by Carl Hiassen
The trooper was saying Skink might've headed upstate. "This morning somebody shot up a Greyhound on the interstate outside Orlando. Sixty-seven Junior Realtors on their way to Epcot."
Panic at Disney World! Winder thought. Kingsbury will come in his pants.
"Nobody was hurt," Jim Tile said, "which leads me to believe it was you-know-who." He pried the plastic cap off his milkshake and spooned out the ice cream. "Eight rounds into a speeding bus and nobody even gets nicked. That's one hell of a decent shot."
Carrie said, "I'm assuming they didn't catch the culprit."
"Vanished without a trace," said the trooper. "If it's him, they'll never even find a footprint. He knows that area of the state very well."
Winder said it was a long way to go for a man with two fresh gunshot wounds.
Jim Tile shrugged. "I called Game and Fish. The panther plane hasn't picked up the radio signal for days."
"So he's really gone," Carrie said.
"Or hiding in a bomb shelter."
"Joe thinks we should go ahead and make a move. He's got a plan all worked out."
Jim Tile raised a hand. "Don't tell me, please. I don't want to hear it."
"Fair enough," Winder said, "but I've got to ask a small favor."
"The answer is no."
"But it's nothing illegal."
The trooper used the corner of a paper napkin to polish the lenses of his sunglasses. "This falls into the general category of pressing your luck. Just because the governor gets away, don't think it's easy. Or even right."
"Please," said Carrie, "just listen."
"What is it you want me to do?"
"Your job," Joe Winder replied. That's all."
Later, in the rental boat, Joe Winder said he almost felt sorry for Charles Chelsea. "Getting your sports celebrity shot with the press watching, that's tough."
Carrie Lanier agreed that Chelsea was earning his salary. She was at the helm of the outboard, expertly steering a course toward the ocean shore of North Key Largo. A young man named Oscar sat shirtless on the bow, dangling his brown legs and drinking a root beer.
Carrie told Joe he had some strange friends.
"Oscar thinks he owes me a favor, that's all. Years ago I left his name out of a newspaper article and it wound up saving his life."
Carrie looked, doubtful, but said nothing. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She wore amber sunglasses with green Day-Glo frames and a silver one-piece bathing suit. Oscar didn't stare, not even once. His mind was on business, and the soccer game he was missing on television. Most Thursdays he was on his way to Belize, only this morning there'd been a minor problem with Customs, and the flight was canceled. When Joe Winder called him at the warehouse, Oscar felt honor-bound to lend a hand.
"He thinks I cut him a break," Winder whispered to Carrie, "but the fact is, I did use his name in the story. It just got edited out for lack of space."
"What was the article about?"
"Gunrunning."
From the bow, Oscar turned and signaled that they were close enough now. Kneeling on the deck, he opened a canvas duffel and began to arrange odd steel parts on a chamois cloth. The first piece that Carrie saw was a long gray tube.
"Oscar's from Colombia," Joe Winder explained. "His brother's in the M-19. They're leftist rebels."
"Thank you, Professor Kissinger." Carrie smeared the bridge of her nose with mauve-colored zinc oxide. It was clear from her attitude that she had reservations about this phase of the plan.
She said, "What makes you think Kingsbury needs another warning? I mean, he's got the mob after him, Joe. Why should he care about a couple of John Deeres?"
"He's a developer. He"ll care." Winder leaned back and squinted at the sun. "Keep the pressure on, that's the key."
Carrie admired the swiftness with which Oscar went about his task. She said to Winder: "Tell me again what they call that."
"An RPG. Rocket-propelled grenade."
"And you're positive no one's going to get hurt?"
"It's lunch hour, Carrie. You heard the whistle." He took out a pair of waterproof Zeiss binoculars and scanned the shoreline until he found the stand of pigeon plums that Molly McNamara had told him about. The dreaded bulldozers had multiplied from two to five; they were parked in a semicircle, poised for the mission against the plum trees.
"Everybody's on their break," Winder reported. "Even the deputies." At the other end of the boat, Oscar assembled the grenade launcher in well-practiced silence.
Carrie cut the twin Evinrudes and let the currents nudge the boat over the grassy shallows. She took the field glasses and tried to spot the bird nest that Molly had mentioned. She couldn't see anything, the hardwoods were so dense.
"I'm not sure I understand the significance of this gesture," she said. "Mockingbirds aren't exactly endangered."
"These ones are." Winder peeled off his T-shirt and tied it around his forehead like a bandanna. The air stuck to his chest like a hot rag; the temperature on the water was ninety-four degrees, and no breeze. "You don't approve," he said to Carrie. "I can tell."
"What bothers me is the lack of imagination, Joe. You could be blowing up bulldozers the rest of your life."
The words stung, but she was right. Clever this was not, merely loud. "I'm sorry," he said, "but there wasn't time to come up with something more creative. The old lady said they were taking out the plum trees this afternoon, and it looks like she was right."
Oscar gave the okay sign from the bow. The boat had drifted close enough so they could hear the voices and lunchtime banter of the Falcon Trace construction crew.
"Which dozer you want?" Oscar inquired, raising the weapon to his shoulder.
"Take your pick."
"Joe, wait!" Carrie handed him the binoculars. "Over there, check it out."
Winder beamed when he spotted it. "Looks like they're pouring the slab for the clubhouse."
"That's a large cement mixer," Carrie noted.
"Sure is. A very large cement mixer." Joe Winder snapped his fingers and motioned to Oscar. Spying the new target, the young Colombian smiled broadly and readjusted his aim.
In a low voice Carrie said, "I take it he's done this sort of thing before."
"I believe so, yes."
Oscar grunted something in Spanish, then pulled the trigger. The RPG took out the cement truck quite nicely. An orange gout of flame shot forty feet into the sky, and warm gray gobs of cement rained down on the construction workers as they sprinted for their cars.
"See," Carrie said. "A little variety's always nice."
Joe Winder savored the smoky scent of chaos and wondered what his father would have thought. We all shine on.
That night Carrie banished him from the bedroom while she practiced her songs for the Jubilee. At first he listened in dreamy amazement at the door; her voice was crystalline, delicate, soothing. After a while Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue joined him in the hallway, and Carrie's singing seemed to soften their rough convict features. Danny Pogue lowered his eyes and began to hum along; Bud Schwartz lay on the wooden floor with hands behind his head and gazed at the high pine beams. Molly McNamara even unlocked the door to the adjoining bedroom so that Agent Billy Hawkins, gagged but alert, could enjoy the beautiful musical interlude.
Eventually Joe Winder excused himself and slipped downstairs to make a call. He went through three telephone temptresses before they switched him to Nina's line.
"I'm glad it's you," she said. "There's something you've got to hear."
"I'm honestly not in the mood – "
"This is different, Joe. It took three nights to write."
What could he possibly say? "Go ahead, Nina."
"Ready?" She was so excited. He heard the rustle of paper. Then she took a breath and began to read
"Your hands find me in the night, burrow for my warmth.
Lift me, turn me, move me apart.
The language of blind insistence,
You speak with a slo
w tongue on my belly,
An eyelash fluttering against my nipple.
This is the moment of raw cries and murmurs when
Nothing matters in the vacuum of passion
But passion itself."
He wasn't sure if she had finished. It sounded like a big ending, but he wasn't sure.
"Nina?"
"What do you think?"
"It's...vivid."
"Poetry. A brand-new concept in phone sex."
"Interesting." God, she's making a career of this.
"Did it arouse you?"
"Definitely," he said. "My loins surge in wild tumescence inside my jeans."
"Stop it, Joe!"
"I'm sorry. Really it's quite good." And maybe it was. He knew next to nothing about poetry.
"I wanted to try something different," Nina said, "something literate. A few of the girls complained – Miriam, of course. She's more comfortable with the old sucky-fucky."
"Well," Winder said, "it's all in the reading."
"My editor wants to see more."
"You have an editor?"
"For the syndication deal, Joe. What'd you think of the last part? Nothing matters in the vacuum of passion but passion itself."
He said, " 'Abyss' is better than 'vacuum.' "
The abyss of passion! You're right, Joe, that's much better."
"It's a long way from dry-humping on the Amtrak."
Nina laughed. He had almost forgotten how wonderful it sounded.
"So how was your hot date with The Voice?"
"It was very enjoyable. He's an exceptional man."
"What does he do?"
Without skipping a beat: "He markets General Motors products."
"Cars? He sells cars! That is exceptional."
Nina said, "I don't want to talk about this."
"Buicks? Pontiacs? Oldsmobiles? Or perhaps all three?"
"He is a surprisingly cultured man," Nina said. "An educated man. And it's Chevrolets, for your information. The light-truck division."
"Boy." Winder felt exhausted. First the poetry, now this. "Nina, I've got to ask. Does the face match the voice?"
"There's nothing wrong with the way he looks."
"Say no more."
"You can be such a prick," she observed.
"You're right. I'm sorry – again."
"He wants to marry me."
"Showing excellent taste," Winder said. "He'd be nuts if he didn't."
There was a brief pause, then Nina asked: "Are you the one who shot the golfer?"
"Nope. But I don't blame you for wondering."
"Please don't kill anybody, Joe. I know how strongly you feel about these issues, but please don't murder anyone."
"I'll try not to."
"Better sign off," she said. "I'm tying up the phone."
"Hey, I'm a paying customer."
"You really liked the poem?"
"It was terrific, Nina. I'm very proud."
He could tell she was pleased. "Any more suggestions?" she said.
"Well, the line about the nipple."
"Yes. An eyelash fluttering against my nipple."
"The imagery is nice," Winder said, "but it makes it sound like you've got just one. Nipple, I mean."
"Hmm," said Nina. "That's" a good point."
"Otherwise it's great."
"Thanks, Joe," she said. "Thanks for everything."
THIRTY-ONE
Joe Winder held Carrie in his arms and wondered why the women he loved were always a step or two ahead of him.
"So what are you planning?" he asked.
She stirred but didn't answer. Her cheek felt silky and warm against his chest. When would he ever learn to shut up and enjoy the moment?
"Carrie, I know you're not asleep."
Her eyes opened. Even in the darkness he could feel the liquid stare. "You're the only man I've ever been with," she said, "who insists on talking afterward."
"You inspire me, that's all."
"Aren't you exhausted?" She raised her head. "Was I hallucinating, or did we just fuck our brains out?"
Winder said, "I'm nervous as hell. I've been rehearsing it all in my head."
She told him to stop worrying and go to sleep. "What's the worst thing that could happen?"
"Jail is a distinct possibility. Death is another."
Carrie turned on her belly and slid between his legs. Then she propped her elbows on his rib cage, and rested her chin on her hands.
"What are you smiling at?" Winder said.
"It's all going to work out. I've got faith in you."
"But you're planning something, just the same."
"Joe, it might be my only chance."
"At what?"
"Singing. I mean really singing. Am I hurting you?"
"Oh, no, you're light as a feather."
"You asshole," she giggled, and began to tickle him ferociously. Winder locked his legs around her thighs and flipped her over in the sheets.
They were kissing when he felt compelled to pull back and say, "I'm sorry I dragged you into this mess."
"What mess? And, besides, you're doing the honest thing. Even if it's slightly mad."
"You're speaking of the major felonies?"
"Of course," Carrie said. "But your motives are absolutely pure and unassailable. I'll be cheering for you, Joe."
"Clinical insanity isn't out of the question," he said. "Just thinking about Kingsbury and that damn golf course, I get noises inside my skull."
"What kind of noises?"
"Hydraulic-type noises. Like the crusher on a garbage truck."
Carrie looked concerned, and he couldn't blame her. "It goes back to my old man," he said.
"Don't think about it so much, Joe."
"I'd feel better if the governor were here. Just knowing I wasn't the only lunatic – "
"I had a dream about him," she said quietly. "I dreamed he broke into prison and killed that guy – what's his name?"
"Mark Chapman," said Winder. "Mark David Chapman."
She heard sadness in the reply, sadness because she didn't remember the details. "Joe, I was only fourteen when it happened."
"You're right."
"Besides, I've always been lousy with names. Oswald, Sirhan, Hinkley – it's easy to lose track of these idiots."
"Sure is," Winder agreed.
Carrie tenderly laced her hands on the back of his neck. "Everything's going to be fine. And no, you're not crazy. A little zealous is all."
"It's not a bad plan," he said.
"Joe, it's a terrific plan."
"And if all goes well, you'll still have your job."
"No, I don't think so. I'm not much of a Seminole go-go dancer."
Now it was his turn to smile. "I take it there may be some last-minute changes in the musical program."
"Quite possibly," Carrie said.
He kissed her softly on the forehead. "I'll be cheering for you, too."
"I know you will, Joe."
As far as Bud Schwartz was concerned, he'd rather be in jail than in a hospital. Practically everyone he ever knew who died – his mother, his brother, his uncles, his first probation officer – had died in hospital beds. In fact, Bud Schwartz couldn't think of a single person who'd come out of a hospital in better shape than when they'd gone in.
"What about babies?" Danny Pogue said.
"Babies don't count."
"What about your boy? Mike, Jr., wasn't he borned in a hospital?"
"Matter of fact, no. It was the back of a Bronco. And his name is Bud, Jr., like I told you." Bud Schwartz rolled down the window and tried to spit the toothpick from the corner of his mouth. It landed on his arm. "A hospital's the last place for a sick person to go," he said.
"You think she'll die there?"
"No. I don't wanna set foot in the place is all."
"Jesus, you're a cold shit."
Bud Schwartz was startled by his partner's anger. Out of pure guilt he relented and agreed to g
o, but only for a few minutes. Danny Pogue seemed satisfied. "Let's get some roses on the way."
"Fine. A lovely gesture."
"Hey, it'll mean a lot to her."
"Danny, this is the same woman who shot us. And you're talking flowers."
Molly McNamara had driven herself to Baptist Hospital after experiencing mild chest pains. She had a private room with a gorgeous view of a parking deck.
When he saw her shriveled in the bed, Danny Pogue gulped desperately to suppress the tears. Bud Schwartz also was jarred by the sight – she looked strikingly pallid and frail. And small. He'd never thought of Molly McNamara as a small woman, but that's how she appeared in the hospital: small and caved-in. Maybe because all that glorious white hair was stuffed under a paper cap.
"The flowers are splendid," she said, lifting the thin plastic tube that fed extra oxygen to her nostrils.
Danny Pogue positioned the vase on the bedstand, next to the telephone. "American Beauty roses," he said.
"So I see."
The burglars stood on opposite sides of the bed. Molly reached out and held their hands.
She said, "A touch of angina, that's all. I'll be as good as new in a few days."
Danny Pogue wondered if angina was contagious; it sounded faintly sexual. "The house is fine," he said. "The disposal jammed this morning, but I fixed it myself."
"A spatula got stuck," Bud Schwartz added. "Don't ask how."
Molly said, "How is Agent Hawkins?"
"Same as ever."
"Are you feeding him?"
"Three times a day, just like you told us."
"Are his spirits improved?"
"Hard to tell," Bud Schwartz said. "He don't talk much with all that tape on his face."
"I heard about the golfer being shot," said Molly. "Mr. Kingsbury's had quite a run of bad luck, wouldn't you say?" She asked the question with a trace of a smile. Danny Pogue glanced down at his shoes.
To change the subject, Bud Schwartz asked if there was a cafeteria in the hospital. "I could sure use a Coke."
"Make that two," said Danny Pogue. "And a lemonade for Molly."
"Yes, that would hit the spot. Or maybe a ginger ale, something carbonated." She patted Danny Pogue's hand. Again he looked as if he were about to weep.