Narcotic memories took Avila’s mind off the vigorous suturing that was being done on a freshly shaved triangle five inches due southwest of his navel. Then, giddily, it came to him from out of the clouds-one obvious way for Avila to track that cocksucker Snapper and recover the seven grand.
A lead, is what cops would call it.
Not exactly a red-hot lead, but better than nothing.
Another curious neighbor dropped by, asking about Tony. Edie Marsh used the same ludicrous story about being a distant Torres cousin who was watching the place as a favor. She made no effort to explain Snapper,; snoring in the recliner, a gun on his lap.
Fred Dove drove up a few minutes later, while Edie was walking Donald and Maria in the front yard. The insurance man looked more cheerless and pallid than ever. From the way he snatched the briefcase off the seat of the car, Edie sensed an urgency to his gloom.
“My supervisor,” he announced, “wants to see the house.”
“Is he suspicious?”
“No. Routine claims review.”
“Then what’s the problem, Fred? Show him the house.”
He gave a bitter laugh and spun away. Edie tied up the dogs and followed him inside.
“The problem is,” Fred Dove said, “Mister Reedy will want to chat with ‘Mister and Mrs Torres.'” Loudly he dropped his briefcase on the kitchen counter, rousing Snapper.
Edie said, “Don’t panic. We can handle it.”
“Don’t panic? The company wants to know why I got kicked out of the motel. My wife wants to know where I’m staying, and with whom. Dennis Reedy will be here tomorrow to interview two claimants that I cannot produce. Personally, I think it’s an excellent time to panic.”
“Hey, Santy Claus!” It was Snapper, hollering from the living room. “You got the insurance check?”
Edie Marsh went to the doorway and said, “Not yet.”
“Then shut him up.”
Fred Dove dropped his voice. “I can’t stay here with that maniac. It’s impossible.”
“His leg hurts,” said Edie. She had given Snapper the last of her Darvons, which evidently were beginning to wear off. “Look, I’m not thrilled about the setup, either. But it’s this or go camp in the woods.”
The insurance man removed his glasses and pressed his thumbs against his temples. A mosquito landed on one of his eyelids. He shook his head like a spaniel until it floated away. “We can’t go through with this,” he said, dolorously.
“Yes we can, sweetie. I’ll be Mrs Torres. Snapper is Tony.”
Fred Dove sagged. “You don’t exactly look Cuban. Neither of you, for God’s sake.” He punched a cabinet door and cried out, “What was I thinkingl”
Snapper declared that Fred Dove was on the brink of dismemberment unless he immediately shut the fuck up. Edie Marsh led the distraught insurance man into Ner-ia’s bedroom closet. She shut the door and kissed him with expert tenderness. Simultaneously she unzipped his pants. Fred jumped at her touch, warm but unexpected. Edie squeezed gently, until he was calm and quite helpless.
“This Dennis Reedy,” she whispered, “what’s he like?”
Fred Dove squirmed pleasurably.
“Tough guy? Tightass? What’s his deal?”
“He seems all right,” the insurance man said. He’d dealt with Reedy only once, in a flooded subdivision outside Dallas. Reedy was gruff but fair. He had approved most of Fred Dove’s damage estimates, with only minor adjustments.
Edie’s free hand pulled down Fred’s pants. She said, “We’ll go over the claim papers tonight, in case he makes it a quiz.”
“What about Snapper?” /
“Let me handle that. We’ll have a rehearsal.”
“What are you doing?” The insurance man nearly lost his balance.
“What does it look like, Fred. Will Mister Reedy have our check?”
In stuporous bliss, Fred Dove gazed at the top of Edie’s head. Fingers explored her silken hair; his own fingers, judging by the familiar gold wedding band and the University of Nebraska class ring. Fred Dove struggled for clarity. It was no time for an out-of-body experience; for this long-awaited moment, he wanted sensual acuity and superior muscle control.
The insurance man struggled to purge his mind of worry and guilt, to make way for oncoming ecstasy. He inhaled deeply. The closet smelled of old gardenias and mildew: Neria Torres’s pre-professor wardrobe, damp and musty from the storm. Fred Dove felt stifled, though a vital part of him was not.