STORMY WEATHER By CARL HIAASEN

Edie let go of his hand and brushed it, like a cockroach, off her lap. Lord, what an anal dweeb! “Yes, Freddie, I’ll make absolutely sure your check says forty-seven thousand one hundred. OK? Feel better?”

The insurance man grunted unhappily. “I won’t feel better till it’s over.”

Edie Marsh didn’t inform Fred Dove about the phone call from the real Neria Torres. She didn’t want to spook him out of the scam.

“The best part about this deal,” she said, “is that nobody’s in a position to screw anyone else. You’ve got shit on me, I’ve got shit on you, and we’ve both got plenty of shit on Snapper. That’s why it’s going down so clean.”

Fred Dove said, “That gun of his scares me to death.”

“Not much we can do. The asshole digs guns.”

Outside, Donald and Maria began scratching at the bathroom door in the frenetic manner of deranged badgers.

“Let’s get out there,” Edie Marsh said, “before Snapper loses it.”

“This is nuts!”

Edie mechanically guided Fred Dove’s head to her bosom. “Don’t you worry,” she said, and he was momentarily transported to a warm, fragrant valley, where no harm could ever come.

Then, on the other side of the door, a gun went off, the dachshunds bayed and Snapper bellowed profanely.

“Jesus!” Edie exclaimed.

The insurance man burrowed in her cleavage. “What’re we going to do?” he asked, desolately.

Avila thought: I’m either dead or dreaming.

Because it should hurt worse than this, being nailed to a cross. Even if it’s only one hand, it should hurt like a mother. I ought to be screaming at the top of my lungs, instead of just hanging here with a dull ache. Hanging like a wet flag and staring at…

It must be a dream.

Because they don’t have lions in Florida. And that’s what that monster is, a full-grown African lion. King of the motherfucking jungle. So real you can see the red-brown stains on its mouth. So real you can smell its piss. So real you can hear the dead man’s spine dear God Almighty being crunched in its fangs.

The lion was eating the doughnut man.

Avila was frozen in the pose of a scarecrow. He was afraid to blink. Between bites, the big cat would glance up, yawn, lick its paws, shake the gnats off its mane. Avila noticed a blue tag fastened to one of its ears, but that wasn’t important.

The important thing was: He definitely wasn’t dreaming. The lion was real. Clearly it was sent to save his life.

And not by the Catholic God-Catholics had no expertise in the summoning of demonic jungle beasts. No, it was a funkier, more mystical deity who had answered Avila’s plea from the cross.

Gracias, Change! Muchas gracias.

When I get home, Avila promised his santeria guardian, I shall make an offering worthy of royalty. Chickens, rabbits. Perhaps I’ll even spring for a goat.

In the meantime, Avila implored, please make the lion go away so I can get this fucking nail out of my hand!

The big cat dined leisurely, no more than fifteen yards from the pine tree. Ira Jackson’s hammer lay where he’d dropped it, at Avila’s feet. From marks on the ground, it appeared that the doughnut man had been jumped from behind, swiftly done in, and dragged to the dry weedy patch where the lion now sat, possessively attending the disemboweled, disarticulated corpse. Ira Jackson’s gold chain dangled like spaghetti from the cat’s whiskered maw. It disappeared with a flick of the tongue.

Avila’s knowledge of lion eating habits was sketchy, but he couldn’t believe the animal could still be hungry after devouring the substantial Mr Jackson. Despite the worsening pain in his hand, Avila remained rock steady against the cross until the lion quit munching and nodded off.

Slowly Avila turned his head to examine the nasty puncture. His palm was striped with congealed blood. The nail had penetrated the tough fleshy web between the second and third fingers, which wiggled feebly at Avila’s silent bidding. A moral victory, of sorts-Ira Jackson had failed to break any major bones.

Keeping a close watch on the snoozing lion, and moving with glacial deliberation, Avila tugged his good hand free of the duct tape. Slowly he reached across and began to work the nail loose from the punctured palm. The undertaking caused less agony than he’d anticipated; perhaps Chango had anesthetized him as well.

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