"Lord," Jim Tile said. "They're murdering each other over ice cubes." He sped off without saying good-bye.
Back in the house, Augustine was surprised to find Bonnie Lamb sitting next to the kitchen phone. At her elbow was a notepad upon which she had written several lines. He was struck by the elegance of her handwriting. Once, he'd dated a woman who dotted her i's with perfect tiny circles; sometimes she drew happy faces inside the circles, sometimes she drew frowns. The woman had been a cheerleader for her college football team, and she couldn't get it out of her system.
Bonnie Lamb's handwriting bore no trace of retired cheerleader. "Directions," she replied, waving the paper.
"Where?"
"To see Max and this Skink person. They left directions on my machine."
She was excited. Augustine sat next to her. "What else did they say?"
"No police. No FBI. Max was very firm about it."
"And?"
"Four double-A batteries and a tape of Exile on Main Street. Dolby chrome oxide, whatever that means. And a bottle of pitted green olives, no pimientos."
"This would be the governor's shopping list?"
"Max hates green olives." Bonnie Lamb put her hand on Augustine's arm. "What do we do? You want to hear the message?"
"Let's go talk to them, if that's what they want."
"Bring your gun. I'm serious." Her eyes flashed. "We can kidnap Max from the kidnapper. Why not!"
"Settle down, please. When's the meeting?"
"Midnight tomorrow."
"Where?"
When she told him, he looked discouraged. "They'll never show. Not there."
"You're wrong," Bonnie Lamb said. "Where's that gun of yours?"
Augustine went to the living room and switched on the television. He channel-surfed until he found a Monty Python rerun; a classic, John Cleese buying a dead parrot. It never failed to make Augustine laugh.
Bonnie sat beside him on the sofa. When the Monty Python sketch ended, he turned to her and said, "You don't know a damn thing about guns."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Max Lamb awoke to these words: "You need a legacy."
He and Skink had bummed a ride in the back of a U-Haul truck. They were bucking down U.S. Highway One among two thousand cans of Campbell's broccoli cheese soup, which was being donated to hurricane victims by a Baptist church in Pascagoula, Mississippi. What the shipment lacked in variety it made up for in Christian goodwill.
"This," said the kidnapper, waving at the soup boxes, "is what people do for each other in times of catastrophe. They give help. You, on the other hand"
"I said I was sorry."
"-you, Max, arrive with a video camera."
Max Lamb lit a cigaret. The governor had been in a rotten mood all day. First his favorite Stones tape broke, then the batteries crapped out in his Walkman.
Skink said, "The people who gave this soup, they went through Camille. Please assure me you know about Camille."
"Another hurricane?"
"A magnificent shitkicker of a hurricane. Max, I believe you're making progress."
The advertising man sucked apprehensively on the Bronco. He said, "You were talking about getting a boat."
Skink said, "Everyone ought to have a legacy. Something to be remembered for. Let's hear some of your slogans."
"Not right now."
"I never see TV anymore, but some commercials I remember." The kidnapper pointed at the canyon of red-and-white soup cans. "'M'm, m'm good!' That was a classic, no?"
Unabashedly Max Lamb said, "You ever hear of Plum Crunchies? It was a breakfast cereal."
"A cereal," said Skink.
" 'You'll go plum loco for Plum Crunchies!'"
The kidnapper frowned. From his camo trousers he produced a small felt box of the type used by jewelry stores. He opened it and removed a scorpion, 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 become 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?