Native Tongue Part 13

"Jesus Christ. And here he is, out of the slammer already."

"Yeah," said Jim Tile. "Modeling neckwear."

Bud Schwartz had been a two-bit burglar since he was seventeen years old. He was neither proud of it nor ashamed. It was what he did, period. It suited his talents. Whenever his mother gave him a hard time about getting an honest job, Bud Schwartz reminded her that he was the only one of her three children who was not in psychoa.n.a.lysis. His sister was a lawyer and his brother was a stockbroker, and both of them were miserably f.u.c.ked up. Bud Schwartz was a crook, sure, but at least he was at peace with himself.

He considered himself a competent burglar who was swift, thorough and usually cautious. The times he'd been caughta"five in alla"these were flukes. A Rottweiler that wasn't in the yard the night before. A nosy neighbor, watering her begonias at three in the G.o.dd.a.m.n morning. A getaway car with bad plugs. That sort of thing. Occupational hazards, in Bud Schwartz's opiniona"plain old lousy luck.

Normally he was a conservative guy who played the odds and didn't like unnecessary risks. Why he ever accepted the rat-napping job from Molly McNamara, he couldn't figure. Broad daylight, thousands of people, the middle of a f.u.c.king theme park. Jesus! Maybe he did it just to break the monotony. Or maybe because ten grand was ten grand.

Definitely a score. In his entire professional burgling career, Bud Schwartz had never stolen anything worth ten thousand dollars. The one time he'd pinched a Rolex Oyster, it turned out to be fake. Another time he got three diamond rings from a hotel room on Key Biscaynea"a big-time movie actress, tooa"and the fence informed him it was all zircon. f.u.c.king paste. Or so said the fence.

Who could blame him for saying yes to Molly McNamara, or at least checking it out? So when he gets out of jail, he rounds up Danny Poguea"Danny, who's really nothing but a pair of hands; somebody you drag along to help carry the s.h.i.t to the car. But reliable, as far as that goes. Not really smart enough to pull anything.

So together they meet the old lady once, twice. Get directions, instructions. Go over the whole d.a.m.n thing until they're bored to tears, except for the part about what to do with the voles. Bud Schwartz had a.s.sumed the whole point was to free the d.a.m.n things, the way Molly talked. "Liberate" was the word she'd used. Of course, if he'd known then what he knew now, he wouldn't have chucked that one little rat into the red convertible. If he'd known there were only two of the d.a.m.n things left on the whole entire planet, he wouldn't ever have let Danny take a throw at the Winnebago.

Now the voles were gone, and Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue were nursing their respective gunshot wounds in the old lady's apartment.

Watching a slide show about endangered species.

"This formidable fellow," Molly McNamara was saying, "is the North American crocodile."

Danny Pogue said, "Looks like a gator."

"No, it's a different animal entirely," said Molly. "There's only a few dozen left in the wild."

"So what?" said Danny Pogue. "You got tons of gators. So many they went and opened a hunting season. I can't see getting' all worked up about crocodiles dyin" off, not when they got a season on gators. It don't make sense."

Molly said, "You're missing the point."

"He can't help it," said Bud Schwartz. "Just go on to the next slide."

Molly clicked the remote. "This is the Schaus' swallowtail b.u.t.terfly."

"Now that's pretty," said Danny Pogue. "I can see wanting to save somethin" like that. Isn't that a pretty b.u.t.terfly, Bud?"

"Beautiful," said Bud Schwartz. "Really gorgeous. Next?"

Molly asked why he was in such a hurry.

"No reason," he replied.

Danny Pogue snickered. "Maybe 'cause there's a movie he wants to see on cable."

"Really?" Molly said. "Bud, you should've told me. We can always continue the orientation tomorrow."

"That's okay," Bud Schwartz said. "Go on with the program."

"Amazon Cheerleaders," said Danny Pogue. "We seen the ending the other night."

Molly said, "I don't believe I've heard of that one."

"Get on with the slides," said Bud Schwartz gloomily. Of all the partners he'd ever had, Danny Pogue was turning out to be the dumbest by a mile.

A picture of something called a Key Largo wood rat appeared on the slide screen, and Danny exclaimed: "Hey, it looks just like one a them voles!"

"Not really," said Molly McNamara patiently. "This hardy little fellow is one of five endangered species native to the North Key Largo habitat." She went on to explain the uniqueness of the islanda"hardwood hammocks, brackish lakes and acres of precious mangroves. And, only a few miles offsh.o.r.e, the only living coral reef in North America. "Truly a tropical paradise," said Molly McNamara, "which is why it's worth fighting for."

As she clicked through the rest of the slides, Bud Schwartz was thinking: How hard would it be to overpower the old bat and escape? Two grown men with six functional limbs, come on. Just grab the frigging purse, take the guna"what could she do?

The trouble was, Bud Schwartz wasn't fond of guns. He didn't mind stealing them, but he'd never pointed one at anybody, never fired one, even at a tin can. Getting shot by Molly McNamara had only reinforced his view that guns were a tool for the deranged. He knew the law, and the law smiled on harmless unarmed house burglars. A burglar with a gun wasn't a burglar anymore, he was a robber. Not only did robbers get harder time, but the accommodations were markedly inferior. Bud Schwartz had never been up to Raiford but he had a feeling he wouldn't like it. He also had a hunch that if push came to shove, Danny Pogue would roll over like a big dumb puppy. Do whatever the cops wanted, including testify.

Bud Schwartz decided he needed more time to think.

A new slide came up on the screen and he told Molly McNamara to wait a second. "Is that an endangered species, too?" he asked.

"Unfortunately not," Molly said. That's Francis X. Kingsbury, the man who's destroying the island."

Danny Pogue lifted his chin out of his hands and said, "Yeah? How?"

"Mr. Kingsbury is the founder and chief executive officer of the Amazing Kingdom of Thrillsa"the so-called amus.e.m.e.nt park you boys raided the other day. It's a tourist trap, plain and simple. It brings traffic, garbage, litter, air pollution, effluenta"Kingsbury cares nothing about preserving the habitat. He's a developer."

The word came out as an epithet.

Bud Schwartz studied the jowly middle-aged face on the screen. Kingsbury was smiling, and you could tell it was killing him. His nose was so large that it seemed three-dimensional, a huge mottled tuber of some kind, looming out of the wall.

"Public enemy number one," said Molly. She glared at the picture on the screen. "Yes, indeed. The park is only a smokescreen. We've got reason to believe that Mr. Kingsbury holds the majority interest in a new golfing resort called Falcon Trace, which abuts the Amazing Kingdom. We have reason to believe that Kingsbury's intention is to eventually bulldoze every square inch of ocean waterfront. You know what that means?"

Danny Pogue pursed his lips. Bud Schwartz said nothing; he was trying to guess where the old coot was heading with this.

Molly said, "It means no more crocodiles, no more wood rats, no more swallowtail b.u.t.terflies."

"No more b.u.t.terflies?" Danny Pogue looked at her with genuine alarm. "What kinda b.a.s.t.a.r.d would do something like that?"

"This kind," said Molly, aiming a stern papery finger at the screen.

"But we can stop him, right?" Bud Schwartz was smiling.

"You can help, yes."

"How?" Danny Pogue demanded. "What do we do?"

Molly said, "I need to know the full extent of Mr. Kingsbury's financial involvementa"you see, there are legal avenues we could pursue, if only we knew." She flicked off the slide projector and turned on a pair of bra.s.s table lamps. "Unfortunately," she said, "Mr. Kingsbury is a very secretive man. Every doc.u.ment we've gotten, we've had to sue for. He is extremely wealthy and hires only the finest attorneys."

From his expression it was clear that Danny Pogue was struggling to keep up. "Go on," he said.

Bud Schwartz inhaled audibly, a reverse sigh. "Danny, we're burglars, remember? What do burglars do?"

Danny Pogue glanced at Molly McNamara, who said, "Your partner's got the right idea."

"Wait a second," said Danny Pogue. "More voles?"

"Jesus Christ, no," Bud Schwartz said. "No more voles."

By now he was planning ahead again, feeling better about his prospects. He was wondering about Francis X. Kingsbury's money, and thinking what a shame that a bunch of greedy lawyers should get so much of it, all for themselves.

TEN.

Nina didn't believe him, not for a second.

"You were drinking. You opened your big fat mouth and somebody smacked you."

"No," Joe Winder said. "That's not what happened."

Well, the truth would only frighten her. He sat up and squinted brutally at the sunlight.

"I'm so disappointed in you," Nina said. She studied the bruises on his face, and not out of concern; she was looking for clues.

"I wasn't drinking," said Joe Winder. That much he had to a.s.sert, out of pride. "They were muggers, that's all."

Nina pointed to his wallet, which was on the dresser. "Muggers, Joe? Some muggers."

"A car scared them off."

She rolled her eyes. "You're only making it worse."

"What happened to trust?" Winder said. "What happened to true G.o.dd.a.m.n love?" He got out of bed and tested his legs. Nina watched reproachfully.

"I smell perfume," she said. "Did you bring a woman home last night?"

"No, a woman brought me. She saw me on Card Sound Road and wanted to go to the police. I told her to bring me here so I could be with the love of my life."

"Did you screw her?"

"Only six or seven times." He went to the bathroom and stuck his face under the shower and screamed at the top of his lungs, it hurt so bad. He screamed until his ears reverberated. Then he came out, dripping, and said: "Nina, be reasonable. Who'd make love with me, looking like this?"

"Not me."

"Not anybody. Besides, I was half blind. I probably would've stuck it in her ear by mistake."

Nina smiled. Finally.

Winder asked her who'd called so d.a.m.n early. The phone is what woke him up.

"Your employer, Mr. Charles Chelsea. He wanted you to know there was a dead person hanging from the bridge this morning."

Joe Winder shuffled back to the shower. This time he stepped all the way in and braced his forehead against the tile. He made the water as hot as he could bear. Maybe the dead man was Angel, he thought, or maybe it was the big guy who'd saved him from Angel.

When Winder got out, Nina stood poised with a towel in her hand. She wore a white halter top and no panties. Winder took the towel and draped it over his head.

"Why do you do this to me," he mumbled.

"Did you hear what I said? About the dead man?" She peeled off the halter and climbed in the shower. "Did you save me some hot water? I've got to shave my legs." She turned the faucet handles and cursed the cold.

"Sorry," said Joe Winder. Raising his voice over the beating of the water: "So why is Chelsea calling me, just because there's some dead guy? The bridge is five miles from the Kingdom."

Nina didn't answer; just filed the question away and kept on shaving. Joe Winder sat down on the toilet and watched the fixtures fog up. Plenty of hot water, he thought; no problem.

When she came out, he remarked how beautiful she looked. "Like a sleek arctic seal."

"Oh stop it."

"Don't dry off, please. Don't ever dry off."

"Get your hand away from there." Nina slapped him sharply. "Put your clothes on. Chelsea's waiting at the office."

Joe Winder said, "I'm phoning in sick."

"No, you're not. You can't." She wrapped the towel around her hair and left the rest bare. "He wasn't calling about the dead person on the bridge, he was calling about the whale."

"Orky?"

Nina opened the bathroom door to let out the steamy humidity. Joe Winder impulsively clutched her around the waist. He pressed his cheek against her damp thigh, and began to hum the tune of "Poor Pitiful Me." Nina pried him loose and said, "I'm glad you don't get beat up every day."

Something was out of alignment in Winder's brain. He blinked three or four times, slowly, but even as the steam cleared it didn't go away. Double vision! The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds had pounded him that badly. Nina's bare bottom appeared to him as four gleaming porcelain orbs.

Distractedly, he said, "Go on. Something about the whale?"

"Yes," said Nina. She stood before the mirror, checking her armpits for stubble. "Chelsea said the whale is dead."

"Hmmm," said Joe Winder. Orky the Killer Whale.

"And?" he said.

"And, I don't know." Nina stepped into her panties. "He said for you to come right away. He said it was an emergency."

"First let's go to bed." Winder came up behind her. In the mirror he saw two pairs of hands cupping two pairs of nipples. He saw two faces that looked just like hisa"lumpy, lacerated, empurpleda"nuzzling the tan silky slopes of two feminine necks.

"All right, Joe," Nina said, turning around. "But I've got to be honest: I'm very disappointed in youa""

"It wasn't what you think."

"a"and I'm only doing this because you're in pain." Mechanically Nina took his hand and led him toward the bed. She kicked off her underwear and unwrapped the towel from her hair. Winder was grinning like an idiot.