The way Levon Stichler figured it, he had nothing to lose. Tfhe hurricane had taken everything, including the urn containing the ashes of his recently departed wife. The life in which he had invested most of his military pension had been reduced to broken glass and razor tinsel. Hours of painstaking salvage had yielded not enough dry belongings to fill a tackle box. Levon Stichler's neighbors at the trailer court were in the same abject fix. Within twenty-four hours, his shock and despair had distilled into high-octane anger. Someone must pay! Levon Stichler thundered. And logically that someone should be the smirking sonofabitch who'd sold them those mobile homes, the glib fat thief who'd promised them that the structures were government certified and hurricane-proof.
Levon Stichler had spotted Tony Torres at the trailer court on the morning after the hurricane, but the mangy prick had fled like a coyote. Levon Stichler had fumed for a few days, gathering what valuables he could find among the trailer's debris until county workers showed up to bulldoze the remains. The old man considered returning to Saint Paul, where his only daughter lived, but the thought of long frigid winters-and sharing space with six hyperactive grandchildren-was more than he could face.
There would be no northward migration. Levon Stichler considered his life to be officially ruined, and considered one man to be morally responsible for the tragedy. He would know no peace until Tony Torres was dead. Killing the salesman might even make Levon Stichler a hero, at least in the eyes of his trailer-court neighbors-that's what the old man convinced himself, He envisioned public sympathy and national headlines, possibly a visit from Connie Chung. And prison wouldn't be such an awful place; a damn sight safer than a double-wide trailer. Haw! Levon Stichler told no one of his mission. The hurricane hadn't actually driven him insane, but that's what he intended to plead at the trial. The Alzheimer's defense was another promising option. But first he had to devise a convincingly eccentric murder.
As soon as he settled on a plan, Levon Stichler called PreFab Luxury Homes. The phone rang over and over, causing the old man to wonder if the storm had put the trailer-home company out of business. In fact, PreFab Luxury was enjoying a banner week, thanks to a massive requisition from the Federal Emergency Management Agency. Uncle Sam, it seemed, was generously providing trailers to homeless storm victims. Many of the miserably displaced souls who'd been living in PreFab Luxury trailers when the hurricane wiped them out would be living in a PreFab Luxury product once again. Neither the company nor the federal government thought it necessary to inform tenants of the irony.
Eventually a receptionist answered the telephone, and made a point of mentioning how busy they all were. Levon Stichler asked to speak to Mr. Torres. The woman said that Tony apparently was taking some personal leave after the storm and that nobody knew when he'd return to the office. Levon Stichler gathered that he wasn't the first dissatisfied customer to make inquiries.
The receptionist politely declined to divulge the salesman's home number.
From his sodden telephone directory, Levon Stichler carefully removed the page listing the names and addresses of all the Antonio Torreses in Greater Miami. Then he got in the car, filled up the tank and began the hunt.
On the first day, Levon Stichler eliminated from the list three auto mechanics, a scuba instructor, a thoracic surgeon, a palmist, two lawyers and a university professor. All were named Antonio Torres, but none was the scoundrel whom Levon Stichler sought. He was exhausted, but resolute.
On the second day, Levon Stichler continued to winnow the roster of candidates: a stockbroker, a nurseryman, a shrimper, a police officer, two electricians, an optometrist and a greenskeeper. Another Tony Torres, unkempt and clearly impaired, tried to sell him a bag of bootleg Dilaudids; still another threatened to decapitate him with a hoe.
The third day of the manhunt brought Levon Stichler to the Turtle Meadow subdivision and 15600 Calusa Drive. By then he'd seen enough hurricane destruction to be utterly unmoved by the sight of another gutted, roofless home. At least it still had walls, which was more than Levon Stichler could say for his own.
A pretty Anglo woman met him at the open front doorway. She wore baggy jeans and a long lavender T-shirt. Levon Stichler noticed she was barefoot and (unless his seventy-one-year-old eyeballs were mistaken) she was not wearing a bra. Her toenails were the shade of red hibiscus.
He said, "Is this the Torres residence?"
The woman said yes.
"Antonio Torres? The salesman?"
"That's right." The woman held out a hand. "I'm Mrs. Torres. Come on in, we've been expecting you."
Levon Stichler jerked and said, "What?"
He followed the barefoot braless woman into the house. She led him to the kitchen, which was a shambles.
"Where's your husband?"
"In the bedroom. Is Mister Dove on the way?"
"I don't know," answered Levon Stichler, thinking: Who the hell is Mr. Dove?
"Listen, Mrs. Torres"
"Please. It's Neria." The woman excused herself to tend the generator, which was in the garage. When she returned to the kitchen, she turned on the electric coffeemaker and made three cups.
Levon Stichler thanked her, stiffly, and took a sip. The wife would be a problem; he needed to have Tony Torres alone.
The barefoot woman stirred two spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee. "Is this your first stop of the day?"
"Sure is," said Levon Stichler, hopelessly puzzled. Having never before murdered anybody, he was full of the jitters. He glanced at his wristwatch so often that the woman couldn't help but notice.
She said, "Tony's in the shower. He'll be out very soon."
"That's OK."
"Is the coffee all right? Sorry there's no cream."
Levon Stichler said, "It's fine."
She seemed like a nice enough person. What was she doing with a crooked slob like Torres?
He heard muffled noises from another room, two voices: a man's guttural laughter and a woman's high-pitched giggle. Levon Stichler reached slowly into the right pocket of his windbreaker. His hand tightened on the cool shaft of the weapon.
"Honey?" the barefoot woman called. "Mister Ree-dy's waiting."
Reedy? Levon Stichler's bold determination began to dissolve in a muddle. Something was awry with this particular Tony Torres. Yet Levon had spied the Salesman of the Year plaque on the wall, Prefab Luxury Homes, in raised gold lettering. Had to be the same creep.
Levon Stichler knew he must act swiftly, or lose forever the opportunity to avenge. He removed the concealed weapon from his jacket and raised it, ominously, for the wife to see.
"You better leave," he advised.
Calmly she set her coffee cup on the counter. Her brow furrowed, but not in fear; more as if she were stymied on a crossword puzzle. "What is that?" Pointing at the thing in Levon Stichler's hand.
"What's it look like?"
"A giant screw?"
"It's an auger spike, Mrs. Torres. It was supposed to anchor my trailer in the storm."
Levon Stichler had choreographed the crime a hundred times in his mind, most recently while sharpening the point of the auger on a whetstone wheel. The fat face of Tony Torres would make an easy target. Either of those cavernous hairy nostrils could be forcibly modified to accept the steel bit, which would (according to Levon's calculation) extrude well beyond the nasal cavity and into the brainpan.