To confront the women would have given Avila great pleasure, but it also would've exposed his own clandestine filching. Ruefully he reburied the Tupperware, and concealed the disturbed topsoil with a mat of leaves and lawn cuttings. Then he drove to the Gar Whitmark Building, where he was made to wait in the lobby for ninety minutes, like a common peon.

When a secretary finally led him into Gar Whitmark's private office, Avila spoiled any chance for a civil exchange by asking the corporate titan what the hell was wrong with his scalp, was that a fungus or what? Avila, who had never before seen hair plugs, hadn't meant to be rude, but Gar Whitmark reacted explosively. He shoved Avila to the floor, snatched the seven grand from his hand, knelt heavily on his chest and spewed verbal abuse. Whitmark wasn't a large man, but he was fit from many afternoons of country-club tennis. Avila chose not to resist; he was thinking lawsuit. Whitmark's eyes bulged in rage, and he cursed himself breathless, but he did not punch Avila even once. Instead he got up, smoothed the breast of his Italian suit, straightened his necktie and presented the disheveled con man with an itemized estimate from Killebrew Roofing Co. for the staggering sum of $23,250.

Avila was crestfallen, though not totally surprised: Whitmark had selected the best, and most expensive, roofers in all South Florida. Also, the most honest. From his days as a crooked inspector, Avila sourly recalled the few times he'd tried to shake down Killebrew crews for payoffs, only to be chased like a skunk from the construction sites. Killebrew, like Gar Whitmark, had some heavy juice downtown.

Avila pretended to study the estimate while he thought up a diplomatic response.

Whitmark said: "They start work next week. Adjust your finances accordingly."

"Jesus, I don't have twenty-three grand." There– he'd said it.

"You're making me weep." Gar Whitmark clicked his teeth.

With a bandaged hand Avila waved the Killebrew paper in tepid indignation. "I could do this same job for half as much!"

Whitmark snorted. "I wouldn't let you put the roof on a fucking doghouse." He handed Avila a Xeroxed clipping from the newspaper. "You either come up with the money or go to jail. Comprende, Sefior Dipshit?"

The newspaper article said the Dade State Attorney was appointing a special squad of prosecutors to crack down on dishonest contractors preying on hurricane victims.

"One phone call," said Whitmark, "and you're on your way to the buttfuck motel."

Avila bowed his head. The sight of his blackened fingernails reminded him of the buried Tupperware box. Hell, there was only twelve, maybe thirteen grand left in it. He was screwed.

"My wife's still a wreck from what your people did. You wouldn't believe the goddamn pharmacy bill." Whitmark pointed at the door and told Avila good-bye. "We'll talk," he said, ominously.

On the way home, Avila dejectedly mulled his options. How often could he turn to Chango without offending Him, or appearing selfish? Yet the santero priest who trained Avila had mentioned no numerical limit on supernatural requests. Tonight, Avila decided, I'll do a goat-no, two goats!

And tomorrow I will hunt that bastard Snapper.

The Church of High Pentecostal Rumination, headquartered in Chicoryville, Florida, attended all natural disasters in the western hemisphere. Earthquake, flood and hurricane zones proved fertile territories for conversion and recruitment of sinners. Less than thirty-six hours after the killer storm smashed Dade County, an experienced team of seven Ruminator missionaries was dispatched in a leased Dodge minivan. Hotel beds were scarce, so they shared a room at a Ramada Inn off the Turnpike. There was no complaining.

Every morning, the missionaries preached, consoled and distributed pamphlets. Then they stood in line for free army lunches at the tent city, and returned to the motel for two hours of quiet contemplation and gin rummy. The Ramada offered free cable TV, which allowed the Ruminators to view a half-dozen different religious broadcasts at any time of day. One afternoon, in the absence of a pure Pentecostal preacher, they settled on Pat Robertson and the 700 Club. The Ruminators didn't share Robertson's paranoid worldview, but they admired his life-or-death style of fund-raising and hoped to pick up some pointers.

Toward the end of the program, Reverend Robertson closed his eyes and prayed. The Ruminators joined hands-no easy task, since four of them were on one bed and three were on the other. The prayer was not one they recognized from the Scriptures; evidently Reverend Robertson had composed it personally, since it contained several references to his post office box in Virginia. Nonetheless, it was a pretty good prayer, fervently rendered, and the Ruminator missionaries were enjoying it.

No sooner had Reverend Robertson exhaled the word "Amen" when the motel room was rocked by a muffled detonation, and the television set exploded before the missionaries' startled eyes. Reverend Robertson's squinting visage vaporized in a gout of acrid blue smoke, and his whiny beseechment faded in a sprinkle of falling glass. The Ruminators scrambled off the beds, dropped to their knees and burst into a hymn, "Nearer My God to Thee." That's how the manager of the Ramada found them, fifteen minutes later, when he came to apologize.

"Some asshole downstairs shot off a .357," he announced.

All singing ceased. The motel manager pushed the broken television away from the wall and pointed to a ragged hole in the carpet. "From the bullet," he explained. "Don't worry. I kicked 'em out."

"A gun?" cried a Ruminator elder, springing to his feet.

"That ain't the worst of it," the motel manager said. "They had dogs in the room! You believe that? Chewin' up the bedspreads and God knows what." He promised to bring the Ruminators another TV set, but warned them to keep their hymn singing at a low volume, so as not to disturb other guests.

"Everybody's on edge," the manager added, unnecessarily.

After he left, the missionaries locked the door and held a solemn meeting. They agreed they'd done all they could for the good people of South Florida, and quickly packed their bags.

"Well, that was brilliant."

Snapper told Edie Marsh to shut up and quit beating it to death. What's done is done.

"No, really," she said, "getting us thrown out of the only hotel room between here and Daytona Beach. Absolute genius."

With a gaseous hiss, Snapper sagged into the Barca-Lounger. She had some nerve giving him shit, after the way she'd fucked up his leg with that crowbar. Who wouldn't be in a lousy mood, their goddamn knee all swollen up like a Georgia ham.

He said, "It's your fault, you and them dogs. Hey, get me a Coors."

On the drive back to the Torres house, they had stopped at a 7-Eleven for gas, ice and supplies. Fred Dove had purchased Tylenol and peppermint Tic Tacs before lugubriously departing for a busy afternoon of storm-damage estimates. He drove off with the hollow stare of a man whose life had abruptly gone to ruin.