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tellite dish。
Edie Marsh paid a neighbor kid to siphon gas from Snapper's abandoned car and crank up Tony Torres's portable generator。 Edie gave the kid a five…dollar bill that she'd found hidden with five others inside a toolbox in the salesman's garage。 It was a pitiful excuse for a stash； Edie was sure there had to be more。
At dusk she gave up the search and planted herself in Tony's BarcaLounger； a crowbar at her side。 She turned up the volume of the television as loudly as she could stand； to block out the rustles and whispers of the night。 Without doors； windows or a roof； the Torres house was basically an open campsite。 Outside was black and creepy； people wandered like spirits through the unlit streets。 Edie Marsh had the jitters； being alone。 She gladly would have fled in Tony's huge boat of a Chevrolet； if it hadn't been blocked in the driveway by Snapper's car； which Edie would have gladly swiped if only Snapper hadn't taken the damn keys with him。 So she was stuck at the Torres house until daybreak； when it might be safe for a woman to travel on foot with two miniature dachshunds。
She planned to get out of Dade County before anything else went wrong。 The expedition was a disaster； and Edie blamed no one but herself。 Nothing in her modest criminal past had prepared her for the hazy and menacing vibe of the hurricane zone。 Everyone was on edge； evil； violence and paranoia ripened in the shadows。 Edie Marsh was out of her league here。 Tomorrow she'd hitch a ride to West Palm and close up the apartment。 Then she'd take the Amtrak home to Jacksonville； and try to make up with her boyfriend。 She estimated that reconciliation would require at least a week's worth of blow jobs； considering how much she'd stolen from his checking account。 But eventually he'd take her back。 They always did。
Edie Marsh was suffering through a TV quiz show when she heard a man's voice calling from the front doorway。 She thought： Tony！ The pig is back。
She grabbed the crowbar and sprung from the chair。 The man at the door raised his arms。 〃Easy；〃 he said。
It wasn't Tony Torres。 This person was a slender blond with round eyeglasses and a tan briefcase and matching Hush Puppy shoes。 In one hand he carried a manila file folder。
〃What do you want？〃 Edie held the crowbar casually； as if she carried it at all times。
〃Didn't mean to scare you；〃 the man said。 〃My name is Fred Dove。 I'm with Midwest Casualty。〃
〃Oh。〃 Edie Marsh felt a pleasant tingle。 Like the first time she'd met one of the young Kennedys。
With a glance at the file； Fred Dove said； 〃Maybe I've got the wrong street。 This is 15600 Calusa？〃
〃That's correct。〃
〃And you're Mrs。 Torres？〃
Edie smiled。 〃Please；〃 she said； 〃call me Neria。〃
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bonnie and Augustine were cutting a pizza when Augustine's FBI friend stopped by to pick up the tape of Max Lamb's latest message。 He listened to it several times on the cassette player in Augustine's living room。 Bonnie studied the FBI man's expression； which remained intently neutral。 She supposed it was something they worked on at the academy。
When he finished playing the tape； the FBI agent turned to Augustine and said； 〃I've read it somewhere。 That 'creaking machinery of humanity。'〃
〃Me； too。 I've been racking my brain。〃
〃God； I can just see 'em up in Washington； giving it to a crack team of shrinks…〃
〃Or cryptographers；〃 Augustine said。
The FBI man smiled。 〃Exactly。〃 He accepted a hot slice of pepperoni for the road； and said good night。
Augustine asked Bonnie a question at which the agent had only hinted： Was it conceivable that Max Lamb could have written something like that himself？
〃Never；〃 she said。 Her husband was into ditties and jingles； not metaphysics。 〃And he doesn't read much；〃 she added。 〃The last book he finished was one of Trump's autobiographies。〃
It was enough to convince Augustine that Max Lamb wasn't being coy on the phone； the mystery man was feeding him lines。 Augustine didn't know why。 The situation was exceedingly strange。
Bonnie took a shower。 She came out wearing a baby…blue flannel nightshirt that Augustine recognized from a long…ago relationship。 Bonnie had found it hanging in a closet。
〃Is there a story to go with it？〃 she asked。
〃A torrid one。〃
〃Really？〃 Bonnie sat beside him on the sofa； at a purely friendly distance。 〃Let me guess： Flight attendant？〃
Augustine said； 〃Letterman's a rerun。〃
〃Cocktail waitress？ Fashion model？〃
〃I'm beat。〃 Augustine picked up a book； a biography of Lech Walesa； and flipped it open to the middle。
〃Aerobics instructor？ Legal secretary？〃
〃Surgical intern；〃 Augustine said。 〃She tried to cut out my kidneys one night in the shower。〃
〃That's the scar on your back？ The Y。〃
〃At least she wasn't a urologist。〃 He closed the book and picked up the channel changer for the television。
Bonnie said； 〃You cheated on her。〃
〃Nope； but she thought I did。 She also thought the bathtub was full of centipedes； Cuban spies were spiking her lemonade； and Richard Nixon was working the night shift at the Farm Store on Bird Road。〃
〃 Drug problem ？〃
〃Evidently。〃 Augustine found a Dodgers game on ESPN and tried to appear engrossed。
Bonnie Lamb asked to see the scar closely； but he declined。 〃The lady had poor technique；〃 he said。
〃She use a real scalpel？〃
〃No； a corkscrew。〃
〃My God。〃
〃What is it with women and scars？〃
Bonnie said； 〃I knew it。 You've been asked before。〃
Was she flirting？ Augustine wasn't sure。 He had no point of reference when it came to married women whose husbands recently had disappeared。
〃How's this；〃 he said。 〃You tell me all about your husband； and maybe I'll show you the damn scar。〃
〃Deal；〃 said Bonnie Lamb； tugging the nightshirt down to cover her knees。
Max Lamb met and fell in love with Bonnie Brooks when she was an assistant publicist for Crespo Mills Internationale； a leading producer of snack and breakfast foods。 Rodale & Burns had won the lucrative Crespo advertising account； and assigned Max Lamb to develop the print and radio campaign for a new cereal called Plum Crunchies。 Bonnie Brooks flew in from Crespo's Chicago headquarters to consult。
Basically； Plum Crunchies were ordinary sugar…coated cornflakes mixed with rock…hard fragments of dried plums…that is to say； prunes。 The word 〃prune〃 was not to appear in any Plum Crunchies publicity or advertising； a corporate edict with which both Max Lamb and Bonnie Brooks wholeheartedly agreed。 The target demographic was sweet…toothed youngsters aged fourteen and under； not constipated senior citizens。
On only their second date； at a Pakistani restaurant in Greenwich Village； Max sprung upon Bonnie his slogan for Crespo's new cereal： You'll go plum loco for Plum Crunchies！
〃With p…l…u…m instead of p…l…u…m…b on the first reference；〃 he was quick to explain。
Though she personally avoided the use of lame homonyms； Bonnie told Max the slogan had possibilities。 She was trying no