chiaasen.stormyweather-第5部分

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　would　rather　swallow　a　gallon　of　lye。
　
　For　editing　purposes；　Max　Lamb　kept　a　mental　inventory　of　his　best　shots。　He　had　plenty　of　rubble　scenes；　and　felt　the　need　to　temper　the　visual　shock　with　moments　of　poignancy…vignettes　that　would　capture　the　human　toll；　spiritual　as　well　as　physical。
　
　A　mangled　bicycle　grabbed　Max's　attention。　The　hurricane　had　wrapped　it；　as　snug　as　a　wedding　band；　around　the　trunk　of　a　coconut　palm。　A　boy　no　older　than　eight　was　trying　to　remove　the　bike。　Max　dropped　to　one　knee　and　zoomed　in　on　the　youngster's　face　as　he　tugged　grimly　on　the　bent　handlebars。　The　boy's　expression　was　dull　and　cold；　his　lips　pressed　tight　in　concentration。
　
　Max　thought：　He's　in　shock。　Doesn't　even　know　I'm　here。
　
　The　youngster　didn't　seem　to　care　that　his　bicycle　was　destroyed　beyond　repair。　He　simply　wanted　the　tree　to　give　it　back。　He　pulled　and　pulled　with　all　his　might。　The　empty　eyes　showed　no　sign　of　frustration。
　
　Amazing；　Max　Lamb　thought　as　he　peered　through　the　viewfinder。　Amazing。
　
　Something　jostled　his　right　arm；　and　the　boy's　image　in　the　viewfinder　shook。　A　hand　tugged　at　Max's　sleeve。　Cursing；　he　looked　up　from　the　Handycam。
　
　It　was　a　monkey。
　
　Max　Lamb　pivoted　on　one　heel　and　aimed　the　camera　at　the　scrawny　animal。　Through　the　viewfinder　he　saw　that　the　monkey　had　e　through　the　storm　in　miserable　shape。　Its　auburn　fur　was　matted　and　crusty。　A　bruise　as　plump　as　a　radish　rose　from　the　bridge　of　its　broad　velvet　nose。　The　shoe…button　eyes　were　squinty　and　ringed　with　milky　ooze。
　
　Swaying　on　its　haunches；　the　monkey　bared　its　gums　in　a　woozy　yawn。　Listlessly　it　began　to　paw　at　its　tail。
　
　〃See　what　we　have　here…a　wild　monkey！〃　Max　narrated；　for　the　benefit　of　future　viewers。　〃Just　look　at　this　poor　little　fella。。。。〃
　
　From　behind　him；　a　flat　voice：　〃Better　watch　it；　mister。〃　It　was　the　boy　with　the　broken　bicycle。
　
　Max；　the　Handycam　still　at　his　eye；　said；　〃What's　the　matter；　son？〃
　
　〃Better　watch　out　for　that　thing。　My　dad；　he　had　to　shoot　one　last　night。〃
　
　〃Is　that　right？〃　Max　smiled　to　himself。　Why　would　anyone　shoot　a　monkey？
　
　〃They're　real　sick。　That's　what　my　dad　said。〃
　
　〃Well；　I'll　certainly　be　careful；〃　said　Max　Lamb。　He　heard　footsteps　as　the　strange　boy　ran　off。
　
　Through　the　viewfinder；　Max　noticed　the　monkey's　brow　was　twitching　oddly。　Suddenly　it　was　airborne。　Max　lowered　the　camera　just　as　the　animal　struck　his　face；　knocking　him　backward。　Miniature　rubbery　fingers　dug　at　Max's　nostrils　and　eyes。　He　cried　out　fearfully。　The　monkey's　damp　fur　smelled　awful。
　
　Max　Lamb　began　rolling　in　the　dirt　as　if　he　were　on　fire。　Screeching；　the　wiry　little　creature　let　go。　Max　sat　up；　scrubbing　his　face　with　the　sleeves　of　his　shirt。　The　stinging　told　him　he'd　been　scratched。　For　starters　he　would　require　a　tetanus　booster；　and　then　something　more　potent　to　counteract　the　monkey　germs。
　
　As　he　rose　to　his　feet；　Max　heard　chittering　behind　the　palm　tree。　He　was　poised　to　run；　until　he　spotted　the　monkey　loping　with　an　addled　gait　in　the　opposite　direction。　It　was　dragging　something　by　a　strap。
　
　Max　Lamb　was　enraged。　The　damn　thing　was　stealing　his　Handycam！　Idiotically　he　gave　pursuit。
　
　An　hour　later；　when　Bonnie　Lamb　went　looking　for　her　husband；　he　was　gone。
　
　Two　uniformed　Highway　Patrol　troopers　stood　in　the　rain　at　the　top　of　the　bridge。　One　was　a　tall；　powerfully　built　black　man。　The　other　officer　was　a　woman　of　milky　smooth　plexion　and　medium　height；　with　a　bun　of　reddish…brown　hair。　Together　they　leaned　against　the　concrete　rail　and　stared　down　a　long　length　of　broken　rope；　dangling　in　the　breeze　over　the　choppy　brown　water。
　
　Five　motorists　had　phoned　on　their　cellulars　to　report　that　a　crazy　man　was　tied　to　the　Card　Sound　Bridge。　That　was　only　hours　before　the　hurricane；　when　every　police　officer　within　fifty　miles　had　been　busy　evacuating　the　sane。　Nobody　had　time　for　jumpers；　so　nobody　checked　the　bridge。
　
　The　black　trooper　had　been　sent　to　Miami　all　the　way　from　Liberty　County；　in　northern　Florida；　to　help　clear　traffic　for　the　rescue　convoys。　At　the　mand　center　he'd　caught　a　glimpse　of　the　incident　notation　in　the　dispatch　log…〃White　male；　40…50　yrs　old；　190…220　lbs；　gray　hair/beard；　possible　psych；　case〃…and　decided　to　sneak　down　to　North　Key　Largo　for　a　look。　Technically　he　was　assigned　to　Homestead；　but　in　the　post…storm　chaos　it　was　easy　to　roam　and　not　be　missed。　He　had　asked　the　other　trooper　to　ride　with　him；　and　even　though　she　was　off　duty　she'd　said　yes。
　
　Now　motorists　crossing　the　steetj　bridge　braked　in　curiosity　at　the　sight　of　the　two　troopers　at　the　top。　What're　they　looking　at；　Mom？　Is　there　a　dead　body　in　the　water？
　
　Raindrops　trickled　from　the　brim　of　the　black　trooper's　Stetson　as　he　gazed　across　Biscayne　Bay；　leaden　and　frothy　after　the　dreadful　storm。　He　reached　over　the　rail　and　hauled　up　the　soggy　rope。　After　examining　the　end　of　it；　he　showed　the　rope　to　the　other　trooper　and　said；　with　a　weariness：　〃That's　my　boy。〃
　
　The　rope　hadn't　snapped　in　the　hurricane。　It　had　been　cut　with　a　knife。
　
　
　
　CHAPTER　THREE
　
　
　Tony　Torres　sat　in　what　remained　of　his　living　room　and　sipped　what　remained　of　his　Chivas。　He　found　it　amusing　that　his　〃Salesman　of　the　Year〃　award　had　survived　the　hurricane；　it　was　all　that　remained　hanging　on　the　rain…soaked　walls。　Tony　Torres　recalled　the　party　two　months　earlier；　when　they'd　given　him　the　cheap　laminated　plaque。　It　was　his　reward　for　selling　seventy…seven　double…wide　house　trailers；　eighteen　more　than　any　other　salesman　in　the　history　of　PreFab　Luxury　Homes；　formerly　Tropic　Trailers；　formerly　A…Plus　Affordable　Homes；　Ltd。　In　the　cutthroat　world　of　mobile…home　sales；　Tony　Torres　had　bee　a　star。　His　boss　had　presented　the　Chivas　and　a　thousand…dollar　bonus　along　with　the　plaque。　They'd　paid　a　waitress　to　dance　topless　on　a　table　and　sing　〃For　He's　a　Jolly　Good　Fellow。〃
　
　Oh　well；　Tony　Torres　thought。　Life's　a　fucking　roller　coaster。　He　stroked　the　stock　of　the　shotgun　that　lay　across　his　globe…shaped　lap；　and　remembered　things　he　wished　he　didn't。　For　instance；　that　bullshit　in　the　sales　pitch　about　U。S。　government　safety　regulations　。。。
　
　The　Steens　had　questioned　him　thoroughly　about　hurricanes。　So　had　the　Ramirezes　and　the　pain…in…the…ass　Stichlers。　So　had　Beatrice　Jackson；　the　widow；　and　her　no…neck　son。　Tony　Torres　always　said　what　he'd　been　coached　to　say；　that　PreFab　Luxury　Homes　built　state…of…the…art　homes　guaranteed　to　withstand　high　winds。　Uncle　Sam　set　the　specs。　It's　all　there　in　the　brochure！
　
　So　Tony's　customers　secured　their　mortgages　and　bought　up　the　double…wides；　and　then　the　hurricane　came　and　blew　them　away。　All　seventy…seven。　The　trailers　imploded；　exploded；　popped　off　the　tiedowns　and　took　off　like　fucking　aluminum　ducks。　Not　one　of　the　damn　things　made　it　through　the　storm。　One　minute　they　were　pleasant…looking　middle…class　dwellings；　with　VCRs　and　convertible　sofas　and　baby　cribs　。。。　and　the　next　minute　they　were　shrapnel。　Tony　Torres　had　driven　to　the　trailer　park　to　see　for　himself。　The　place　looked　like　a　war　zone。　He　was　about　to　get　out　of　the　car　when　somebody　recognized　him…old　man　Stichler；　who　began　spluttering　insanely　and　hurling　jagged　debris　at　the　salesman。　Tony　drove　off　at　a　high　rate　of　speed。　Later　he　learned　that　the　widow　Jackson　was　found　dead　in　the　wreckage　of　the　trailer　court。
　
　Tony　Torres　was　unfamiliar　with　remorse；　but　he　did　feel　a　stab　of　sorrow。　The　Chivas　took　care　of　that。　How　was　I　to　know？　he　thought。　I'm　a　salesman；　not　a　goddamn　engineer。
　
　The　more　Tony　drank；　the　less　sympathy　he　retained　for　his　customers。　They　goddamn　well　knew。。　Knew　they　were　buying　a　tin　can　instead　of　a　real　house。　Knew　the　risks；　living　in　a　hurricane　zone。　These　were　grown…ups；　Tony　Torres　told　himself。　They　made　a　choice。
　
　Still；　he　anticipated　trouble。　The　shotgun　was　a　fort。　Unfortunately；　anybody　who　wanted　to　track　him　down　had　only　to　look　in　the　Dade　County　phone　book。　Being　a　salesman　meant　being　available　to　all　of　humanity。
　
　So　let　'em　e！　Tony　thought。　Any　moron　customers　got　a　problem；　let　'em　see