Stormy Weather by Carl Hiaasen

you
are
my wife.”
    “Jesus.” Edie felt the sun on her nipples and looked down. Well, there they were—the pig had undone her blouse. “Don’t you understand English?”
    Tony Torres contentedly appraised her breasts. “Yeah, darling, but who’s got the shotgun.”
    “That’s so romantic,” Edie Marsh said. “Threaten to shoot me—there’s no better way to put a girl in the mood. Fact, I’m all wet just thinking about it.” She pushed his hand away and rebuttoned her blouse. “Where’s my shades,” she muttered.
    Tony cradled the Remington across his belly. Sweat puddled at his navel. He said, “You
will
think about it. They all do.”
    “I think about cancer, too, but it doesn’t make me horny.” To Edie, the only attractive thing about Tony Torres was his gold Cartier wristwatch, which was probably engraved in such a gaudy way that it could not be prudently fenced.
    He asked her: “Have you ever been with a bald man?”
    “Nope. You ever seen venereal warts?”
    The salesman snorted, turning away. “Somebody’s in a pissy mood.”
    Edie Marsh dug the black Ray-Bans out of her purse and disappeared behind them. The shotgun made her nervous, but she resolved to stay cool. She tried to shut out the summer glare, the ceaseless drone of chain saws and dump trucks, and the rustle of Tony Torres reading the newspaper. The warmth of the sun made it easy for Edie Marsh to think of the duned shores at the Vineyard, or the private beaches of Manalapan.
    Her reverie was interrupted by footsteps on the sidewalk across the street. She hoped it was Snapper, but it wasn’t. It was a man walking two small dachshunds.
    Edie felt Tony’s hand on hers and heard him say, “Darling, would you squirt some Coppertone on my shoulders?”
    Quickly she rose from the chair and crossed the road. The man was watching his dachshunds pee on the stem of a broken mailbox. He held both leashes in one hand, loosely. There was a melancholy slump to his shoulders that should have disappeared with the approach of a pretty woman, but did not.
    Edie Marsh told him the dogs were adorable. When she stooped to pet them, the dachshunds simultaneously rolled over and began squirming like worms on a griddle.
    “What’re their names?”
    “Donald and Marla,” the man replied. He wasn’t tall, but he was built like a furnace. He wore a peach knit shirt and khaki slacks. He said to Edie: “You live at that house?”
    She saw Tony Torres eyeing them from the chaise. She asked the stranger if he was from the Midwest Casualty insurance company. He motioned sarcastically toward the dogs and said, “Sure. And my associates here are from Merrill Lynch.”
    The dachshunds were up, wagging their butts and licking at Edie’s bare ankles. The man jerked his double chin toward Tony Torres and said, “You related to him? A wife or sister maybe.”
    “Please,” Edie Marsh said, with an exaggerated shudder.
    “OK, then I got some advice. Take a long fucking walk.”
    Edie’s mind began to race. She looked in both directions down the street, but didn’t see Snapper.
    The man said, “The hell you waiting for?” He handed her the two leashes. “Go on, now.”
    •  •  •
    Augustine awoke to the smell of coffee and the sounds of a married woman fixing breakfast in his kitchen. It seemed a suitable time to assess the situation.
    His father was in prison, his mother was gone, and his dead uncle’s wild animals had escaped among unsuspecting suburbanites. Augustine himself was free, too, in the truest and saddest sense. He had absolutely no personal responsibilities. How to explain such a condition to Bonnie Lamb?
    My father was a fisherman. He ran drugs on the side, until he was arrested near the island of Andros.
    My mother moved to Las Vegas and remarried. Her new husband plays tenor saxophone in Tony Bennett’s orchestra.
    My most recent ex-girlfriend was a leg model for a major hosiery concern. She saved her modeling money and bought