chiaasen.stormyweather-第35部分

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nnie　Lamb　wasn't　worried。　Maybe　it　was　the　way　Augustine　handled　himself　behind　the　wheel；　steering　casually　with　two　fingers　as　he　aimed；　with　his　free　hand；　the　spotlight。
　
　Smoothly　he　weaved　around　massive　tree　limbs　and　wind…split　lumber　and　ghostly　capsized　hulls。　The　scary　ride　temporarily　took　Jim　Tile's　mind　off　the　image　of　Brenda　on　an　ambulance　stretcher。。。。
　
　Bonnie　was　anticipating　her　first　sight　of　the　man　called　Skink。　She　kept　thinking　about　the　bloodied　corpse　in　the　morgue…impaled　on　a　TV　dish；　the　trooper　had　said。　Was　Skink　the　killer？　To　hear　the　trooper　tell　it；　the　ex…governor　was　not　a　nut　of　the　certifiable；　Mansonesque　strain。　Rather；　he　was　launched　on　a　mission：　a　reckless　doomed　mission；　boisterously　outside　the　law。　Bonnie　was　intrigued　by　bold　eccentrics。　She　wasn't　afraid　of　Skink；　not　with　the　trooper　and　Augustine　at　her　side。　In　an　odd　way；　although　she'd　never　admit　it；　she　looked　forward　to　confronting　the　kidnapper　almost　as　much　as　to　reuniting　with　her　husband。。。。
　
　Now　Jim　Tile　and　Augustine　were　struggling　to　drag　the　unconscious　man　over　the　gunwale　of　the　speedboat。　His　clothes　were　soaked；　adding　to　his　considerable　bulk。　Bonnie　Lamb　tried　to　help。　Augustine　got　a　silvery　handful　of　the　man's　hair；　the　trooper　had　him　by　the　belt　loops；　Bonnie　dug　her　fingers　in　the　tongues　of　his　boots…and　finally　the　kidnapper　was　on　the　deck；　vomiting　seawater。
　
　From　the　bow　came　a　whine　of　disgust：　Max　Lamb；　arms　folded；　face　pinched；　sucking　a　Bronco　cigaret。　Bonnie　turned　back　to　the　tranquilized　stranger。　The　trooper　knelt　beside　him。　With　a　handkerchief　he　cleaned　the　foul　splatter　off　Skirik's　face；　〃the　glass　eye　needed　special　attention。
　
　Augustine　said；　〃He's　breathing。〃
　
　A　volcanic　cough；　and　then：　〃I　saw　lobsters　big　as　Sonny　Listen。〃　Skink　raised　his　head。
　
　Jim　Tile　said；　〃Be　still　now。〃
　
　〃My　Walkman！〃
　
　〃We'll　get　you　a　new　one。　Now　lie　still。〃
　
　Skink　lowered　his　head　with　a　sharp　clunk。　Humming；　he　shut　both　eyes。
　
　Bonnie　Lamb　asked；　〃What　do　we　do　with　him？〃
　
　Max　laughed　acidly。　〃He's　going　to　jail；　what'd　you　think？〃
　
　Bonnie　looked　at　Augustine；　who　said；　〃It's　up　to　Jim。　He's　the　law。〃
　
　The　trooper　had　a　thermos　open；　trying　to　get　some　hot　coffee　into　his　groggy　friend。　Bonnie　put　her　hands　under　the　kidnapper's　head　to　help　him　drink。　Augustine　went　to　the　console　and　started　the　boat。　Over　the　noise　of　the　engines；　Bonnie　asked　Jim　Tile　if　she　should　sit　with　the　man　during　the　ride　back；　in　case　he　got　ill　again。　The　trooper　leaned　close　and　in　a　low　voice　said：　〃He's　all　right　now。　Go　check　on　your　husband。〃
　
　〃OK；〃　Bonnie　said。　She　was　glad　for　the　darkness；　so　the　trooper　couldn't　see　her　blush。　Neither　could　Max。
　
　The　conversation　between　Gar　Whitmark　and　his　wife　was　not　a　loving　one。　That　she　had　handed　seven　thousand　cash　to　a　band　of　crooked　roofers　was　infuriating　enough；　that　she　had　failed　to　ask　the　name　of　the　one　taking　the　money　was　unforgivably　stupid。　The　only　clue　in　tracking　the　thieves　was　the　piece　of　yellow　paper　that　had　been　given　by　the　phony　roofing　foreman　to　Mrs。　Whitmark；　the　yellow　paper　intended　to　double　as　a　receipt　and　an　estimate；　the　yellow　paper　that　Mrs。　Whitmark　had　instantly　misplaced。
　
　Gar　Whitmark's　anger　had　another　facet。　He　was　by　trade　a　builder　of　residential　subdivisions；　and　was　therefore　personally　familiar　with　every　honest；　petent　roofer　in　Dade　County。　The　list　was　not　voluminous；　but　from　it　Gar　Whitmark　had　intended　to　select　the　crew　that　would　rebuild　the　roof　of　his　gutted　home。　He'd　left　messages　with　a　half…dozen　panies；　and　had　explained　（repeatedly）　to　his　wife　that　it　would　take　time　to　line　up　the　job。　The　hurricane　had　launched　a　drooling　Klondike　stampede　among　roofers…the　best　ones　were　swamped　with　emergency　work　and　likely　would　be　engaged　for　months　to　e。　Meanwhile　out…of…towners　were　pouring　into　Miami　by　the　truckload；　some　were　capable　and　experienced；　some　were　hapless　and　inept；　and　many　were　gypsy　impostors。　All　arrived　to　find　boundless　opportunity。
　
　The　typical　hurricane　victim；　frantic　for　shelter；　was　forced　to　trust　his　instincts　when　choosing　a　roof　builder。　Unfortunately；　the　instincts　of　the　typical　hurricane　victim　in　such　matters　were　not　acute。　Gar　Whitmark；　however；　had　the　twin　advantages　of　knowing　the　cast　of　characters　and　possessing　the　clout　to　divert　the　best　of　them　to　his　own　pressing　needs。　With　little　trouble　he　located　a　top…notch　roofer　who　agreed　to　put　all　other　contracts　aside　to　tackle　Gar　Whitmark's　roof　（Whitmark　being　one　of　the　most　prolific　home　builders…and　employers　of　roofing　contractors…in　all　South　Florida）。　However；　the　craftsman　whom　Whitmark　selected　first　had　to　replace　two　other　roofs：　his　own；　and　that　of　his　wife's　mother。
　
　Gar　Whitmark　gave　the　man　seven　days　to　patch　up　the　family　roofs。　The　delay　proved　unbearable　for　Mrs。　Whitmark；　whose　roaring　anxiety　at　the　chance　of　more　rain…stained　Chippendales　was　no　match　for　her　customary　palliative　dosages　of　sedatives；　muscle　relaxants；　sleep　aids　and　mood　elevators。　To　Mrs。　Whitmark；　the　unexpected　appearance　of　willing　roofers　at　the　door　had　been　a　godsend。　She　thought　her　husband　would　be　grateful　for　her　initiative…it　would　be　one　less　problem　for　him　to　worry　about；　what　with　all　the　nasty　threats　of　negligence　suits　from　customers　whose　Whitmark　Signature　homes　had　disintegrated　like　soggy　cardboard　in　the　hurricane。
　
　Standing　in　the　living　room；　the　rain　beating　a　tattoo　on　his　blue…veined　forehead；　Gar　Whitmark　instructed　his　wife　to　immediately　locate　the　goddamn　receipt　or　estimate　or　whatever　the　goddamn　so…called　foreman　had　called　it。　After　an　hour's　search；　the　crucial　yellow　paper　turned　up　neatly　folded　in　Mrs。　Whitmark's　high…school　yearbook；　Gar　Whitmark　couldn't　imagine　why　his　wife　had　put　it　there；　or　how　she　found　it。　Nor　could　she　explain　it　herself…her　brain　was　too　jumbled　by　the　hurricane。
　
　The　receipt　bore　the　name　of　〃Fortress　Roofing；〃　which　brought　a　bitter　cackle　from　Gar　Whitmark。　At　least　the　scammers　had　a　sense　of　irony！　Gar　Whitmark　dialed　the　number　and　got　an　answering　machine。　He　hung　up　and　called　the　director　of　the　county　building…and…zoning　department；　who　owed　his　job　to　seven　of　the　county　missioners；　who　owed　their　jobs　to　Gar　Whitmark's　generous　campaign　contributions。　As　Gar　Whitmark　anticipated；　the　building　director　expressed　shock　and　alarm　that　a　fraud　was　perpetrated　on　Gar　Whitmark's　wife；　and　promised　a　thorough　criminal　investigation。
　
　No；　he　hadn't　ever　heard　of　Fortress　Roofing…but　he'd　damn　sure　find　out　who　was　behind　it。
　
　Sooner　the　better；　said　Gar　Whitmark；　toweling　the　rainwater　from　his　stinging　scalp；　which　bristled　with　fifty　pink…stemmed；　freshly　implanted　hair　plugs。
　
　Fifteen　minutes　later；　the　building　director　phoned　back　to　report；　mournfully；　that　Fortress　Roofing　had　never　obtained　a　valid　Dade　County　contractor's　license　and　was　therefore　an　unknown　outlaw　entity。
　
　In　a　fury；　Gar　Whitmark　began　contacting　roofers　he　knew…some　honest；　some　not。　The　name　Fortress　struck　a　note　with　one　or　two；　who　said　they'd　recently　lost　crew　to　the　new　pany。　The　sonofabitch　owner；　they　said；　was　an　ex…inspector　named　Avila。　Dirty　as　they　e；　the　roofers　warned。
　
　Gar　Whitmark　knew　Avila　quite　well；　having　successfully　bribed　him　for　many　years。　All　those　times　Gar　Whitmark's　subcontractors　had　slipped　booty　to　the　greedy　bastard！　Cash；　booze；　porn…Avila　had　a　taste　for　the　hard　stuff；　girl…on…girl；　if　Gar　Whitmark　remembered　correctly。
　
　He　called　his　secretary；　whose　fingers　swiftly　punched　up　a　highly　confidential　puter　file　of　corrupt　and/or　corruptible　officials　in　Dade；　Broward；　Palm　Beach；　Lee　and　Monroe　Counties。　It　was　a　lengthy　roster；　alphabetized　for　convenience。　Avila's　name　and　unlisted　home　phone　number　winked　fatefully　at　the　bottom　of　the　first　screen。
　
　Gar　Whitmark　waited　until　three　in　the　morning　before　phoning。
　
　〃This　is　your　old　friend　Gar　Whitmark；〃　he　said。　〃Your　crew　of　gypsy　fakers　hit　my　wife　for　seven　grand。　My　wife　is　not　well；　Avila。　If　I　don't　see　my　money　by　tom