Stormy Weather by Carl Hiaasen Page A

a town house in Brentwood, California, where she fellates only circumcised movie agents, and the occasional director.
    But what about you? Mrs. Lamb will ask. What do you do for a living?
    I read my bank statements.
    And Mrs. Lamb will react with polite curiosity, until I explain about the airplane accident.
    It happened three years ago while flying back from Nassau after visiting my old man in Fox Hill Prison. I didn’t realize the pilot was drunk until he T-boned the twin Beech into the fuselage of a Coast Guard helicopter, parked inside a hangar at the Opa-Locka airport.
    Afterwards I slept for three months and seventeen days in the intensive care unit of Jackson Hospital. When I awoke, I was rich. The insurance carrier for the charter-air service had settled the case with an attorney whom I did not know and to this day have never met. A check for eight hundred thousand dollars appeared, and much to my surprise, I invested it wisely.
    And Mrs. Lamb, if I’m reading her right, will then say: So what is it you
do
?
    Honestly, I’m not certain.…
    The conversation, over bacon and French toast, didn’t go precisely as Augustine had anticipated. At the end of his story, Bonnie Lamb looked over the rim of her coffee cup and asked: “Is that where you got the scar—from the plane crash?”
    “Which scar?”
    “The Y-shaped one on your lower back.”
    “No,” said Augustine, guardedly. “That’s something else.” He made a mental note not to walk around without a shirt.
    Later, clearing the kitchen table, Bonnie asked about his father.
    “Extradited,” Augustine reported, “but he much prefers Talladega to the Bahamas.”
    “Are you two close?”
    “Sure,” said Augustine. “Only seven hundred miles.”
    “How often do you go to see him?”
    “Whenever I want to get angry and depressed.”
    Augustine often wished that the plane crash had wiped out his memory of that last visit at Fox Hill Prison, but it hadn’t. They were supposed to talk about the extradition, about lining up a half-decent lawyer in the States, about maybe cutting a deal with prosecutors so that the old man might actually get out before the turn of the century.
    But Augustine’s father wanted to talk about something else when his son came to see him. He wanted a favor.
    —Bollock, you remember Bollock? He owes me a piece of a shipment.
    —The answer is no.
    —Come on, A.G. I got lawyers to pay. Take Leaker and Ape along. They’ll handle Bollock. Not the money, though. That I want in your hands only.
    —Dad, I don’t believe this. I just don’t believe it.…
    —Hey, go down to Nassau harbor. See what they done to my boat! Ape says they stripped the radar and all the electric.
    —So what. You didn’t know how to use it anyway.
    —Listen, wiseass, I was taking fire. It was the middle of the goddamn night.
    —Still, it’s not easy to park a sixty-foot long-liner in nine inches of water. How exactly did you manage that?
    —Watch your tone, son!
    —Grown man, hangin’ out with guys called Leaker and Ape. Look where it got you.
    —A.G., I’d love to keep strollin’ down memory lane, but the guard says we’re outta time. So will you do it? Go see Henry Bollock down on Big Pine. Get my slice and stick it in the Caymans. What’s the harm?
    —Pathetic.
    —What?
    —I said, you’re pathetic.
    —So I’ll take that as a “no,” you won’t do this for me?
    —Jesus Christ.
    —You disappoint me, boy.
    —And I’m proud of you, too, Dad. I bust my buttons every time your name comes up.
    And Augustine recalled thinking, as he sat in the Beechcraft on the runway at Nassau: He’s hopeless, my old man. He won’t learn. He’ll get out of prison and go right back to it.
    A son looks a man square in the eye and calls him pathetic,
pathetic
, any other father would curse or cry or take a punch at the kid. Not mine. By God, not when there’s drug money needs collecting. So how about it, A.G.?
    Fuck him, thought Augustine. Not