Stormy Weather Read Online Free PDF Page A

war zone. He was about to get out of the car when somebody recognized him—old man Stichler, who began spluttering insanely and hurling jagged debris at the salesman. Tony drove off at a high rate of speed. Later he learned that the widow Jackson was found dead in the wreckage of the trailer court.
    Tony Torres was unfamiliar with remorse, but he did feel a stab of sorrow. The Chivas took care of that. How was I to know? he thought. I’m a salesman, not a goddamn engineer.
    The more Tony drank, the less sympathy he retained for his customers. They goddamn well
knew
. Knew they were buying a tin can instead of a real house. Knew the risks, living in a hurricane zone. These were grown-ups, Tony Torres told himself. They made a choice.
    Still, he anticipated trouble. The shotgun was a comfort. Unfortunately, anybody who wanted to track him down had only to look in the Dade County phone book. Being a salesman meant being available to all of humanity.
    So let ’em come! Tony thought. Any moron customers got a problem, let ’em see what the storm did to
my
house. They get nasty, I turn the matter over to Señor Remington here.
    Shouts rousted Tony Torres from the sticky embrace of his BarcaLounger. He took the gun and a flashlight to the front of the house. Standing in the driveway was a man with an unfortunate pinstriped suit and a face that appeared to have been modified with a crowbar.
    “My sister!” the man exclaimed, pointing at a pile of busted lumber.
    Tony Torres spotted the prone form of a woman under the trusses. Her eyes were half closed, and a fresh streak of blood colored her face. The woman groaned impressively. The man told Tony to call 911 right away.
    “First tell me what happened,” the salesman said.
    “Just look—part of your damn roof fell down on her!”
    “Hmmm,” said Tony Torres.
    “For Christ’s sake, don’t just stand there.”
    “Your sister, huh?” Tony walked up to the woman and shined the flashlight in her eyes. The woman squinted reflexively, raising both hands to block out the light.
    Tony Torres said, “Guess you’re not paralyzed, darling.”
    He tucked the flashlight under one arm and raised the shotgun toward the man. “Here’s the deal, sport. The phones are blown, so we won’t be calling 911 unless you got a cellular in your pants, and that looks more like a pistol to me. Second of all, even if we
could
call 911 we’ll be waiting till Halloween. Every ambulance from here to Key West is busy because of the storm. Your ‘sister’ should’ve thought of that before her accident—”
    “What the hell you—”
    Tony Torres took the pistol from the man’s waist. “Third of all,” the salesman said, “my damn roof didn’t fall on nobody. Those trusses came off the neighbor’s house. That would be Mister Leonel Varga, next door. My own personal roof is lying in pieces somewhere out in the Everglades, is my guess.”
    From beneath the lumber, the woman said: “Shit, Snapper.” The man shot her a glare, then looked away.
    Tony Torres said: “I’m in the business of figuring people out quick. That’s what a good salesman does. And if she’s your sister, sport, then I’m twins with Mel Gibson.”
    The man with the crooked jaw shrugged.
    “Point is,” Tony said, “she ain’t really hurt. You ain’t really her brother. And whatever fucked-up plan you had for ripping me off is now officially terminated.”
    The man scowled bitterly. “Hey, it was
her
idea.”
    Tony ordered him to lift the wooden trusses off his partner. When the woman got up, the salesman noticed she was both attractive and intelligent-looking. He motioned with the shotgun.
    “Both of you come inside. Hell, inside is pretty much outside, thanks to that goddamn storm. But come in, anyhow, ’cause I’d love to hear your story. I could use a laugh.”
    The woman smoothed the front of her dress. “We made a bad mistake. Just let us go, OK?”
    Tony Torres smiled. “That’s funny, darling.”