnets from 15600 Calusa.
An orange sucker was tattooed on the freckled slope of her left breast. In her left hand was a frosty Rum Runner.
She said, “Shit, I thought you were Snapper.”
“Wrong room,” said Augustine. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Another woman came out of the bathroom, saying, “Goddamn this rain. I wanted to go in the pool.” She wore a silver one-piece suit, an explosive white-blonde wig and gold hoop earrings. When she saw Augustine in the doorway, she said, “Who’re you?”
“I thought this was my sister’s room, but I guess I’m at the wrong motel.”
The redhead introduced herself as Bridget. “You wanna come in and dry off?”
“Not if it gets Snapper mad.” Augustine was thinking: Snapper-now what the hell kind of name is that!
The redhead laughed. “Yeah, he’s quite the jealous maniac. Come on in.”
The blonde said, “Jesus, Bridget, they’re gonna be here any second-”
But Augustine was already inside the room, scouting unobtrusively: an overnight bag, two cosmetic cases, a cocktail dress on a hanger. Nothing out of the ordinary. Bridget tossed him a towel. She said her friend’s name was Jasmine. They were from Miami.
“My name’s George,” said Augustine, “from California.” Inanely he shook hands with the hookers.
Bridget held on, examining his ring finger. “Not married?”
“Afraid not.” Augustine gently tugged free.
Jasmine told Bridget to forget it, they didn’t have enough time. Bridget said they wouldn’t need much.
“George looks like a fast starter.” She winked somewhat mechanically at Augustine. “You want some fun until the rain stops?”