“David!” The woman reddened with genuine offense. Augustine liked her. He surmised that she was the strength of the outfit.
Her husband, halfway apologizing for the slur: “Aw^ you know what I mean. All that chrome and tint, the guy didn’t fit.”
Augustine recalled Brenda Rourke’s description of the attacker. “You’re sure about the suit?”
“Clear as day.”
The woman said, “We figured maybe he’s the boss. Maybe the kids who stole our license plate work for him.”
“It’s possible,” said Augustine. He sort of enjoyed playing a cop, ferreting fresh trails.
“You say he looked unfriendly/What do you mean?”
David spooned the pork and beans into matching ceramic bowls. “His face,” he said. “You wouldn’t forget it.”
The wife said, “We were on our way to the Circle K for ice. At first I thought he had on a Halloween mask, the man in the Jeep. That’s how odd he was-wait, Jeremy, that’s too hot!” She intercepted her youngest son, lunging for the beans.
Augustine thanked them, on behalf of the Metropolitan Dade County Police, for their cooperation. He promised to do his best to retrieve the stolen license plate. “I’ve only got one more question.”
“Where’s Calusa?” said David, smiling.
“Exactly.”
“Margo can do you a map. Use one them napkins.”
Avila’s wife found him writhing on the floor of the garage, near the Buick. He was bleeding from a large puncture in the groin. One of the sacrificial billy goats, anticipating its fate, had gored him.
“Where are they?” demanded Avila’s wife, in Spanish.
Through clenched teeth, Avila confessed that both goats had escaped.
“I tole you! I tole you!” his wife cried, switching to English. She rolled Avila on his back and opened his trousers to examine the injury. “Chew need a tennis shot,” she said.
“Take me to the doctor.”
“Not in my car! I done wanno blood on de ‘polstery.”
“Then help me to the goddamn truck.”
“Chew a mess.”
“You want me to die right here on the floor? Is that what you want?”
Avila had purchased the billy goats from the nephew of a santero priest in Sweetwater. The nephew owned a farm on which he raised fighting cocks and livestock for religious oblations. The two goats had cost Avila a total of three hundred dollars, and they didn’t get along. They’d butted heads and kicked at each other continually on the return trip to Avila’s house. Somehow he had managed to wrestle both animals into the open garage, but before he could attach the tethers and shut the door, a liquid wildness had come into their huge amber eyes. Avila wondered if they’d sensed Change’s supernatural presence, or merely smelled the blood and entrails from past santeria offerings. In any event, the goats went absolutely berserk and destroyed a perfectly good riding mower, among other items. The larger of the two billies gouged Avila cleanly with a horn before clacking off into the neighborhood.
Avila’s wife scolded him zealously on the drive to the hospital. “Three hunnert bucks! Chew fucking crazyl” When swearing she customarily dropped her Spanish for English, due to the richer, more emphatic variety of profanities.
Avila snarled back: “Don’t talk to me about money. You and mami been losin’ your fat asses at the Micco-sukee bingo, no? So don’t talk to me about crazy.”
He checked the wound in his groin; it was the size of a fifty-cent piece. The bleeding had stopped, but the pain was fiery. He felt clammy and light-headed.
Oh, Change, Avila thought. What have I done to anger you?
In the emergency room, a businesslike nurse eased him onto a gurney and connected him to a glorious bag of I.V. Demerol. Avila told the doctor that he’d fallen on a rusty lawn sprinkler. The doctor said he was lucky it didn’t sever an artery. He asked about the dirty bandage on Avila’s left hand, and Avila said it was a nasty golfing blister. Nothing to worry about.
As the pain receded, his mind drifted into a fuzzy free fall. Snapper’s lopsided face appeared in a cloud.
I will find you, cono! Avila vowed.
But how?
Dreamily he recalled the night they’d first met. It was in a supper club on Lejeune Road. Snapper was at the bar with two women from an escort service. The women wore caked mascara and towering hair. Avila made friends. He had cash in his pocket, having moments earlier collected a bribe from a fellow who retailed fiberglass roof shingles of questionable durability. The hookers told Avila the name of the escort service was Gentlemen’s Choice, and it was open seven days a week. They said Snapper was a regular customer, one of their best. They said he was taking them out on the town to celebrate, on account he was going off to prison for three to five years and wouldn’t be getting much pussy, professional or otherwise. Snapper told Avila he’d killed some shithead dope dealer that nobody cared about. Prosecutors had let him cop to a manslaughter-one, and with any luck he’d get out of the joint in twenty months. Avila didn’t believe a word the guy was saying, but he thought the manslaughter routine was a pretty good line to use on the babes. He bought several rounds of drinks for Snapper and the prostitutes, in hopes that Snapper might start feeling generous. And that’s exactly what happened. When Avila returned from the men’s room, the one he liked- a gregarious platinum blonde, Morganna was her name-whispered in his ear that Snapper said it was OK, as long as Avila paid his share. So they’d all gone to a fleabag motel on West Flagler and had quite a time. Morganna proved full of energy and imagination, well worth the shingle money.