Stormy Weather (31 page)

A cab took Max Lamb to the Aragon Clinic, a two-story stucco building, freshly painted and lushly landscaped, in a residential subdivision of the city. The lobby of the clinic showed evidence of recent remodeling, which unfortunately had not included central air. Max loosened his necktie and took a seat. On a glass table was a stack of informational pamphlets printed in Spanish. Curious, Max picked one up. On the first page was a drawing of a male sheep with an arrow pointing between its hind legs.

Max returned the pamphlet to the table. He wanted a smoke, but a sign on the wall said “No Fumar.” A drop of sweat rolled down his jawline. Max dabbed it away with a handkerchief.

A man wearing a white medical coat came out; a pale-eyed American in his mid-sixties. He introduced himself as Dr. Caulk, Mr. Nottage’s physician.

“When may I see him?” Max Lamb asked.

“In a few minutes. He’s finishing his treatment.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Better, by and large,” said Dr. Caulk, enigmatically.

The chat turned to the clinic, and cancer. The doctor asked Max Lamb if he was a smoker.

“Just started.”

“Started?” The doctor looked incredulous.

“Long story,” Max said.

“Mister Nottage smokes four packs a day.”

“I’d heard six.”

“Oh, we’ve got him down to four,” said the doctor. He gave the impression it was a contest of wills.

Max Lamb inquired about the unusual nature of the tumor treatments. Dr. Caulk took full credit.

“We’re really onto something,” he told Max. “So far, the results have been quite astounding.”

“What made you think to try … you know—”

“Sheep semen?” Dr. Caulk gave a wise smile. “Actually it’s quite an interesting story.”

As Max Lamb listened, he wondered if the deepening consternation showed on his face. The Caulk therapy was based entirely upon the casual observation that male sheep have a low incidence of lung cancer.

“Compared to …?”

The doctor slyly wagged a finger at Max. “Now you sound just like the FDA.” He folded his hands and leaned forward. “I suppose you’re curious about how we collect the semen.”

“Not in the slightest,” said Max, forcefully.

A mountainous nurse appeared at the doctor’s shoulder. She said Mr. Nottage’s afternoon treatment was completed. Dr. Caulk took Max to the old man’s room.

Outside the door, the doctor dropped his voice. “I’ll leave you two alone. Lately he’s been a bit cranky with me.”

Max Lamb had met Clyde Nottage Jr. only once before, on a golf course in Raleigh. The robust, fiery, blue-eyed curmudgeon that he remembered bore no resemblance to the gaunt, gray-skinned invalid in the hospital bed.

Until Clyde Nottage opened his mouth: “The hell you staring at, boy?”

Max pulled a chair to the side of the bed. He sat down and positioned the briefcase on his lap.

“Gimme cigaret,” Nottage muttered.

As Max inserted a Bronco in the old man’s bloodless lips, he said, “Sir, did the doctor tell you I was coming? How are you feeling?”

Nottage ignored him. He plucked the cigaret from his mouth and eyed it ruefully. “What they say is true, all true. About these goddamn
things causing cancer. I know it’s a fact. So do you. So does the goddamn guv’ment.”

Max Lamb was uneasy. “It’s a choice people make,” he said.

Nottage laughed, a tubercular snuffle. With a shaky hand he returned the cigaret to his mouth. Max lit it for him.

The old man said, “They got you trained good. Look at me, boy—you heard about the sheep jizz?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I got a tumor the size of a Cuban mango in my chest, and I’m down to sheep jizz. My last earthly hope.”

“The doctor said—”

“Oh, fuck him.” Nottage paused to suck defiantly on the Bronco. “You’re here about the ads, right? Rodale sent you to change my mind.”

“Sir, the NIH report was news—bad news, to be sure. But they were only doing their jobs, the newspapers and magazines. They
had
to print the story; it was all over television—”

Clyde Nottage laughed until his nose ran. He wiped it with a hairless withered forearm. “Christ, you missed the point. They all did.”

The old man’s jocular tone gave Max a false burst of hope.

“I yanked those damn ads,” Nottage went on, “because I was pissed. That much is true. But I wasn’t mad they published the cancer report.”

“Then why?”

An inch of dead ash fell from the old man’s cigaret onto the sheets. He tried to blow it away, but the exertion of laughing had sapped him; his lungs moaned under the strain. After regaining his breath, he said: “The real reason I was pissed, they’re fuckin’ hypocrites. They tell the whole world we peddle poison, put it on the front page. Yet they’re delighted to take our money and advertise that very same poison. Greedy cocksucking hypocrites, and you may quote me to the boys in New York.”

Max Lamb realized the conversation had taken a perilous turn. He said, “It’s just business, sir.”

“Well, it’s a business I’m gettin’ out of. Right now. Before I leave this sorry world.”

Max waited for a punch line that didn’t come. He felt a quaking in his bowels.

Clyde Nottage deposited the smoldering Bronco butt in a plastic
cup of orange juice. “As of this morning, Durham Gas Meat & Tobacco is Durham Gas Meat.”

“Please,” Max Lamb blurted. “Wait on this, please. You’re not feeling well enough to make such an important decision.”

“I’m dying, you fucking idiot. Three times a day some nurse looks like Pancho Villa shoots sheep cum into my belly. Damn right I don’t feel well. Gimme Kleenex.”

Max handed him a box of tissues from the bed tray. Nottage snatched one and hacked fiercely into it.

“Mister Nottage, I urge you not to do anything right now.”

“Hell, it’s already done. Made the call this morning.” Nottage spit again. He opened the tissue and examined the contents with a clinical eye. “Last time I checked, I still had fifty-one percent of the company stock. You wasted a perfectly good airplane ticket, boy. The decision’s made.”

Max Lamb, queasy with despair, began to protest. Nottage hunched forward, cupped his palms to his face and broke into a volcanic spasm of coughing.

Max jumped away from the bed. “Shall I get Dr. Caulk?”

The old man gazed into his hands and said, “Oh shit.”

Max edged closer. “Are you all right?”

“Considering I’m holding a piece of my own goddamn lung.”

“God!” Max turned away.

“Who knows,” the old man mused, “it might be worth something someday. Put it in the Smithsonian, like Dillinger’s dick.”

He drew back his frail right arm and lobbed the rancid chunk of tissue at the wall, where it hung like a gob of salsa.

Max Lamb bolted from the room. Moments later, Clyde Nottage Jr. put his head on the pillow and died with a merry wheeze. The expression on his face was purely triumphant.

Dennis Reedy possessed an inner radar for potential trouble. His legendary instincts had saved Midwest Casualty many millions of dollars over the years, so his services as a claims supervisor were prized at the home office in Omaha. Reedy was an obvious choice to lead the Hurricane Crisis Team: South Florida was the insurance-scam capital of the nation, and Reedy knew the territory inside and out.

His radar went on full alert at 15600 Calusa Drive. The injury to the man’s jaw was old, and healed. But there was another prospective problem.

“Mister Torres,” Reedy said, “how’d you hurt that leg?”

Annoyed, the man looked up from the BarcaLounger. “It was the storm,” he said.

Reedy turned stiffly to Fred Dove. “You didn’t mention this.”

“They’re not filing a claim on the injury.”

Reedy suppressed the urge to guffaw in young Fred Dove’s face. Antonio Torres was a textbook profile of a nuisance claimant. He was disfigured, morose and unsociable—precisely the sort of malcontent who’d have no qualms about defrauding an insurance company. The notion might not have occurred to Torres yet, but it would.

Dennis Reedy asked him how the accident had happened. Mr. Torres shot a look at Mrs. Torres, standing next to Fred Dove. Reedy detected nervous animosity in the husband’s expression.

Mr. Torres began to speak, but his wife cut in to answer: “Tony got hit by a roof beam.”

“Oh?”

“While he was walking the dogs. Down the end of the street.”

Fred Dove smiled inwardly with relief. Boy, she was good. And quick!

Reedy said, “So the accident didn’t happen here on the property?”

“No,” replied Edie Marsh, “but I wish it did. Then we’d know who to sue.”

They all chuckled, except Snapper. He stared contemptuously at the emblem of a growling badger, stitched to the breast of Dennis Reedy’s corporate blazer.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking about the accident,” said Reedy, “but it’s important for us to know all the circumstances—so there’s not a misunderstanding later down the road.”

Edie Marsh nodded cooperatively. “Well, like I explained to Mister Dove, I told Tony don’t you walk those dogs in the storm. It won’t kill us if they pee on the carpet or wherever. But would he listen? They’re like his little babies—Donald and Marla is what he named them. Spoiled rotten, too. We don’t have children, you understand.”

She gave Snapper a sad wifely smile. The look he sent back was murderous. She said, “Tony waited till the eye passed over and the
wind died before he went outside. ’Fore long it started blowing hard all over again, and before Tony could make it back with the dogs, he got hit by a beam off somebody’s roof. Tore up his knee pretty bad.”

Reedy nodded neutrally. “Mister Torres, where did this accident occur?”

“Down the end of the street. Like she said.” Snapper spoke in a dull monotone. He hated answering questions from pencil dicks like Reedy.

“Do you recall the address, Mister Torres?”

“No, man, the rain was a mess.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“I’ll be OK.”

“I think you should go to a doctor.”

Fred Dove said, “I suggested the same thing.”

“Oh, Tony’s stubborn as a mule.” Edie Marsh took Dennis Reedy’s arm. “Let me show you the rest of the house.”

Reedy spent an hour combing through the place. Fred Dove was a jumble of nerves, but Edie stayed cool. Flirting with Reedy was out of the question; she could tell he was an old pro. She steered him away from the hall closet where the crazy geezer with the auger spike was propped, bound and gagged.

Snapper remained sourly camped in front of the television. Edie reminded him that the portable generator was low on gas, but he paid no attention. Donahue was doing a panel on interracial lesbian marriages, and Snapper was riveted in disgust. White chicks eating black chicks! That’s what they seemed to be getting at—and there’s old Phil, acting like everything’s perfectly normal, like he’s interviewing the fucking Osmonds!

After inspecting the property, Dennis Reedy settled in the kitchen to work up the final numbers. His fingers were a blur on the calculator keypad. Fred Dove and Edie Marsh traded anticipatory glances. Reedy scratched some figures on a long sheet of paper and slid it across the counter. Edie scanned it. It was a detailed claims form she hadn’t seen before.

Reedy said, “Mister Dove estimated the loss of contents at sixty-five. That’s a little high, so I’m recommending sixty.” He pointed with the eraser end of his pencil. “That brings the total to two hundred and one thousand. See?”

Edie Marsh was baffled. “Contents?” Then, catching on: “Oh yes, of course.” She felt like a total fool. She’d assumed the estimate for
the house included the Torreses’ personal belongings. Fred Dove gave her a sneaky wink.

“One-forty-one for the dwelling,” explained Dennis Reedy, “plus sixty for the contents.”

Edie said, “Well, I guess that’ll have to do.” She did a fine job of acting disappointed.

“And we’d like your husband to sign a release confirming that he will not file a medical claim related to his knee injury. Otherwise the settlement process could become quite complicated. Under the circumstances, you probably don’t want any delays in receiving your payment.”

“Tony’ll sign,” said Edie. “Let me have it.”

She went to the living room and knelt by the BarcaLounger. “We’re in great shape,” she whispered, and placed both documents—the liability waiver and the claims agreement—on the armrest. “Remember,” she said, “it’s Torres with an
s
.”

Snapper barely took his eyes off the television while he forged Tony’s signature. “You believe these perverts?” he said, pointing at Phil’s panel. “Bring me a damn beer.”

Back in the kitchen, Edie Marsh thanked Dennis Reedy for his time. “How long before we get the money?”

“A couple days. You’re at the top of the list.”

“That’s wonderful, Mister Reedy!”

Fred Dove said, “You’ve seen our commercials, Mrs. Torres. We’re the fastest in the business.”

Christ, Edie thought, Fred’s really overdoing it. But, with the exception of the chatty cartoon badger, she did recall being impressed by Midwest Casualty’s TV spots. One in particular showed an intrepid company representative delivering claims checks, by rowboat, to Mississippi flood victims.

“I’ve got a laptop at the hotel,” Dennis Reedy was saying. “We file by modem direct to Omaha, every night.”

Edie said, “That’s incredible.” A couple days! But what about that extra sixty grand?

As soon as Reedy went outside, Fred Dove took her in his arms. When he tried to kiss her, she pushed him away and said, “You
knew
.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Oh, right.”

“I swear! Sixty thousand extra, for you and me.”

“Freddie, don’t screw around.”

“How could I steal it, Edie? The check will be made out to ‘Mister and Mrs. Torres.’ That’s you guys. Think about it.”

Irritably she paced the kitchen. “I’m so stupid,” she muttered. “Jesus.”

Of course the furnishings would be separate, along with the clothes and appliances and every stupid little doodad inside the place. Fred Dove said, “You never filed a big claim before. You wouldn’t know.”

“Dwelling
and
contents.”