chiaasen.stormyweather-第29部分

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n；　which　he　placed　on　his　bare　brown　wrist。　The　scorpion　raised　its　fat　claws；　pinching　the　air　in　confusion。　Max　stared　incredulously。　The　skin　on　his　neck　heated　beneath　the　shock　collar。　He　drew　up　his　legs；　preparing　to　spring　from　the　truck　if　Skink　tossed　the　awful　creature　at　him。
　
　〃This　little　sucker；〃　Skink　said；　〃is　from　Southeast　Asia。　Recognized　him　right　away。〃　With　a　pinkie　finger；　he　stroked　the　scorpion　until　it　arched　its　venomous　stinger。
　
　Max　Lamb　asked　how　a　Vietnamese　scorpion　got　all　the　way　to　Florida。　Skink　said　it　was　probably　smuggled　by　importers。　〃Then；　when　the　hurricane　struck；　Mortimer　here　made　a　dash　for　it。　I　found　him　in　the　horse　barn。　Remember　Larks？　'Show　us　your　Larks！'〃
　
　〃Barely。〃　Max　was　a　kid　when　the　Lark　campaign　hit　TV。
　
　Skink　said：　〃That's　what　I　mean　by　legacy。　Does　anyone　remember　who　thought　up　Larks？　But　the　Marl…boro　man；　Christ；　that's　the　most　successful　ad　campaign　in　history。〃
　
　It　was　a　fact。　Max　Lamb　wondered　how　Skink　knew。　He　noticed　that　the　scorpion　had　bee　tangled　in　the　gray…blond　hair　on　the　captain's　arm。
　
　〃What　are　you　going　to　do　with　it？〃　Max　asked。
　
　No　answer。　He　tried　another　strategy。　〃Bonnie　is　deathly　afraid　of　insects。〃
　
　Skink　scooped　the　scorpion　into　the　palm　of　one　hand。　〃This　ain't　no　insect；　Max。　It's　an　arachnid。〃
　
　〃Bugs　is　what　I　meant；　captain。　She's　terrified　of　all　bugs。〃　Max　was　speaking　for　himself。　Icy　needles　of　anxiety　pricked　at　his　arms　and　legs。　He　struggled　to　connect　the　kidnapper's　scorpion　sympathies　with　his　views　of　the　Marlboro　man。　What　was　the　psychopath　trying　to　say？
　
　〃Can　she　swim；　your　Bonnie？　Then　she'll　be　fine。〃　The　governor　popped　the　scorpion　in　his　cheek　and　swallowed　with　an　audible　gulp。
　
　〃Oh　Jesus；〃　said　Max。
　
　After　a　suitable　pause；　Skink　opened　his　mouth。　The　scorpion　was　curled　placidly　on　his　tongue；　its　pincers　at　rest。
　
　Max　Lamb　stubbed　out　the　Bronco　and　urgently　lit　another。　He　leaned　his　head　against　a　crate　of　soup　cans　and　said　a　silent　prayer：　Dear　God；　don't　let　Bonnie　say　anything　to　piss　this　guy　off。
　
　Avila's　career　as　a　county　inspector　was　unremarkable　except　for　the　six　months　when　he　was　the　target　of　a　police　investigation。　The　cops　had　infiltrated　the　building　department　with　an　undercover　man　posing　as　a　supervisor。　The　undercover　man　noticed；　among　a　multitude　of　irregularities；　that　Avila　was　inspecting　new　roofs　at　a　superhuman　rate　of　about　sixty　a　day；　without　benefit　of　a　ladder。　A　surveillance　team　was　put　in　place　and　observed　that　Avila　never　bothered　to　climb　the　roofs　he　was　assigned　to　inspect。　In　fact；　he　seldom　left　his　vehicle　except　for　a　regular　two…hour　buffet　lunch　at　a　nudie　bar　in　Hialeah。　It　was　noted　that　Avila　drove　past　construction　sites　at　such　an　impractical　speed　that　contractors　frequently　had　to　jog　after　his　truck　in　order　to　deliver　their　illicit　gratuities。　The　transactions　were　captured　with　crystal　clarity　on　videotape。
　
　When　the　police　investigation　became　public；　a　grand　jury　convened　to　ponder　the　filing　of　felony　indictments。　To　give　the　appearance　of　concern；　the　building…and…zoning　department　reassigned　Avila　and　several　of　his　crooked　colleagues　to　duties　that　were　considered　low…profile　and　menial；　a　status　confirmed　by　the　relatively　puny　size　of　the　bribes。　In　Avila's　case；　he　was　relegated　to　inspecting　mobile　homes。　It　was　a　job　for　which　he　had　no　qualifications　or　enthusiasm。　Trailers　were　trailers；　to　Avila；　nothing　but　glorified　sardine　cans。　The　notion　of　〃code　enforcement〃　at　a　trailer　park　was　oxymoronic；　none　of　them；　Avila　knew；　would　survive　the　feeblest　of　hurricanes。　Why　go　to　the　trouble　of　tying　the　damn　things　down？
　
　But　he　made　a　show　of　logging　inspections；　taking　what　modest　graft　the　mobile…home　dealers　would　toss　his　way…fifty　bucks　here　and　there；　a　bottle　of　Old　Grand…dad；　porno　tapes；　an　eight…ball　of　coke。　Avila　wasn't　worried　about　police　surveillance　on　his　beat。
　
　Authorities　were　concerned　with　protecting　the　upwardly　mobile　middle…class　home　buyer；　nobody　gave　a　shit　what　happened　to　people　who　bought　trailers。
　
　Except　men　like　Ira　Jackson；　whose　mother　lived　in　one。
　
　With　the　exception　of　the　bus　depot　in　downtown　Guatemala　City；　the　Dade　County　building　department　was　the　most　disorganized　and　institutionally　indifferent　place　that　Ira　Jackson　had　ever　seen。　It　took　ninety　minutes　to　find　a　clerk　who　admitted　to　fluency　in　English；　and　another　hour　to　get　his　hands　on　the　documents　for　the　Suncoast　Leisure　Village　trailer　park。　Under　the　circumstances；　Ira　Jackson　was　mildly　surprised　that　the　file　still　existed。　From　what　he　saw；　others　were　vanishing　by　the　carload。　Realizing　the　hurricane　would　bring　scandal　to　the　construction　industry；　developers；　builders　and　promised　inspectors　were　taking　bold　steps　to　obscure　their　own　roles　in　the　crimes。　As　Ira　Jackson　elbowed　his　way　to　an　empty　chair；　he　recognized…amid　the　truly　aggrieved…faces　of　the　copiously　guilty：　brows　damp；　lips　tight；　eyes　pinched　and　fretful。　They　were　men　who　feared　the　prospect　of　public　exposure；　massive　lawsuits　or　prison。
　
　If　only　it　were　true；　thought　Ira　Jackson。　Experience　had　taught　him　otherwise。　Bozos　who　rob　liquor　stores　go　to　jail；　not　rich　guys　and　bureaucrats　and　civil　servants。
　
　Ira　Jackson　thumbed　through　the　trailer…court　records　until　he　found　the　name　of　the　man　who　had　botched　the　inspection　of　his　mother's　double…wide。　He　fought　his　way　to　the　file　counter　and　cornered　a　harried…looking　clerk；　who　informed　him　that　Mr。　Avila　no　longer　was　employed　by　Dade　County。
　
　Why　not？　Ira　Jackson　asked。
　
　Because　he　quit；　the　clerk　explained；　started　his　own　business。　Since　Ira　Jackson　was　already　agitated；　the　clerk　saw　no　point　in　revealing　that　Avila's　resignation　was　part　of　a　plea…bargain　agreement　with　the　State　Attorney's　Office。　That　was　a　private　matter　that　Mr。　Avila　himself　should　share　with　Mr。　Jackson；　if　he　so　desired。
　
　Ira　Jackson　said；　〃You　got　a　current　address；　right？〃
　
　The　clerk　said　it　was　beyond　his　authority　to　divulge　that　information。　Ira　Jackson　reached　across　the　counter　and　rested　his　hand；　very　lightly；　on　the　young　man's　shoulder。　〃Listen　to　me；　Paco；〃　he　said。　〃I'll　e　to　your　home。　I'll　harm　your　family。　You　understand？　Even　your　pets。〃
　
　The　clerk　nodded。　〃Be　right　back；〃　he　said。
　
　Snapper　was　more　annoyed　than　afraid　when　he　saw　the　flashing　blue　lights　in　the　rearview。　He'd　figured　the　Jeep　Cherokee　was　already　hot　when　he　swiped　it　from　the　gangster　rappers；　he　didn't　figure　the　cops　would　be　looking　for　it　so　soon。　Not　with　all　the　hurricane　emergencies。
　
　Pulling　to　the　side　of　the　road；　he　wondered　if　Baby　Raper　had　blabbed　when　he　got　to　the　hospital。　No　doubt　the　kid　was　ticked　when　Snapper　retrofitted　that　pact　disc　up　his　ass；　like　a　big　shiny　suppository。
　
　But　why　would　the　cops　care　about　that？　Snapper　thought：　Maybe　it's　got　nothing　do　with　the　gangster　rapper　or　the　stolen　Jeep。　Maybe　it's　just　my　driving。
　
　The　cop　who　stopped　him　was　a　female　Highway　Patrol　trooper。　She　had　pleasant　features　and　pretty　pale…blue　eyes　that　reminded　Snapper　of　a　girl　he'd　tried　to　date　back　in　Atlanta；　some　sort　of　turbocharged　Catholic。　The　lady　trooper's　dark　hair　was　pulled　up　under　her　hat；　and　she　wore　a　gold　wedding　band　that　cried　out　for　pawning。　The　holster　appeared　oversized　and　out　of　place　on　her　hip。　She　shined　a　light　in　the　Jeep　and　asked　to　see　Snapper's　driver's　license。
　
　〃I　left　my　wallet　at　home。〃
　
　〃No　identification？〃
　
　〃'Fraid　not。〃　For　effect；　he　patted　his　pockets。
　
　〃What's　your　name？〃
　
　〃Boris；〃　said　Snapper。　He　loved　Boris　and　Natasha；　from　the　old　Rocky　and　Bullwinkle　TV　show。
　
　〃Boris　what？〃　the　trooper　asked。
　
　Snapper　couldn't　spell　the　cartoon　Boris's　last　name；　so　he　said；　〃Smith。　Boris＇。　Smith。〃
　
　The　trooper's　pale　eyes　seemed　to　darken；　and　the　tone　of　her　voice　flattened。　〃Sir；　I　clocked　you　at　seventy　in　a　forty…five…mile…per…hour　zone。〃
　
　〃No　kidding。〃　Snapper　felt　relieved。　A　stupid　speeding　ticket！　Maybe　she'd　write　him　up　without　running　the　tag。
　
　T