NativeTongue

by Carl Hiassen

  Francis X. Kingsbury put the wood in his bag, and sat down behind the steering wheel of the golf cart. The angry players were advancing in an infantry line that was the color of lollipops. Where Kingsbury came from, it would be hard to regard such men as dangerous.

  "Aw, let's go," said Jake Harp.

  Kingsbury nodded and turned the golf cart around. "Trying to make a point is all," he said. "Etiquette, am I right? Have some fucking common courtesy for other players."

  Jake Harp said, "I think they got the message." He could hear the golfers shouting and cursing as they drove away. He hoped none of them had recognized him.

  On the drive back to the clubhouse, Francis Kingsbury asked Jake Harp for the name of the restaurant manager at Ocean Reef.

  "I've got no idea," Jake Harp said.

  "But you're a member here."

  "Frank, I'm a member of seventy-four country clubs all over the damn country. Some I've never even played."

  Kingsbury went on: "The reason I asked, I got a line on a big shipment of fish. Maybe they'd want to buy some."

  I'll ask around. What kind of fish?"

  "Tuna, I think. Maybe king mackerel."

  "You don't know?"

  "Hell, Jake, I'm a real-estate man, not a goddamn chef. It's a trailer full of fish is all I know. Maybe six thousand pounds."

  Jake Harp said, "Holy Jesus."

  Francis Kingsbury wasn't about to get into the whole messy story. He'd been having a devil of a time penetrating the Sudanese bureaucracy; UNICEF was no better. Yes, of course we'd welcome any famine relief, but first you'll have to fill out some forms and answer some questions....Meanwhile, no one at the Amazing Kingdom seemed to know how long whale meat would stay fresh.

  From the back of the golf cart came a high-pitched electronic beeping. Kingsbury quickly pulled off the path and parked in a stand of Australian pines. He unzipped his golf bag and removed a cellular telephone.

  When he heard who was on the other end, he lowered his voice and turned away. Jake Harp took the hint; he slipped into the trees to get rid of the two Bloody Marys he'd had for breakfast. It was several seconds before he realized he was pissing all over somebody's brand-new Titleist. He carefully wiped it dry with a handkerchief and dropped it in his pocket.

  Francis X. Kingsbury was punching a new number into the phone when Jake Harp returned to the golf cart.

  "Get me that dildo Chelsea," he was saying. "No...who? I don't care – where did you say he is? Twenty minutes, he's not in my office and that's it. And get that fucking Pedro, he's in his car. Keep him on the line till – right – I get back."

  He touched a button and the cellular phone made a burp. Kingsbury put it away. He was steaming mad.

  Jake Harp said, "More problems?"

  "Yeah, a major goddamn problem," said Kingsbury. "Only this one works for me."

  "So fire him."

  "Oh, I am," Kingsbury said, "and that's just for starters."

  FOURTEEN

  Molly McNamara came out of the kitchen carrying a silver teapot on a silver tray.

  "No thank you," said Agent Billy Hawkins.

  "It's herbal," Molly said, pouring a cup. "Now I want you to try this."

  Hawkins politely took a drink. It tasted like cider.

  "There now," said Molly. "Isn't that good?"

  Hiding behind the door of the guest bedroom, Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue strained to hear what was going on. They couldn't believe she was serving tea to an FBI man.

  "I'd like to ask you a few questions," Billy Hawkins was saying.

  Molly cocked her head pleasantly. "Of course. Fire away."

  "Let's begin with the Mothers of Wilderness. You're the president?"

  "And founder, yes. We're just a small group of older folks who are deeply concerned about the future of the environment." She held her teacup steady. "I'm sure you know all this."

  Agent Hawkins went on: "What about the Wildlife Rescue Corps? What can you tell me about it?"

  Molly McNamara was impressed by the FBI man's grammar; most people would have used "them" instead of "it."

  "Just what I've read in the papers," she said, sipping. "That's the organization that is taking credit for freeing the mango voles, is that correct?"

  "Right."

  "I'm assuming this is what gives you jurisdiction in this matter – the fact that the voles are a federally protected endangered species."

  "Right again," said Hawkins. She was a sharp one.

  Behind the bedroom door, Bud Schwartz was ready to yank his hair out. The crazy old twat was screwing with the FBI, and enjoying it!

  Danny Pogue looked as confused as ever. He leaned close and whispered: "I thought sure he was after you and me."

  "Shut up," Bud Schwartz said. He was having a hard enough time hearing the conversation in the living room.

  The FBI man was saying: "We have reason to suspect a connection between the Wildlife Rescue Corps and the Mothers of Wilderness – "

  "That's outlandish," said Molly McNamara.

  Agent Hawkins let the idea hang. He just sat there with his square shoulders and his square haircut, looking impassive and not the least bit accusatory.

  Molly asked: "What evidence do you have?"

  "No evidence, just indications."

  "I see." Her tone was one of pleasant curiosity.

  Billy Hawkins opened his briefcase and took out two shiny pieces of paper. Xeroxes. "Last month the Mothers of Wilderness put out a press release. Do you remember?"

  "Certainly," said Molly. "I wrote it myself. We were calling for an investigation of zoning irregularities at Falcon Trace. We thought the grand jury should call a few witnesses."

  The FBI agent handed her the papers. That one's a copy of your press release. The other is a note delivered to the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills soon after the theft of the blue-tongued mango voles."

  Molly held both documents in her lap. "It looks like they were done on the same typewriter," she remarked.

  In the bedroom, Bud Schwartz slumped to his knees when he heard what Molly said. He thought: She's insane. She's crazy as a goddamn bedbug. We're all going to fail!

  Back in the living room, Molly was saying, "I'm no expert, but the typing looks very similar."

  If Agent Billy Hawkins was caught off guard, he masked it well.

  "You're right," he said without expression. "Both of these papers were typed on a Smith-Corona model XD 5500 electronic. We don't know yet if they came out of the same machine, but they were definitely done on the same model."

  Molly cheerfully took the half-empty teapot back to the kitchen. Hawkins heard a faucet running, the sound of silverware clanking in the sink. In the bedroom, Danny Pogue put his mouth to Bud Schwartz's ear and said: "What if she shoots him?"

  Bud Schwartz hadn't thought of that. Christ, she couldn't be that loony, to kill an FBI man in her own apartment! Unless she planned to pin it on a couple of dirtbag burglars in the bedroom....

  When Molly came bustling out again, Billy Hawkins said: "We've sent the originals to Washington. Hopefully they'll be able to say conclusively if it was the same typewriter."

  Molly sat down. "It's quite difficult to tell, isn't it? With these new electronic typewriters, I mean. The key strokes are not as distinct. I read that someplace."

  The FBI man smiled confidently. "Our lab is very, very good. Probably the best in the world."

  Molly McNamara took out a pale blue tissue and began to clean her eyeglasses: neat, circular swipes. "I suppose it's possible," she said, "that somebody in our little group has gotten carried away."

  "It's an emotional issue," agreed Billy Hawkins, "this animal-rights thing."

  "Still, I cannot believe any of the Mothers would commit a crime. I simply cannot believe they would steal those creatures."

  "Perhaps they hired somebody to do it."

  Hawkins went into the briefcase again and came out with a standard police mug shot. He handed it to Molly and said: "Buddy Micha
el Schwartz, a convicted felon. His pickup truck was seen leaving the Amazing Kingdom shortly after the theft. Two white males inside."

  Behind the bedroom door, Bud Schwartz steadied himself. His gut churned, his throat turned to chalk. Danny Pogue looked frozen and glassy-eyed, like a rabbit trapped in the diamond lane of 1-95. "Bud," he said. "Oh shit." Bud Schwartz clapped a hand over his partner's mouth.

  They could hear Molly saying, "He looks familiar, but I just can't be sure."

  The hair prickled on Bud Schwartz's arms. The old witch was going to drop the dime. Unbelievable.

  Agent Hawkins was saying, "Do you know him personally?"

  There was a pause that seemed to last five minutes. Molly nudged her eyeglasses up the bridge of her nose. She held the photograph near a lamp, and examined it from several angles.

  "No," she said finally. "He looks vaguely familiar, but I really can't place the face."

  "Do me a favor. Think about it."

  "Certainly," she said. "May I keep the picture?"

  "Sure. And think about the Wildlife Rescue Corps, too."

  Molly liked the way this fellow conducted an interview. He knew precisely how much to say without giving away the good stuff – and he certainly knew how to listen. He was a pro.

  "Talk to your friends," said Billy Hawkins. "See if they have any ideas."

  "You're putting me in a difficult position. These are fine people."

  "I'm sure they are." The FBI man stood up, straight as a flagpole. He said, "It would be helpful if I could borrow that Smith-Corona – the one that was used for your press announcements. And the ribbon cartridge as well."

  Molly said, "Oh dear."

  "I can get a warrant, Mrs. McNamara."

  "That's not it," she said. "You see, the typewriter's been stolen."

  Billy Hawkins didn't say anything.

  "Out of my car."

  "That's too bad," the agent said.

  "The trunk of my car," Molly added. "While I was grocery-shopping."

  She walked the FBI man to the front door. "Can I ask you something, Agent Hawkins? Are you fellows investigating the death of the killer whale, as well?"

  "Should we?"

  "I think so. It looks like a pattern, doesn't it? Terrible things are happening at that park." Molly looked at him over the tops of her glasses. He felt as if he were back in elementary school. She said, "I know the mango voles are important, but if I may make a suggestion?"

  "Sure," said Hawkins.

  "Your valuable time and talents would be better spent on a thorough investigation of the Falcon Trace resort. It's a cesspool down there, and Mr. Francis X. Kingsbury is the root of the cess. I trust the FBI is still interested in bribery and public corruption."

  "We consider it a priority."

  "Then you'll keep this in mind." Molly's eyes lost some of their sparkle. "They've up and bulldozed the whole place," she said. The trees, everything. It's a crime what they did. I drove by it this morning."

  For the first time Billy Hawkins heard a trembling in her voice. He handed her a card. "Anything solid, we'll look into it. And thank you very much for the tea."

  She held the door open. "You're a very polite young man," she said. "You renew my faith in authority."

  "We'll be talking soon," said Agent Hawkins.

  As soon as he was gone, Molly McNamara heard a whoop from the bedroom. She found Danny Pogue dancing a one-legged jig, ecstatic that he was not in federal custody. Bud Schwartz sat on the edge of the bed, nervously pounding his fist in a pillow.

  Danny Pogue took Molly by the arms and said: "You did good. You stayed cool!"

  Bud Schwartz said, "Cool's not the word for it." Molly handed him the mug shot. "Next time comb your hair," she said. "Now then – let's have a look at those files you boys borrowed from Mr. Kingsbury."

  Joe Winder took Nina's hand and led her down the trail. "You're gonna love this guy," he said.

  "What happened to the movie?"

  "Later," Winder said. There's a ten o'clock show." He hated going to the movies. Hated driving all the way up to Homestead.

  Nina said, "Don't you have a flashlight?"

  "We've got a good hour till dusk. Come on."

  "It's my night off," she said. "I wanted to go someplace."

  Winder pulled her along through the trees. "Just you wait," he said.

  They found Skink shirtless, skinning a raccoon at the campsite. He grunted when Joe Winder said hello. Nina wondered if the plastic collar around his neck was from a prison or some other institution. She stepped closer to get a look at the dead raccoon.

  "Import got him," Skink said, feeling her stare. "Up on 905 about two hours ago. Little guy's still warm."

  Winder cleared a spot for Nina to sit down. "How do you know it was a foreign car?" he asked. He truly was curious.

  "Low bumper broke his neck, that's how I know. Usually it's the tires that do the trick. That's because the rental companies prefer mid-sized American models. Fords and Chevy's. We get a ton of rentals up and down this stretch."

  He stripped the skin off the animal and laid it to one side. To Nina he said: "They call me Skink."

  She took a small breath. "I'm Nina. Joe said you were the governor of Florida."

  "Long time ago." Skink frowned at Winder. "No need to bring it up."

  The man's voice was a deep, gentle rumble. Nina wondered why the guys who phoned the sex line never sounded like that. She shivered and said: "Joe told me you just vanished. Got up and walked away from the job. It was in all the papers."

  "I'm sure. Did he also tell you that I knew his daddy?"

  "Ancient history," Winder cut in. "Nina, I wanted you to meet this guy because he saved my life the other night."

  Skink sliced the hindquarters off the dead raccoon and placed them side by side in a large fry pan. He said to Nina: "Don't believe a word of it, darling. The only reason he wanted you to meet me was so you'd understand."

  "Understand what?"

  "What's about to happen."

  Nina looked uncomfortable. With one hand she began twisting the ends of her hair into tiny braids.

  "Don't be nervous," Joe Winder said, touching her knee.

  "Well, what's he talking about?"

  Skink finished with the raccoon carcass and slopped the innards into a grocery bag, which he buried. After he got the fire going, he wiped his palms on the seat of his new canvas trousers, the ones he'd taken off Spearmint Breath. He watched, satisfied as the gray meat began to sizzle and darken in the fry pan.

  "I don't suppose you're hungry," Skink said.

  "We've got other plans." Nina was cordial but firm.

  Skink foraged through a rubble of old crates and lobster traps, mumbled, stomped into the woods. He came back carrying a dirty blue Igloo cooler. He took out three beers, opened one and gave the other two to Nina and Joe Winder.

  Before taking a drink, Nina wiped the top of the can on the sleeve of Winder's shirt. She touched a hand to her neck and said, "So what's with the collar?"

  "Telemetry." Skink pointed a finger at the sky. "Every week or so, a plane comes around."

  "They think he's a panther," Joe Winder explained. "See, it's a radio collar. He took it off a dead panther."

  Skink quickly added: "But I'm not the one who killed it. It was a liquor truck out of Marathon. Didn't even stop."

  Nina wasn't plugging in. After a pause she said, "Joe, don't forget about our movie."

  Winder nodded. Sometimes he felt they were oceans apart. "The panther's all but extinct," he said. "Maybe two dozen left alive. The Game and Fish Department uses radio collars to keep track of where they are."

  Skink drained his beer. "Two nights later, here comes the liquor truck again. Only this time he blows a tire on some barbed wire."

  "In the middle of the road?" Nina said.

  "Don't ask me how it got there. Anyway, I had a good long talk with the boy."

  Winder said, "Jesus, don't tell me."

&nbs
p; "Cat's blood was still on the headlights. Fur, too." Skink spat into the fire. "Cracker bastard didn't seem to care."

  "You didn't..."

  "No, nothing permanent. Nothing his insurance wouldn't cover."

  In her smoothest voice Nina asked, "Did you eat the panther, too?"

  "No, ma'am," said Skink. "I did not."

  The big cat was buried a half-mile up the trail, under brilliant bougainvilleas that Skink himself had planted. Joe Winder thought about showing Nina the place, but she didn't act interested. Darkness was settling in, and the mosquitoes had arrived by the billions. Nina slapped furiously at her bare arms and legs, while Joe Winder shook his head to keep the little bloodsuckers out of his ears.

  Skink said, "I got some goop if you want it. Great stuff." He held his arms out in the firelight. The left one was engulfed by black mosquitoes; the right one was untouched.

  "It's called EDTIAR," Skink said. "Extended Duration Topical Insect/Arthropod Repellent. I'm a field tester for the U.S. Marines; they pay me and everything." Studiously he began counting the bites on his left arm.

  Nina, on the shrill edge of misery, whacked a big fat arthropod on Joe Winder's cheek. "We've got to get going," she said.

  "They're nasty tonight," Skink said sympathetically. "I just took seventeen hits in thirty seconds."

  Winder himself was getting devoured. He stood up, flailing his own torso. The bugs were humming in his eyes, his mouth, his nostrils.

  "Joe, what's the point of all this?" Nina asked.

  "I'm waiting for him to tell me who killed Will Koocher."

  "Oh, for God's sake."

  Skink said, "We're in dangerous territory now."

  "I don't care," Winder said. "Tell me what happened. It had something to do with the mango voles, I'm sure."

  "Yes," said Skink.

  Nina announced that she was leaving. "I'm getting eaten alive, and we're going to miss the movie."

  "Screw the movie," said Joe Winder, perhaps too curtly.

  For Nina was suddenly gone – down the trail, through the woods. Snapping twigs and muffled imprecations divulged her path.

  "Call me Mr. Charm," Winder said.

  Skink chuckled. "You'd better go. This can wait."

  "I want to know more."