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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 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