chiaasen.stormyweather-第6部分

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o　all　of　humanity。
　
　So　let　'em　e！　Tony　thought。　Any　moron　customers　got　a　problem；　let　'em　see　what　the　storm　did　to　my　house。　They　get　nasty；　I　turn　the　matter　over　to　Sefior　Remington　here。
　
　Shouts　rousted　Tony　Torres　from　the　sticky　embrace　of　his　BarcaLounger。　He　took　the　gun　and　a　flashlight　to　the　front　of　the　house。　Standing　in　the　driveway　was　a　man　with　an　unfortunate　pin…striped　suit　and　a　face　that　appeared　to　have　been　modified　with　a　crowbar。
　
　〃My　sister！〃　the　man　exclaimed；　pointing　at　a　pile　of　busted　lumber。
　
　Tony　Torres　spotted　the　prone　form　of　a　woman　under　the　trusses。　Her　eyes　were　half　closed；　and　a　fresh　streak　of　blood　colored　her　face。　The　woman　groaned　impressively。　The　man　told　Tony　to　call　911　rightaway。
　
　〃First　tell　me　what　happened；〃　the　salesman　said。
　
　〃Just　look…part　of　your　damn　roof　fell　down　on　her！〃
　
　〃Hmmm；〃　said　Tony　Torres。
　
　〃For　Christ's　sake；　don't　just　stand　there。〃
　
　〃Your　sister；　huh？〃　Tony　walked　up　to　the　woman　and　shined　the　flashlight　in　her　eyes。　The　woman　squinted　reflexively；　raising　both　hands　to　block　out　the　light。
　
　Tony　Torres　said；　〃Guess　you're　not　paralyzed；　darling。〃
　
　He　tucked　the　flashlight　under　one　arm　and　raised　the　shotgun　toward　the　man。　〃Here's　the　deal；　sport。　The　phones　are　blown；　so　we　won't　be　calling　911　unless　you　got　a　cellular　in　your　pants；　and　that　looks　more　like　a　pistol　to　me。　Second　of　all；　even　if　we　could　call　911　we'll　be　waiting　till　Halloween。　Every　ambulance　from　here　to　Key　West　is　busy　because　of　the　storm。　Your　'sister'　should've　thought　of　that　before　her　accident…〃
　
　〃What　the　hell　you…〃
　
　Tony　Torres　took　the　pistol　from　the　man's　waist。　〃Third　of　all；〃　the　salesman　said；　〃my　damn　roof　didn't　fall　on　nobody。　Those　trusses　came　off　the　neighbor's　house。　That　would　be　Mister　Leonel　Varga；　next　door。　My　own　personal　roof　is　lying　in　pieces　somewhere　out　in　the　Everglades；　is　my　guess。〃
　
　From　beneath　the　lumber；　the　woman　said：　〃Shit；　Snapper。〃　The　man　shot　her　a　glare；　then　looked　away。
　
　Tony　Torres　said：　〃I'm　in　the　business　of　figuring　people　out　quick。　That's　what　a　good　salesman　does。　And　if　she's　your　sister；　sport；　then　I'm　twins　with　Mel　Gibson。〃
　
　The　man　with　the　crooked　jaw　shrugged。
　
　〃Point　is；〃　Tony　said；　〃she　ain't　really　hurt。　You　ain't　really　her　brother。　And　whatever　fucked…up　plan　you　had　for　ripping　me　off　is　now　officially　terminated。〃
　
　The　man　scowled　bitterly。　〃Hey；　it　was　her　idea。〃
　
　Tony　ordered　him　to　lift　the　wooden　trusses　off　his　partner。　When　the　woman　got　up；　the　salesman　noticed　she　was　both　attractive　and　intelligent…looking。　He　motioned　with　the　shotgun。
　
　〃Both　of　you　e　inside。　Hell；　inside　is　pretty　much　outside；　thanks　to　that　goddamn　storm。　But　e　in；　anyhow；　'cause　I'd　love　to　hear　your　story。　I　could　use　a　laugh。〃
　
　The　woman　smoothed　the　front　of　her　dress。　〃We　made　a　bad　mistake。　Just　let　us　go；　OK？〃
　
　Tony　Torres　smiled。　〃That's　funny；　darling。〃　He　swung　the　Remington　toward　the　house　and　pulled　the　trigger。　The　blast　tore　a　hole　the　size　of　a　soccer　ball　in　the　garage　door。
　
　〃Hush；〃　said　the　drunken　salesman；　cupping　a　hand　to　one　ear。　〃Hear　that？　Dead　fucking　silence。　Shoot　off　a　twelve…gauge　and　nobody　cares。　Nobody　es　to　see。　Nobody　es　to　help。　Know　why？　Because　of　the　hurricane。　The　whole　place　is　a　madhouse！〃
　
　The　man　with　the　crooked　jaw　asked；　more　out　of　curiosity　than　concern：　〃What　is　it　you　want　with　us？〃
　
　〃I　haven't　decided；〃　said　Tony　Torres。　〃Let's　have　a　drinkypoo。〃
　
　A　week　before　the　hurricane；　Felix　Mojack　died　of　a　viper　bite　to　the　ankle。　Ownership　of　his　failing　wildlife…import　business　passed　to　a　nephew；　Augustine。　On　the　rainy　morning　he　learned　of　his　uncle's　death；　Augustine　was　at　home　practicing　his　juggling。　He　had　all　the　windows　open；　and　the　Black　Crowes　playing　on　the　stereo。　He　was　barefoot　and　wore　only　a　pair　of　royal…blue　gym　shorts。　He　stood　in　the　living　room；　juggling　in　time　to　the　music。　The　objects　that　he　juggled　were　human　skulls；　he　was　up　to　five　at　once。　The　faster　Augustine　juggled；　the　happier　he　was。
　
　On　the　kitchen　table　was　an　envelope　from　Paine　Webber。　It　contained　a　check　for　21；344。55。　Augustine　had　no　need　for　or　interest　in　the　money。　He　was　almost　thirty…two　years　old；　and　his　life　was　as　simple　and　empty　as　one　could　be。　Sometimes　he　deposited　the　Paine　Webber　dividends；　and　sometimes　he　mailed　them　off　to　charities；　renegade　political　candidates　or　former　girlfriends。　Augustine　sent　not　a　penny　to　his　father's　defense　lawyers；　that　was　the　old　man's　debt；　and　he　could　damn　well　settle　it　when　he　got　out　of　prison。
　
　Augustine's　juggling　was　a　private　diversion。　The　skulls　were　artifacts　and　medical　specimens　he'd　acquired　from　friends。　When　he　had　them　up　in　the　air…　three；　four；　five　skulls　arcing　fluidly　from　hand　to　hand…　Augustine　could　feel　the　full　rush　of　their　faraway　lives。　It　was　inexplicably　and　perhaps　unwholesomely　exhilarating。　Augustine　didn't　know　their　names；　or　how　they'd　lived　or　died；　but　from　touching　them　he　drew　energy。
　
　In　his　spare　time　Augustine　read　books　and　watched　television　and　hiked　what　was　left　of　the　Florida　wilderness。　Even　before　he　became　wealthy…when　he　worked　on　his　father's　fishing　boat；　and　later　in　law　school　Augustine　nursed　an　unspecific　anger　that　he　couldn't　trace　and　wasn't　sure　he　should。　It　manifested　itself　in　the　occasional　urge　to　burn　something　down　or　blow　something　up…a　high…rise；　a　new　interstate　highway；　that　sort　of　thing。
　
　Now　that　Augustine　had　both　the　time　and　the　money；　he　found　himself　without　direction　for　these　radical　sentiments；　and　with　no　trustworthy　knowledge　of　heavy　explosives。　Out　of　guilt；　he　donated　large　sums　to　respectable　causes　such　as　the　Sierra　Club　and　the　Nature　Conservancy。　His　ambition　to　noble　violence　remained　a　harmless　fantasy。　Meanwhile　he　bobbed　through　life's　turbulence　like　driftwood。
　
　The　near…death　experience　that　made　Augustine　so　rich　had　given　him　zero　insight　into　a　grand　purpose　or　cosmic　destiny。　Augustine　barely　remembered　the　damn　Beechcraft　going　down。　Certainly　he　saw　no　blinding　white　light　at　the　end　of　a　cool　tunnel；　heard　no　dead　relatives　calling　to　him　from　heaven。　All　he　recalled　of　the　a　that　followed　the　accident　was　an　agonizing　and　unquenchable　thirst。
　
　After　recovering　from　his　injuries；　Augustine　didn't　return　to　the　hamster…wheel　routine　of　law　school。　The　insurance　settlement　financed　a　fortable　aimlessness　that　many　young　men　would　have　found　appealing。　Yet　Augustine　was　deeply　unhappy。　One　night；　in　a　fit　of　depression；　he　violently　purged　his　bookshelves　of　all　genius　talents　who　had　died　too　young。　This　included　his　treasured　Jack　London。
　
　Typically；　Augustine　was　waiting　for　a　woman　to　e　along　and　fix　him。　So　far；　it　hadn't　happened。
　
　One　time　a　dancer　whom　Augustine　was　dating　caught　him　juggling　his　skulls　in　the　bedroom。　She　thought　it　was　a　stunt　designed　to　provoke　a　reaction。　She　told　him　it　wasn't　funny；　it　was　perverted。　Then　she　moved　to　New　York。　A　year　or　so　later；　for　no　particular　reason；　Augustine　sent　the　woman　one　of　his　dividend　checks　from　Paine　Webber。　She　used　the　money　to　buy　a　Toyota　Supra　and　sent　Augustine　a　snapshot　of　herself；　smiling　and　waving　in　the　driver's　seat。　Augustine　wondered　who'd　taken　the　picture　and　what　he'd　thought　of　the　new　car。
　
　Augustine　had　no　brothers　and　sisters；　his　mother　was　in　Nevada　and　his　father　was　in　the　slammer。　The　closest　relative　was　his　uncle　Felix　Mojack；　the　wildlife　importer。　As　a　boy；　Augustine　often　visited　his　uncle's　small　cluttered　farm　out　in　the　boondocks。　It　was　more　fun　than　going　to　the　zoo；　because　Felix　let　Augustine　help　with　the　animals。　In　particular；　Felix　encouraged　his　nephew　to　familiarize　himself　with　exotic　snakes；　as　Felix　himself　was　phobic　（and；　it　turned　out；　fatally　inpetent）　when　it　came　to　handling　reptiles。
　
　After　Augustine　grew　up；　he　saw　less　and　less　of　his　busy　uncle。　Progress　conspired　against　Felix；　development　swept　westward；　and　zoning　regulations　forced　him　to　move　his　operation　repeatedly。　Nobody；　it　seemed；　wished