Ira Jackson said, “Who?”
“That lying sonofabitch who sold me the double-wide. I saw him here after the hurricane, but he took off.”
“Torres?”
“Yeah.” The old man’s cheeks colored. “I’d murder him, swear to God, if I could.”
Ira Jackson said, “You’d get a medal for it.” Humoring the guy, hoping he’d run out of steam and go away.
“Hell, you don’t believe me.”
“Sure I do.” He was tempted to tell the old man to quit worrying, Senor Tony Torres would be taken care of. Most definitely. But Ira Jackson knew it would be foolish to draw attention to himself.
The old man said: “My name’s Levon Stichler. I lived four lots over. Was it your mother that died here?”
Ira Jackson nodded.
Levon Stichler said, “I’m real sorry. I’m the one found her two dogs-they’re at Dr Tyler’s in Naranja.”
“She’d appreciate that, my mother.” Ira Jackson made a mental note to pick up the dachshunds before the vet’s office closed.
The old man said, “My wife’s ashes blew away in the hurricane.”
“Yeah, well, if I come across a blue bottle-”
“What the hell could they do to me?” Levon Stichler wore a weird quavering smirk. “For killing him, what could they do? I’m seventy-one goddamn years old- what, life in prison?-Big deal. I got nothing left anyhow.”
Ira Jackson said, “I was you, I’d put it out of my mind. Scum like Torres, they usually get what they deserve.”
“Not in my world,” said Levon Stichler. But the widow Jackson’s son had taken the wind out of his sails. “Hell, I don’t know how to find the sonofabitch anyhow. Do you?”
“Wouldn’t have a clue,” Ira Jackson said.
Levon Stichler shrugged in resignation, and returned to the heap that once was his home. Ira Jackson watched him poking through the rubble, stooping every so often to examine a scrap. All around the trailer court, other neighbors of the late Beatrice Jackson could be seen hunched and scavenging, picking up pieces.
Her son opened his wallet, which contained: six hundred dollars cash, a picture of his mother taken in Atlantic City, three fake driver’s licenses, a forged Social Security card, a stolen Delta Airlines frequent flyer card, and numerous scraps of paper with numerous phone numbers from the 718 area code. The wallet also held a few legitimate business cards, including one that said:
Antonio Torres Senior Sales Associate PreFab Luxury Homes (305) 555-2200
The trailer salesman had jotted his home number on the back of the business card. Ira Jackson kicked through his mother’s storm-soaked belongings until he found a Greater Miami telephone directory. The salesman’s home number matched the one belonging to an A. R. Torres at 15600 Calusa Drive. Ira Jackson tore the page from the phone book. Carefully he folded it to fit inside his wallet, with the other important numbers.
Then he drove his fraudulently registered Coupe de Ville to a convenience store, where he purchased a Rand McNally road map of Dade County.
SIX
The vagabond monkey chose to forgo the airboat experience. Max Lamb was given no choice. The one-eyed man strapped him to the passenger seat and off they went at fifty miles an hour, skimming the grass, cattails and lily pads. For a while they followed a canal that paralleled a two-lane highway; Max could make out the faces of motorists gaping at him in his underwear. It didn’t occur to him to signal for help; the electrified dog collar had conditioned total passivity.
Riding high in the driver’s perch, the man who called himself Skink sang at the top of his lungs. It sounded like “Desperado,” an old Eagles tune. The familiar melody surfed above the ear-splitting roar of the air-boat’s engine; more than ever, Max Lamb believed he was in the grip of a madman.
Soon the airboat made a wide turn away from the road. It plowed a liquid trail through thickening marsh, the sawgrass hissing against the metal hull. The hurricane had bruised and gouged the swamp; smashed cypresses and pines littered the waters. Skink stopped singing and began to emit short honks and toots that Max Lamb assumed to be either wild bird calls or a fearsome attack of sinusitis. He was afraid to inquire.