“None,” said Augustine. “They’re all young males. So you’ve got nothing to worry your pretty head about.”
She rolled her eyes at the joke, then asked: “Why all males?”
“To remind me of my own mortality.”
Bonnie groaned. “You’re one of those.”
“Other times,” Augustine said, “when I’m sure my life has gone to hell, I come in here and think about what happened to these poor bastards. It improves my outlook considerably.”
She said, “Well, that makes about as much sense as everything else. Can I take a shower?”
Later, over coffee, he told her what the FBI man had said. “They’ll treat your husband’s disappearance as a kidnapping when there’s a credible ransom demand. And he stressed the word ‘credible.'”
“But what about the message on the machine? That other man’s voice cutting in?”
“Of course they’ll listen to it. But I’ve got to warn you, they’re shorthanded right now. Lots of agents got hit hard by the storm, so they’re out on personal leave.”
Bonnie was exasperated by the lack of interest in Max’s plight. Augustine explained that restless husbands often used natural disasters as a cover to flee their wives. Precious manpower and resources were wasted tracking them to the apartments, condominiums and houseboats of their respective mistresses. Consequently, post-hurricane reports of missing spouses were now received with chilly skepticism.
Bonnie Lamb said, “For God’s sake, we just got married. Max wouldn’t take off on a stunt like that.” Augustine shrugged. “People get cold feet.” She leaned across the kitchen table and took a swing at him. Augustine blocked the punch with a forearm. He told Mrs Lamb to settle down. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone.
Augustine said, “I meant we can’t rule out anything.” “But you heard that man on the answering machine!” “Yeah, and I’m wondering why a serious kidnapper would be such a smartass. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Max.’ And then the guy gets on the line and says, ‘I love you, Bonnie.’ Just to needle your husband, see? Make him feel like shit.” Augustine poured more coffee for both of them. He said, “There’s something damn strange about it. That’s all I’m saying.”
Bonnie Lamb had to agree. “To leave his voice all over a telephone tape-”
“Exactly. The guy’s either incredibly stupid, or he’s got brass balls-”
“Or he just doesn’t care,” Bonnie said. “You picked up on that, too.” “It’s scary.”
Augustine said, “I’m not so sure.” “Don’t start again. Max is not faking this!” “That stuff about having you call Pete at Rodale, the Bronco billboard-was he talking in code or what? Because some maniac kidnaps me, the last thing I’m worried about is keeping up with my ad accounts. What I’m worried about is saving my hide.”
Bonnie looked away. “You don’t know Max, what a workaholic he is.”
Augustine pushed back from the table. Normally he wasn’t wild about women who punched for no good reason.
“What do we do now?” She held the cup with both hands, shaking slightly. “You heard the man’s tone.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Let’s agree he’s not your average kidnapper. What is he?”
Augustine shook his head. “How would I know, Mrs Lamb?”
“It’s Bonnie.” She stood up, perfectly calm now, tightening the sash on the robe he’d loaned her. “Maybe together we can figure him out.”
Augustine emptied his coffee in the sink. “I think we both need some sleep.”
On the way back to Tony Torres’s house, Edie Marsh asked Snapper if he had a stopwatch.
“Why?”
“Because I want to put a clock on this jerk,” she said, “see how long it takes before he tries to screw me.”
Snapper, who had daydreamed of doing the same thing, said: “I give him two days before he makes a move.
“I give him two hours,” Edie said. “So what’ll you do? Ten grand’s ten grand.” Edie said, “You better be joking. I’d shove hot daggers in my eyes before I’d let that pig touch me.” It was a long bleak slide from dating a Kennedy to fucking a mobile-home salesman.
“What if he don’t let up?” asked Snapper.
“Then I walk.”
“Yeah, but-”
“Hey,” Edie said, “you want the money so bad, you fuck him, OK? I think the two of you’d make a very cute couple.”