“Thanks, but I really can’t stay.”
“Hundred bucks,” Bridget suggested. “Double date.”
Jasmine pulled a long white T-shirt over her swimsuit. She griped: “Hey, do I get a vote in this? A hundred for what?”
Bridget slipped a milky arm around Augustine’s waist and pulled him close. The obvious implant in her left breast felt like a sack of nickels against his rib cage. “Seventy-five,” she said, dropping her eyes to the bright tattoo, “and I’ll give you a taste of my Tootsie Pop.”
“Can’t,” Augustine said. “Diabetic.”
Jasmine gave a biting laugh. “You’re both pitiful. Bridget, let ‘George from California’ go find his sisters.” She sat cross-legged on the bed and applied pungent glue to a broken artificial fingernail. “Boy, this weather’s suck-o,” she muttered, to no one.
Bridget’s motivational hug went slack, and slowly she recoiled from Augustine’s side. “Our man George has a gun.” She announced it with a mix of alarm and regret. “I felt it.”
Jasmine, blowing on her glue job, looked up. “Goddamn, Bridget, I knew it! You happy now? We’re busted.”
“No you’re not.” Augustine took out the pistol and displayed it in a loose and casual way, hoping to quell their concerns. “I’m not a cop, I promise.”
Jasmine’s eyes narrowed. “Shit, now I know. The squeaker sent you.”
“Who?”
“Avila.”
“Never heard of him.”
Bridget backpedaled to the bed and sat next to her friend. Nervously she crossed her arms over her breasts. “Then who the hell are you, George? What is it you’re after?”
“Information.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Really. I just want you to tell me about this ‘Snapper,'” said Augustine, “and I also want to know if you two ladies can keep a secret.”
TWENTY-FIVE
The professor’s VW van ran out of gas two miles shy of the Fort Drum service plaza. Neria Torres stood by the Turnpike and flagged down a truck. It was an old Chevy pickup; three men in the cab, four others sprawled in the bed. They were from Tennessee. Neria wasn’t crazy about the odds.
“Looking for work,” explained the driver, a wiry, unshaven fellow with biblical tattoos on both arms. He said his first name was Matthew and his middle name was Luke.
Neria was nervous nonetheless. The men stared ravenously. “What do you guys do?” she asked.
“Construction. We’re here for the hurricane.” Matthew had a spare gas can. He poured four gallons into the van. Neria thanked him.
She said, “All I can give you is three bucks.”
“That’s fine.”
“What kind of construction?”
Matthew said: “Any damn thing we can find.” The other men laughed. “We do trees, also. I got chain saw experience,” Matthew added.
Neria Torres didn’t ask if the crew was licensed to do business in Florida. She knew the answer. The men climbed out of the truck to stretch their legs and urinate.
One of them was actually mannered enough to turn his back while unzipping.
Neria decided it was a good time to go. Matthew stood between her and the van. “I dint ketch your name.”
“Neria.”
“That’s Cuban, right?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t talk with no accent.”
She thought: Well, thank you, Gomer. “I was born in Miami,” she said.
Matthew seemed pleased. “So you’re on the way home-hey, how’d you make out in the big blow?”
Neria said, “I won’t know till I get there.”
“We do residential.”
“Do you really.”
“Wood or masonry, it don’t matter. Also roofs. We got a helluva tar man.” Matthew pointed. “That bald guy doin’ his bidness in the bushes-he worked on that new Wal-Mart in Chat’nooga. My wife’s cousin Chip.”
Neria Torres said, “From what I understand, you won’t have a bit of trouble finding jobs when you get to Dade County.”
“Hey, what about your place?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it yet.”
“So it could be totaled,” Matthew said, hopefully.
Slowly Neria opened the door of the van. Only when it stubbed his shoulder blades did Matthew move out of the way.
Neria got behind the wheel and revved the engine. “Tell you what. When I get home and see how the roof looks, then I’ll give you a call. Where you staying?”
The other workers laughed again. “Sterno Hilton,” said Matthew. “See, we’re campin’ out.” He said they couldn’t afford a motel, no way.
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