Out of nowhere Max said: “Hey, I bet I can guess what kind of car you drive.” Apparently trying to take their minds off what they saw: two unshaven men, on a street corner, fighting over a five-gallon jug of fresh water. Their wives and children watching anxiously from the sidewalk.
“Seriously,” Max was saying. “It’s a knack I’ve got. Matching people to their cars.”
“Based on… ?”
“Intuition, I guess you’d say.”
Edie said, “OK, give it a try.”
Max, eyeing her up and down, like he was guessing her weight: “Nissan 300?”
“Nope.”
“A280Z?”
“Try an Acclaim.”
He winced. “I had you figured for a sports import.”
“Well, I’m flattered,” Edie said, with a soft laugh.
There was a brutal truth at the heart of Max’s silly game. Eligible young Kennedys and even sons of sitting
presidents did not customarily flag down women in 1987 Plymouths.
Later, after Max had found the Turnpike extension and made his way downtown, he said: “Where can I drop you?”
“Let me think about that,” said Edie Marsh.
“Captain, have you got a mirror?”
“No.”
“Good,” Bonnie said.
She felt a raw knot rising on her forehead, another on a cheekbone. Augustine assured her that she didn’t look as bad as she thought. “But you could use some ice.”
“Later.” She was watching Skink. “I know somebody who ought to be in a hospital.”
“No,” said the governor.
“Augustine says your collarbone is broken.”
“I believe he’s right.”
“And several ribs.”
“I shall call you Nurse Nightingale.”
“Why are you so stubborn?”
“I know a doctor in Tavernier.”
“And how do you plan to get there?”
“Walking upright,” Skink replied. “One of the few commendable traits of our species.”
Bonnie told him to quit being ridiculous. “You’re in terrible pain, I can tell.”
“The whole world’s in pain, girl.”
She looked imploringly to Augustine. “Talk to him, please.”
“He’s a grown man, Bonnie. Now hold still.”
He was cleaning her face with his shirt, which he’d
wadded up and soaked in the creek, Skink perched on a nearby log, his arms crossed tightly. Moments earlier they’d watched him gobble a dozen Anacins from a plastic bottle he located under the camp tarpaulin. Bonnie boldly swallowed three.
No aspirins were offered to Snapper, who was bound with a corroded tow-truck chain to the buttonwood tree. He was caked with soggy leaves, mulch and dried blood. His cheap suit was filthy and torn. During the struggle, Augustine had made him dig a short trench with his mandible, so his maw was full of stones and loose sojl, like a planter. In addition, he was missing an earlobe, which Augustine had shot off at point-blank range. It was inconceivable to Snapper that such a chickenshit wound could be so excruciating.’
Skink said to Augustine: “I thought sure you were going to kill him.”
“It was tempting.”
“My way’s better.”
“After what he did to Jim’s girlfriend?”
“Yes. Even after that.” The governor bowed his head. He was hurting.
Augustine was drained. The adrenaline had emptied out in a clammy torrent. He no longer entertained the idea of murdering Snapper, and doubted if he was even capable of it. An hour ago, yes. Not now. It was probably a good time to leave.
Bonnie studied his expression as he tended her cheeks and brow. “You OK?” she said.
“I don’t know. The way he hurt you-”
“Hey, I asked for it.”
“But you wouldn’t be out here if it weren’t for me.”
Playfully she jabbed a finger in his side. “What makes you so sure? Maybe I’m here because of him.”
Skink grinned but didn’t look up. Augustine had to laugh, too. That’s why we’re both here, he thought. Because of him.
“Would it be bad manners,” Bonnie said to Skink, “if I asked what you plan to do with the money.”
His chin came off his chest. “Oh. That.” Grimacing, he rose from the log. “Lester, you awake? Yo, Lester!”
“Ghhhnungggh.”
The governor used his feet to push the Frenchman’s suitcase across the clearing to the buttonwood tree, where he kicked the latches open. Snapper regarded the bundled cash with a mixture of undisguised longing and suspicion. He wondered what sick stunt the fucker was cooking up now.