Carl Hiaasen - Native Tongue

by Native Tongue [lit]

  Even omitting South Miami from the readings, the cat's travels were inexplicably erratic. The rangers were concerned at the frequency with which Number 17 crossed Card Sound between Key Largo and the mainland. The only two possible routes—by water or the long bridge—were each fraught with hazards. It was Sergeant Dyerson's hope that Number 17 chose to swim the bay rather than risk the run over the steep concrete span, where the animal stood an excellent chance of getting creamed by a speeding car.

  On July 29, the ranger took up the twin Piper to search for the wandering panther. The homing signal didn't come to life until the plane passed low over a trailer park on the outskirts of Homestead. It was not a safe place for humans, much less wild animals, and the panther's presence worried Sergeant Dyerson. Though the tawny cats were seldom visible from the Piper, the ranger half-expected to see Number 17 limping down the center lane of U.S. Highway 1.

  Later that afternoon, Sergeant Dyerson went up again; this time he marked the strongest signal in thick cover near Steamboat Creek, on North Key Largo. The ranger couldn't believe it—twenty-nine miles in one day! This cat was either manic, or chained to the bumper of a Greyhound.

  When Sergeant Dyerson landed in Naples, he asked an electrician to double-check the antenna and receiver of the telemetry unit. Every component tested perfectly.

  That night, the ranger phoned his supervisor in Tallahassee and reviewed the recent radio data on Number 17. The supervisor agreed that he'd never heard of a panther moving such a great distance, so fast.

  "Send me a capture team as soon as possible," Sergeant Dyerson said. "I'm gonna dart this sonofabitch and find out what's what."

  The twin Piper made three dives over the campsite. Joe Winder and Carrie Lanier watched from the bank of Steamboat Creek.

  "Game and Fish," Winder said, "just what we need."

  "What do we do?" Carrie asked.

  "Follow the water."

  They didn't get far. A tall uniformed man materialized at the edge of the tree line. He carried an odd small-bore rifle that looked like a toy. When he motioned to Joe and Carrie, they obediently followed him through the hammock out to the road. Molly McNamara and the two burglars already had been rounded up; another ranger, with a clipboard, was questioning them. There was no sign of Skink.

  Sergeant Mark Dyerson introduced himself and asked to see some identification. Joe Winder and Carrie Lanier showed him their driver's licenses. The ranger was copying down their names when a gaunt old cracker, pulled by three lean hounds, came out of the woods.

  "Any luck?" Sergeant Dyerson asked.

  "Nope," said the tracker. "And I lost me a dog."

  "Maybe the panther got him."

  "They ain't no panther out there."

  "Hell, Jackson, the radio don't lie." The ranger turned back to Joe Winder and Carrie Lanier. "And I suppose you're bird-watchers, too. Just like Mrs. McNamara and her friends."

  Beautiful, thought Winder. We're bird-watchers now. Playing along, Carrie informed the ranger they were following a pair of nesting kestrels.

  "No kidding?" Sergeant Dyerson said. "I've never met a birder who didn't carry binoculars—and here I get five of 'em, all at one time."

  "We're thinking of forming a club," said Carrie. Joe Winder bit his lip and looked away. Molly's Cadillac took off, eastbound—a crown of white hair behind the wheel, the burglars slouched in the back seat.

  "I'll give you this much," the ranger said, "you sure don't look like poachers." A Florida Highway Patrol car pulled up and parked beside Sergeant Dyerson's Jeep. A muscular black trooper got out and tipped his Stetson at the ranger.

  "Whatcha know?" the trooper said affably.

  "Tracking a panther. These folks got in the way."

  "A panther? You got to be kidding."

  The trooper's laughter boomed. "I've been driving this stretch for three years and never saw a bobcat, much less a panther."

  "They're very secretive," Sergeant Dyerson said. "You wouldn't necessarily spot them." He wasn't in the mood for a nature lesson. He turned to the old tracker and told him to run the frigging dogs one more time.

  "Ain't no point."

  "Humor me," said Sergeant Dyerson. "Come on, let's go find your other hound."

  Once the wildlife officers were gone, the trooper's easygoing smile dissolved. "You folks need a lift."

  "No, thanks," Joe Winder said.

  "It wasn't a question, friend." The trooper opened the back door of the cruiser, and motioned them inside.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The trooper took them to lunch at the Ocean Reef Club. The clientele seemed ruffled by the sight of a tall black man with a sidearm.

  "You're making the folks nervous," Joe Winder observed.

  "Must be the uniform."

  Carrie popped a shrimp into her mouth. "Are we under arrest?"

  "I'd be doing all three of us a favor," Jim Tile said, "but no, unfortunately, you're not under arrest."

  Winder was working on a grouper sandwich. Jim Tile had ordered the fried dolphin and conch fritters. The dining room was populated by rich Republican golfers with florid cheeks and candy-colored Izod shirts. The men shot anxious squinty-eyed glances toward the black trooper's table.

  Jim Tile motioned for iced tea. "I can't imagine why I've never gotten a membership application. Maybe it got lost in the mail."

  "What's the point of all this?" Winder asked.

  "To have a friendly chat."

  "About what?"

  Jim Tile shrugged. "Flaming bulldozers. Dead whales. One-eyed woodsmen. You pick the subject."

  "So we've got a mutual friend."

  "Yes, we do." The trooper was enjoying the fish platter immensely; despite the stares, he seemed in no hurry to finish. He said, "The plane scared him off, right?"

  "It doesn't make sense," Winder said. "They're not after him, they're after a cat. Why does he run?"

  Jim Tile put down the fork and wiped his mouth. "My own opinion—he feels a duty to hide because that's what the panther would've done. He wears that damn collar like a sacred obligation."

  "To the extreme."

  "Yeah," the trooper said. "I don't expect they'll find that missing dog. You understand?"

  Carrie said, "He's a very interesting person."

  "A man to be admired but not imitated." Jim Tile paused. "I say that with no disrespect."

  Winder chose not to acknowledge the warning. "Where do you think he went?" he asked the trooper.

  "I'm not sure, but it's a matter of concern."

  The manager of the restaurant appeared at the table. He was a slender young man with bleached hair and pointy shoulders and brand new teeth. In a chilly tone he asked Jim Tile if he were a member of the club, and the trooper said no, not yet. The manager started to say something else but changed his mind. Jim Tile requested a membership application, and the manager said he'd be back in a jiffy.

  "That's the last we'll see of him," the trooper predicted.

  Joe Winder wanted to learn more about Skink. He decided it was safe to tell Jim Tile what the group had been doing in the hammock before the airplane came: "We were hatching quite a plot."

  "I figured as much," the trooper said. "You know much about rock and roll?"

  Carrie pointed at Winder and said, "Hard core."

  "Good," said Jim Tile. "Maybe you can tell me what's a Mojo? The other day he was talking about a Mojo flying."

  "Rising," Winder said. "Mojo rising. It's a line from The Doors—I believe it's got phallic connotations."

  "No," Carrie jumped in. "I think it's about drugs."

  The trooper looked exasperated. "White people's music, I swear to God. Sinatra's all right, but you can keep the rest of it."

  "Shall we discuss rap?" Joe Winder said sharply. "Shall we examine the lyrical genius of, say, 2 Live Crew?" He could be very defensive when it came to rock. Carrie reached under the table and pinched his thigh. She told him to lighten up.

  "Rikers Island," Jim Tile said. "I
s there a song about Rikers Island?"

  Winder couldn't think of one. "You sure it's not Thunder Island?"

  "No." Jim Tile shook his head firmly. "Our friend said he'd be leaving Florida one day. Go up to Rikers Island and see to some business."

  "But that's a prison," Carrie said.

  "Yeah. A prison in New York City."

  Joe Winder remembered something Skink had told him the first day at the campsite. If it was a clue, it foreshadowed a crime of undiluted madness.

  Winder said, "Rikers is where they keep that idiot who shot John Lennon." He cocked an eyebrow at Jim Tile. "You do know who John Lennon was?"

  "Yes, I do." The trooper's shoulders sagged. This could be trouble," he added emptily.

  "Our mutual friend never got over it," Winder said. "The other night, he asked me about the Dakota."

  "Wait a minute." Carrie Lanier made a time-out signal with her hands. "You guys aren't serious."

  Gloomily Jim Tile stirred the ice in his tea. "The man gets his mind set on things. And these days, I've been noticing he doesn't handle stress all that well."

  Joe Winder said, "Christ, it was only an airplane. It's gone now, he'll calm down."

  "Let's hope." The trooper called for the check.

  Carrie looked sadly at Winder. "And here I thought you were bonkers," she said.

  Agent Billy Hawkins told Molly McNamara that the house was simply beautiful. Old-time Florida, you don't see pine floors like this anymore. Dade County pine.

  Molly said, "I've got carpenter ants in the attic. All this wet weather's got 'em riled."

  "You'd better get that seen to, and soon. They can be murder on the beams."

  "Yes, I know. How about some more lemonade?"

  "No, thank you," said Agent Hawkins. "We really need to talk about this telephone call."

  Molly began to rock slowly. "I'm completely stumped. As I told you before, I don't know a living soul in Queens."

  Hawkins held a notebook on his lap, a blue Flair pen in his right hand. He said, "Salvatore Delicato is an associate of the John Gotti crime family."

  "Goodness!" Molly exclaimed.

  "Prior arrests for racketeering, extortion and income-tax evasion. The phone call to his number was made from here. It lasted less than a minute."

  "There must be some mistake. Did you check with Southern Bell?"

  "Miss McNamara," Hawkins said, "can we please cut the crap."

  Molly's grandmotherly expression turned glacial. "Watch your language, young man."

  Flushing slightly, the agent continued: "Have you ever met a Jimmy Nardoni, otherwise known as Jimmy Noodles? Or a man named Gino Ricci, otherwise known as Gino The Blade?"

  "Such colorful names," Molly remarked. "No, I've never heard of them. Do you have my telephone bugged, Agent Hawkins?"

  He resisted the impulse to tell her that Sal Delicato's telephone was tapped by a squadron of eavesdroppers—not only the FBI, but the New York State Police, the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration, the Tri-State Task Force on Organized Crime and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. The New York Telephone box on the utility pole behind The Salamander's butcher shop sprouted so many extra wires, it looked like a pigeon's nest.

  "Let me give you a scenario," Agent Hawkins said to Molly. "A man used your phone to call Sal Delicate for the purpose of revealing the whereabouts of a federally protected witness now living in Monroe County, Florida."

  "That's outlandish," Molly said. "Who is this federal witness?"

  "I imagine you already know." Hawkins jotted something in the notebook. "The man who made the phone call, we believe, was Buddy Michael Schwartz. I showed you his photograph the last time we visited. You said he looked familiar."

  "I vaguely remember."

  "He has other names," Hawkins said. "As I told you before, Schwartz is wanted in connection with the animal theft from the Amazing Kingdom."

  "Wanted?"

  "For questioning," the agent said. "Anyway, we believe the events are connected."

  The ominous wiretap conversation had elevated the vole investigation from zero-priority to high-priority. Billy Hawkins had been yanked off a bank-robbery case and ordered to find out why anyone would be setting up Francis X. Kingsbury, aka Frankie King. The Justice Department had pretty much forgotten about Frankie The Ferret until the phone call to Sal Delicato. The renewed interest in Washington was not a concern for Frankie's well-being so much as fear of a potential publicity nightmare; the murder of a protected government informant would not enhance the reputation of the Witness Relocation Program. It could, in fact, have a profoundly discouraging effect on other snitches. Agent Hawkins was told to track down Buddy Michael Schwartz and then call for backup.

  Molly McNamara said, "You think this man might have broken into my house to use the phone!"

  "Not exactly," Hawkins said.

  She peered at him skeptically. "How do you know it was he on the line? Did you use one of those voice-analyzing machines?"

  The FBI man chuckled. "No, we didn't need a machine. The caller identified himself."

  "By name?" The blockhead! Molly thought.

  "No, not by name. He told Mr. Delicato that he was an acquaintance of Gino Ricci's brother. It just so happens that Buddy Michael Schwartz served time with Mario Ricci at the Lake Butler Correctional Institute."

  Molly McNamara said, "Could be a coincidence."

  "They shared a cell. Buddy and Gino's brother."

  "But still—"

  "Would you have a problem," the agent said, "if I asked you to come downtown and take a polygraph examination?"

  Molly stopped rocking and fixed him with an indignant glare. "Are you saying you don't believe me?"

  "Call it a hunch."

  "Agent Hawkins, I'm offended."

  "And I'm tired of this baloney." He closed the notebook and capped the pen. "Where is he?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Hawkins stood up, pocketed his notebook, straightened his tie. "Let's go for a ride," he said. "Come on."

  "No!"

  "Don't make it worse for yourself."

  "You're not paying attention," Molly said. "I thought G-men were trained to be observant."

  Billy Hawkins laughed. "G-men? I haven't heard that one in a long—"

  It was then he noticed the pistol. The old lady held it impassively, with both hands. She was pointing it directly at his crotch.

  "This is amazing," said the agent. "The stuff of legends." Wait till the tough guys at Quantico hear about it.

  Molly asked Billy Hawkins to raise his hands.

  "No, ma'am."

  "And why not?"

  "Because you're going to give me the gun now."

  "No," said Molly, I'm going to shoot you."

  "Lady, gimme the goddamn gun!"

  Calmly she shot him in the thigh, two and one-quarter inches below the left hip. The FBI man went down with a howl, clawing at the burning hole in his pants.

  "I told you to watch your language," Molly said.

  The pop of the pistol brought Danny Pogue and Buddy Schwartz scrambling down the stairs. From a living-room window they cautiously surveyed the scene on the porch: Molly rocking placidly, a man in a gray suit thrashing on the floor.

  Danny Pogue cried, "She done it again!"

  "Christ on a bike," said Bud Schwartz, "it's that dick from the FBI."

  The burglars cracked the door and peeked out. Molly assured them the situation was under control.

  "Flesh wound," she reported. "Keep an eye on this fellow while I get some ice and bandages." She confiscated Billy Hawkins's Smith 8c Wesson and gave it to Bud Schwartz, who took it squeamishly, like a dog turd, in his hands.

  "It works best when you aim it," Molly chided.

  Danny Pogue reached for the barrel. "I'll do it!"

  "Like hell," said Bud Schwartz, spinning away. He sat in the rocker and braced the pistol on his knee. The air smelled pungently of gunpowder; it brough
t back the memory of Monkey Mountain and the trigger-happy baboon.

  Watching the gray-suited man squirm in pain, Bud Schwartz fought the urge to get up and run. What was the old bat thinking this time? Nothing good could come of shooting an FBI man. Surely she understood the consequences.