Carl Hiaasen - Native Tongue

by Native Tongue [lit]

  "Let me just say, fuck you."

  Winder frowned. "Don't make me shoot up more office equipment. Stop and consider the facts. You obtained the bank notes and financing for Falcon Trace under false pretenses; to wit, using a false name and phony credit references. Ditto on your construction permits. Ditto on your performance bond. Once the money boys find out who you really are, once they read about it on the front page of the Wall Street Journal, not only is Falcon Trace dead, you can look forward to spending the rest of your natural life at the courthouse, getting your fat ass sued off. Everybody'll want a piece, Frankie. We're talking cluster-fuck."

  He now had Francis X. Kingsbury's undivided attention. "And last but not least," Winder said, "is the criminal situation. If I'm not mistaken, you're still on probation."

  "Yeah, so?"

  "So the terms of probation strictly prohibit consorting with known felons and other unsavory dirtbags. However, a review of your Security Department indicates you're not only consorting with known criminals, you've surrounded yourself with them."

  "This isn't Orlando," Kingsbury said. "Down here it's not so. easy to get good help. If I was as strict as Disney, I'd have nobody working for me. What, maybe altar boys? Mormons and Brownie Scouts? This is Miami, for Chrissakes, I got a serious recruiting problem here."

  "Nonetheless," Joe Winder said, "you've gone out of your way to dredge up extremely primitive life-forms."

  "What's wrong with giving a guy a second chance?" Kingsbury paused for a second, then said, "I'm the first to admit, hell, Pedro was a bad choice. I didn't know about the damn drugs." Speaking of Pedro, he thought, where the hell is he?

  "What's done is done," Winder said. He fanned himself with his spare paw, it was wretchedly hot inside the costume. "Frankie, this is a matter for you and the probation bureau. Between us boys, I wouldn't be surprised if they packed you off to Eglin for six or eight months. You do play tennis, don't you?"

  The haughtiness ebbed from Kingsbury's face. Pensively he traced a pudgy finger along the lines of his infamous rodent tattoo. "Winder, what exactly is your problem?"

  "The problem is you're mutilating a fine chunk of island so a bunch of rich people have a warm place to park their butts in the winter. You couldn't have picked a worse location, Frankie, the last green patch of the Keys. You're bulldozing next door to a national wildlife refuge. And offshore, in that magnificent ocean, is the only living coral reef in North America. I believe that's where you intended to flush your toilets—"

  "No!" Kingsbury snapped. "We'll have deep-well sewage injection. High-tech facilities—no runoff, no outfall."

  "Imagine," Winder mused, "the shit of millionaires dappling our azure waters."

  Kingsbury reddened and clenched his fists. "If I go along with this deal, what, it's some major victory for the environment? You think the ghost of Henry Fucking Thoreau is gonna pin a medal or some such goddamn thing on your chest?"

  Joe Winder smiled at the thought. "I've got no illusions," he said. "One less golf course is one less golf course. I'll settle for that."

  "The lots, Jesus, they're worth millions. That's what this goddamn piece of paper'll cost me."

  "I'll settle for that, too."

  Kingsbury was still stymied. He glared furiously at Charles Chelsea's final publicity release.

  "You'll never understand," Winder said, "because you weren't born here. Compared to where you came from, this is always going to look like paradise. Hell, you could wipe out every last bird and butterfly, and it's still better than Toledo in the dead of winter."

  With a dark chuckle, Kingsbury said, "No kidding."

  "Don't read too much into this operation, Frankie. I'm just sick of asshole carpetbaggers coming down here and fucking up the place. Nothing personal."

  It came out of the blue, Kingsbury saying, "There was a guy named Jack Winder. Big-time land developer, this goes back a few years, before I was selling waterfront. Winder Planned Communities was the company."

  "My father."

  "What?" said Kingsbury. "Quit whispering."

  "Jack Winder was my father."

  "Then what the hell are you doing? Biting the hand is what I'd call it. Dishonoring the family name."

  "Depends on your point of view."

  Kingsbury sneered. "I hear this line of bullshit all the time: "We got our slice of sunshine, fine, now it's time to close the borders." Selfish is what you are."

  "Maybe so," Winder said. "I'd like to fish that shoreline again, that's for sure. I'd like to see some tarpon out there next spring."

  Dramatically, Francis Kingsbury straightened in the chair. He began talking with his eyes and hands, unmistakably a sales pitch: "People come to the Amazing Kingdom, they might like to play some golf. Mommy takes the kids to the theme park, Daddy hits the fairways. So what?"

  Winder said nothing. Kingsbury began to knead his jowls in exasperation. "What the hell's so wrong with that picture? Eighteen lousy holes, I just don't see the crime. It's what Disney did. It's what everybody does with prime acreage. This is Florida, for Chrissakes."

  "Not the way it ought to be, Frankie."

  "Then you're living in what they call a dreamworld. This ain't Oz, son, and there's no fairy wizard to make things right again. Down here the brick road's not yellow, it's green. Plain and simple. Case closed."

  But Joe Winder wasn't changing his mind. "I hope the papers get your name right," he said.

  Bleakly Kingsbury thought of front-page headlines and multimillion-dollar lawsuits and minimum-security prisons with no driving range. "All right," he said to Winder, "let's talk."

  "You've got my offer. Read the press release, it's all tied up with a pretty ribbon. You shut down Falcon Trace for the noblest of reasons and you're a hero, Frankie. Isn't that what you want?"

  "I'd rather have my oceanfront lots."

  Then the door flew open and there, bug-eyed and seething, was Pedro Luz. He aimed a large blue handgun at Joe Winder and grunted something unintelligible.

  "Nice of you to put in an appearance," Kingsbury remarked. His eyes flooded with a mixture of rage and relief. "This asshole, get him out of my sight! For good this time."

  "Drop the gun," Pedro Luz told Winder. "And put on your goddamn head."

  Winder did as he was told. Zipping himself in, he felt cumbersome and helpless and feverishly short of breath.

  Kingsbury said, "He doesn't leave the park alive, you understand?"

  "No problem," said Pedro Luz.

  "No problem," mimicked Kingsbury. "No problem, my ass. This is Mr. Crackerjack Bodyguard, right? Mr. Lightning Response Time."

  For a moment Pedro Luz felt an overwhelming urge to turn the pistol on Francis X. Kingsbury; something told him it would be every bit as satisfying as shooting Joe Winder. Maybe another time, he decided. After payday.

  A muted voice inside the raccoon head said: "This is a big mistake, Frankie."

  Kingsbury laughed mordantly and blew his nose. "Pedro, it's your last fucking chance. I hope you still got enough brain cells to do this one simple chore."

  "No problem." With the crutch he roughly shoved Joe Winder toward the door.

  "Hey, Pedro."

  "What, Mr. Kingsbury?"

  "That's a six-hundred-dollar animal costume. Try not to mess it up."

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Carrie Lanier was practicing a song at the mirror as she dressed for the pageant. The door opened behind her, and she saw a flash of orange.

  "Hey! We thought you were headed for New York."

  "I seriously considered it." Skink shut the door with his foot.

  "Your friend Officer Tile mentioned Orlando. Somebody shot up a tour bus, he figured it might be you."

  "Another pale imitation, that's all. Where's your boyfriend?"

  Carrie described Winder's plan to confront Francis Kingsbury. "Joe's got all the bases covered."

  Skink shook his head. "It'll never work."

  "Where have you been, anyway?"


  "Down here in the underground, away from all radio beams. I needed a break from that damn plane."

  Carrie moved closer to the mirror and began to put on her makeup. "What's with the gas cans?" she asked.

  Skink carried one in each hand. "Let's pretend you didn't see these," he said. "I just want to make sure you've got a way out of the park."

  "When?"

  "Whenever."

  "What about Joe?"

  "I expect he's in some trouble," Skink said. "I've got a chore to do, then I'll check around."

  "Don't worry, Pedro's locked in the storage room."

  "How? With what?"

  When Carrie told him, Skink frowned. "I guess I'd better get going."

  She said, "Can you zip me up? There's a little hook at the top."

  Skink set down the gas cans and fastened the back of her gown. He wondered what had happened to the Indian theme.

  "When do you go on?" he asked.

  "Half an hour."

  "The dress is lovely," he said, stepping back. "Half an hour it is."

  "Thanks. Wish me luck."

  "You'll do fine."

  Carrie turned from the mirror. "Should I wait for Joe?"

  "Of course," said Skink, "but not too long."

  When they got to the security office, Pedro Luz ordered Joe Winder to remove the raccoon costume and hang it neatly in the uniform closet. Then Pedro Luz dragged Winder into the storage room, clubbed him to the floor and beat him seven or eight times with the crutch—Joe Winder lost count. Every time Pedro Luz struck a blow, he emitted a queer high-pitched peep that sounded like a baby sparrow. When he finally stopped to rest, he was panting heavily and his face shone with damp splotches. Spying from a fetal position on the floor, Joe Winder watched Pedro Luz swallow two handfuls of small orange tablets. Winder assumed these were not muscle relaxants.

  "I can kill you with my bare hands," Pedro Luz said informatively.

  Winder sat up, hugging his own chest to prevent pieces of broken ribs from snapping off like dead twigs. He couldn't figure out why Pedro Luz kept a full-length mirror in the storage room.

  "It's raining outside," Pedro Luz said.

  "That's what we're waiting for?"

  "Yeah. Soon as it stops, I'll take you out and kill you."

  Pedro Luz stripped off his shirt and began to work out with a pair of heavy dumbbells; he couldn't take his eyes off his own glorious biceps. The syncopation of Pedro's breathing and pumping put Joe Winder to sleep. When he awoke much later, still on the floor, he saw that Pedro Luz had put on a fresh uniform. The security man rose unsteadily and reached for the crutch; his hands trembled and his eyelids were mottled and puffy.

  "The parade starts soon," he said. "Everyone in the park goes to watch—that's when you're gonna break into the ticket office to rip off the cashboxes."

  "And you're going to catch me in the act, and shoot me."

  "Yeah," Pedro Luz wheezed, "in the back."

  "Pretty sloppy. The cops'll have plenty of questions."

  "I'm still thinking it through." His head lolled and he shut his eyes. Joe Winder sprang for the door and regretted it instantly. Pedro Luz was on him like a mad bear; he grabbed Winder at the base of the neck and hurled him backward into the stock shelves.

  "And that was one-handed," Pedro Luz bragged. "How much do you weigh?"

  Winder answered, with a groan, "One seventy-five."

  The security man beamed. "Light as a feather. No problem."

  "I'd like to speak with your boss one more time."

  "No way." Pedro Luz hoisted Winder from a tangle of intravenous tubes and set him down in a bare corner. He said, "Remember, I still got that gun you were carrying—I figure that's my throwdown. The story is, I had to shoot you because of the gun."

  Winder nodded. "I'm assuming there'll be no witnesses."

  "Course not. They'll all be at the parade."

  "What about the rain, Pedro? What if the parade's washed out?"

  "It's August, asshole. The rain don't last long." Pedro Luz hammered the heel of his hand against the side of his skull, as if trying to knock a wasp out of his ear. "God, it's loud in here."

  "I don't mean to nag," Joe Winder said, "but you ought to lay off the steroids."

  "Don't start with me!" Pedro Luz cracked the door and poked his head out. "See, it's stopped already. Just a drizzle." He gripped Joe Winder by the shoulder. "Let's go, smartass."

  But Winder could barely walk for the pain. Outside, under a low muddy sky, the tourists rushed excitedly toward Kingsbury Lane, where a band had begun to play. Pedro Luz marched Winder against the flow of yammering, gummy-faced children and their anxious, umbrella-wielding parents. The ticket office was on the other side of the park, a long hike, and Joe Winder had planned to use the time to devise a plan for escape. Instead his thoughts meandered inanely; he noticed, for example, what a high percentage of the Amazing Kingdom's tourists were clinically overweight. Was this a valid cross-section of American society? Or did fat people travel to Florida more frequently than thin people? Three times Winder slowed to ponder the riddle, and three times Pedro Luz thwacked the back of his legs with the dreaded crutch. No one stopped to interfere; most likely they assumed that Winder was a purse snatcher or some other troublemaker being rousted by Security.

  Eventually the crowds thinned and the light rain stopped. The two men were alone, crossing the walkway that spanned the dolphin tank. The swim-along attraction had closed early because the trainers were needed at the parade, in case the lion got testy. Joe Winder heard a burst of applause across the amusement park—fireworks blossoming over Kingsbury Lane. The pageant had begun!

  Winder thought of Carrie Lanier, and hoped she had the good sense not to come looking for him. He felt Pedro Luz's crutch jab him between the shoulder blades. "Hold it," the security man commanded.

  A hoary figure appeared at the end of the walkway ahead of them. It was a tall man carrying two red containers.

  "Now what?" said Pedro Luz.

  Joe Winder's heart sank. Skink didn't see them. He went down two nights of stairs and stacked the gas cans on the back of a Cushman motor cart. He ran back up the steps, disappeared through an unmarked door near the Rare Animal Pavilion and quickly emerged with two more cans of gasoline.

  "The Catacombs," Pedro Luz said, mainly to himself.

  Joe Winder heard him unsnap the holster. He turned and told Pedro Luz not to do anything crazy.

  "Shut up, smartass."

  As they watched Skink load the second pair of cans onto the Cushman, Winder realized his own mistake: he had tried too hard to be reasonable and civilized and possibly even clever. Such efforts were wasted on men such as Francis X. Kingsbury. Skink had the right idea.

  Pedro Luz aimed his.45 and shouted, "Freeze right there!" Skink stopped at the top of the steps. Pedro Luz ordered him to raise his hands, but Skink acted as if he didn't hear.

  "Don't I know you?" Skink said, coming closer.

  Pedro Luz found it difficult to look directly at the bearded stranger because one of the man's eyeballs seemed dislodged from the socket. As Skink approached, he gave no indication of recognizing Joe Winder.

  "Hello, gentlemen," he said. Casually he bent to examine the taped stump of Pedro Luz's leg. "Son, you're dropping more parts than a Ford Pinto."

  Flustered, Pedro Luz fell back on standard hardass-cop colloquy: "Lemme see some ID."

  Skink reached into the blaze-orange weather suit and came out with a small kitchen jar. He handed it to the security man and said, "I believe this belongs to you."

  Pedro Luz felt his stomach quake. At the bottom of the jar, drifting in pickle juice, was the tip of his right index finger. It looked like a cube of pink tofu.

  "The old woman bit it off," Skink reminded him, "while you were beating her up."

  Beautiful, Joe Winder thought. We're both going to die long horrible deaths.

  Hoarsely, Pedro Luz said, "Who the hell are you?"

  Skink gestu
red at the soiled bandages around his chest. "I'm the one you shot at the trailer!"

  All three of them jumped as a Roman candle exploded high over KingsBury Lane. A band was playing the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey. It sounded dreadful.

  In the tank below, Dickie the Dolphin rolled twice and shot a light spray of water from his blowhole. A few drops sprinkled the barrel of Pedro Luz's gun, and he wiped it nervously on the front of his trousers. The circuits of his brain were becoming badly overloaded; assimilating new information had become a struggle—the drugs, the finger in the jar, the one-eyed stoner with the gas cans, the fireworks, the god-awful music. It was time to kill these sorry bastards and go to the gym.