“Because I inspected some of these goddamn houses when I was with building-and-zoning.”
“The owners don’t know that.”
Chango had warned Avila to be careful. Chango was Avila’s personal santeria deity. Avila had thanked him with a turtle and two rabbits.
“I’m keeping low,” Avila told Snapper. “B-and-Z’s got snitches all over the damn county. Somebody recognizes my face, we’re screwed.”
Snapper wasn’t sure if Avila was paranoid or purely lazy. “So where will you be exactly,” he said, “when we’re out on a job? Maybe some air-conditioned office.” He heard the roofers snicker, a hopeful sign of solidarity.
But Avila was quick to assert his authority. “Job? This isn’t no ‘job,’ it’s an act. You boys aren’t here ’cause you can mop tar. You’re here ’cause you look like you can.”
“What about me?” Snapper goaded. “How come / was hired?”
“Because we couldn’t get Robert Redford.” Avila stood up to signal the end of the meeting. “Snap, why the hell you think you got hired? So people would be sure to pay. Comprende? One look at that fucked-up face, and they know you mean business.”
Maybe an ordinary criminal would’ve taken it as a compliment. Snapper did not.
All the mattresses in Tony Torres’s house were soaked from the storm, so Edie Marsh had sex with the insurance man on the BarcaLounger. It was a noisy and precarious endeavor. Fred Dove was nervous, so Edie had to assist him each step of the way. Afterwards he said he must’ve slipped a disk. Edie was tempted to remark that he hadn’t moved enough muscles to slip anything; instead she told him he was a stallion in technique and proportion. It was a strategy that seldom failed. Fred Dove contentedly fell asleep with his head on her shoulder and his legs snagged in the footrest, but not before promising to submit a boldly fraudulent damage claim for the Torres house and split the check with Edie Marsh.
An hour before dawn, Edie heard a terrible commo-
tion in the backyard. She couldn’t rise to investigate because she was pinned beneath the insurance man in the BarcaLounger. Judging from the tumult outside, Donald and Maria had gone rabid. The confrontation ended in a flurry of plaintive yips and a hair-raising roar. Edie Marsh didn’t move until the sun came up. Then she stealthily roused Fred Dove, who panicked because he’d forgotten to phone his wife back in Omaha. Edie told him to hush up and put on his pants.
She led him to the backyard. The only signs of the two miniature dachshunds were limp leashes and empty collars. The Torres lawn was torn to shreds. Several large tracks were visible in the damp gray soil; deep raking tracks, with claws.
Fred Dove’s left Hush Puppy fit easily one of the imprints. “Good Lord,” he said, “and I wear a ten and a half.”
Edie Marsh asked what kind of wild animal would make such a track. Fred Dove said it looked big enough to be a lion or a bear. “But I’m not a hunter,” he added.
She said, “Can I come stay with you?”
“AttheRamada?”
“What-they don’t allow women?”
“Edie, we shouldn’t be seen together. Not if we’re going through with this.”
“You expect me to stay out here alone?”
“Look, I’m sorry about your dogs-”
“They weren’t my goddamn dogs.”
“Please, Edie.”
With his round eyeglasses, Fred Dove reminded her of a serious young English teacher she’d known in high school. The man had worn Bass loafers with no socks and was obsessed with T. S. Eliot. Edie Marsh had screwed the guy twice in the faculty lounge, but he’d still given her a C on her final exam because (he claimed) she’d missed the whole point of “J. Alfred Prufrock.” The experience had left Edie Marsh with a deep-seated mistrust of studious-looking men.
She said, “What do you mean, if we go through with this? We made a deal.”
“Yes,” Fred Dove said. “Yes, we did.”
As he followed her into the house, she asked, “How soon can you get this done?”
“Well, I could file the claim this week-”
“Hundred percent loss?”
“That’s right,” replied the insurance man.