Native Tongue Part 14

"I'm warning you," Nina said, "this isn't an act of pa.s.sion, it's an act of pity."

"I'll take it," said Joe Winder. "But, please, no more talking for a while."

"All right," she said. "No more talking."

Orky the Killer Whale had come to the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills under clouded circ.u.mstances. His true name (or the name bestowed by his human captors off the coast of British Columbia) was Samson. Delivered in a drugged stupor to a north California marine park, he was measured at twenty-nine feet and seven inches, a robust male example of the species orca. Samson was larger than the other tame killer whales in the tank, and proved considerably more recalcitrant and unpredictable. In his first six months of captivity he mauled two trained porpoises and chomped the tail off a popular sea lion named Mr. Mugsy. Trainers worked overtime trying to teach their new star the most rudimentary of whale tricksa"leaping through a plastic hoop, or s.n.a.t.c.hing a dead mackerel from the fingers of a pretty modela"with minimal success. One day he would perform like a champ, the next he would sink to the bottom of the tank and fart belligerently, launching balloon-sized bubbles of fishy gas to the surface. The audience seldom found this entertaining. Eventually most of the seasoned whale trainers refused to enter the water with Samson. Those who tried to ride his immense black dorsal were either whiplashed or pretzeled or corkscrewed into semi consciousness.

Quite by accident, it was discovered that Samson was enraged by the color green. This became evident on the day that the human trainers switched to vivid Kelly-green tank suits without telling the other performing mammals. Samson was supposed to open the first show by fetching an inflatable topless mermaid and gaily delivering it to a young man on a ladder, in exchange for a fistful of smelts. On this particular morning, Samson retrieved the toy, carried it across the water on his snout, flipped it into the bleachers, s.n.a.t.c.hed the green-clad trainer off the ladder, flipped him into the bleachers, then dived to the bottom of the tank and began to pa.s.s gas relentlessly. Each time somebody tried to lure him up, Samson shot from the depths with his mouth open, the great black-and-white jaws clacking like a truck door. The crowd loved it. They thought it was part of the act.

Reluctantly the curators of the California marine park concluded that this whale was one dangerous rogue. They attempted to peddle him to another marine park, far away on the western coast of Florida, but first they changed his name to Ramu. The transaction took place at a time when ocean-theme parks around the country were reporting various troubles with trained killer whales, and animal-rights groups were seeking legislation to prevent capturing them for exhibit. Word of Samson's behavioral quirks had spread throughout the marine-park industry, which is why it was necessary to change his name before trying to sell him.

The day the deal was done, Samson was tranquilized, lashed to a canvas litter and placed aboard a chartered Sikorsky helicopter. There workers took turns sponging him with salt water during the arduous cross-country flight, which lasted seventeen hours, including stops for refueling. By the time Samson arrived in Sarasota, he was in a vile and vindictive mood. During his first fifteen minutes in the new tank, he savagely foreshortened a pectoral fin on another male orca and destroyed the floating basket through which he was supposed to slam-dunk beach b.a.l.l.s. Weeks pa.s.sed with little improvement in the new whale's temperament. One fateful Sunday, the animal abruptly awakened from its funk, tail-walked across the tank and did a dazzling double somersault before hundreds of delighted tourists. When a stubby woman in a green plaid sundress leaned too close with her Nikon, the whale seized her in his teeth, dragged her once around the tank, then spit her out like an olive pit.

It was then that Samson's new owners realized that they had been duped; they'd bought themselves a b.u.m whale. Ramu was in fact the infamous and incorrigible Samson. Immediately the beast was quarantined as a repeat offender, while the Sarasota theme park made plans to resell him under the misleadingly gentle name of Orky.

Francis X. Kingsbury was the ideal chump. The soon-to-be-opened Amazing Kingdom of Thrills was shopping for a major ocean attraction to compete with Disney World's "living reef." Kingsbury saw the Orky offer as a bargain of a lifetimea"a trained killer whale for only nine hundred bucks, plus freight! Kingsbury snapped at it.

Orky was more than a disappointment, he was a dud. No one at the Amazing Kingdom could train the whale to do a single trick on cue; capable of wondrous gymnastic feats, the animal remained oblivious of regimen and performed only when he d.a.m.n well felt like it. Often he did his best work in the middle of the night, when the stadium was empty. But on those nocturnal occasions, when the park was closed and there was no one to reward him with buckets of dead mullet, Orky furiously would ram the sides of the whale tank until the Plexiglas cracked and the plaster buckled.

Because it was impossible to predict his moods, Orky's shows were not posted in a regular schedule. Tourists paid their money, took their seats and hoped for the best. Once in a great while, the killer whale would explode in exuberant ballet, but more often he just sulked or blew water aimlessly.

One time Francis X. Kingsbury had suggested punishing the mammoth creature by withholding supper. Orky retaliated by breaking into the pelican pool and wolfing down nine of the slow-moving birds. After that, Kingsbury said to h.e.l.l with the G.o.dd.a.m.n whale and gave up on training the beast. He knew he'd been scammed but was too proud to admit it. Kingsbury's corporate underlings sensed that Orky was a sore spot with the boss, and avoided mentioning the whale exhibit in his presence.

Until today.

With Orky unexpectedly dead, the subject was bound to come up. Charles Chelsea decided on a pre-emptive strike. He broke the news as Francis Kingsbury was munching his regular breakfast bagel. "Good," Kingsbury said, spraying crumbs. "Hated that f.u.c.king load."

"Sir, it's not good," said Charles Chelsea, "publicity-wise."

"How do you figure," Kingsbury said. "I mean, s.h.i.t, what's a lousy whale to these people. You know who I meana"the media."

Charles Chelsea said he would try to explain it on the way to the autopsy.

Joe Winder's vision returned to normal after making love to Nina; he regarded this as providential. He took a cab to Card Sound Road and retrieved his car. When he got back to the apartment, he changed to a long-sleeved shirt, charcoal trousers and a navy necktie, in the hope that high fashion would divert attention from his pulverized face. When he got to the Amazing Kingdom, he saw he had nothing to worry about. Everybody was staring at the dead killer whale.

They had hauled the remains to one of the parking lots, and roped a perimeter to keep out nosy customers. To conceal Orky's corpse, which was as large as a boxcar, Charles Chelsea had rented an immense tent from an auto dealership in Homestead. The tent was brilliantly striped and decorated with the legend "SOUTH FLORIDA TOYOTA-THON." A dozen or so electric fans had been requisitioned to circulate the air, which had grown heavy with the tang of dead whale. The staff veterinarian, a man named Kukor, was up to his knees in Orky's abdomen when Joe Winder arrived.

"Joe, thank G.o.d," said Chelsea, with an air of grave urgency. He led Winder to a corner and said, "Mr. X is here, to give you some idea."

"Some idea of what?"

"Of how serious this is."

Joe Winder said, "Charlie, I don't mean to be disrespectful but I'm not sure why I'm needed." Over his shoulder, he heard somebody crank up a chain saw.

"Joey, think! First the d.a.m.n mango voles and now Orky. It's gonna look like we're neglecting the wildlife. And this whole killer-whale thing, it's gotten very controversial. There was a piece in Newsweek three weeks ago." Charles Chelsea was sweating extravagantly, and Winder a.s.sumed it had something to do with the presence of Francis X. Kingsbury.

Chelsea went on, "I know it's unpleasant, Joe, but you can leave as soon as Doc Kukor gives us a cause of death."

Joe Winder nodded. "How many words?"

"Three hundred. And I need it for the early news."

"Fine, Charlie. Later you and I need to talk."

Chelsea was peering through the flaps in the tent, making sure that no gawkers had sneaked past the security men.

"Listen to me," Joe Winder said. "There's some big trouble in this park. I got the s.h.i.t kicked out of me last night because of it."

For the first time Chelsea noticed the battered condition of Joe Winder's face. He said, "What the h.e.l.l happened? No, wait, not now. Not with Mr. X around. We'll chat later, I promise."

Winder grabbed his elbow. "I need to know everything about the dead man at the bridge."

Chelsea shook free and said, "Later, Joe, for heaven's sake. Let's tackle the crisis at hand, shall we?"

Together they returned to the autopsy. Instead of concentrating on Orky's entrails, Joe Winder scanned the small group of official observers: a state wildlife officer, taking notes; the tow-truck drivers who had hauled the whale corpse to the tent; three of Uncle Ely's Elves, apparently recruited as extra manpower; and Francis X. Kingsbury himself, mouthing obscenities over the gruesome ceremony.

Nervously Chelsea directed Joe Winder to Kingsbury's side and introduced him. "This is the fellow I told you about," said the PR man.. "Our ace in the hole."

Kingsbury chuckled darkly. "Blame us for this? Some f.u.c.king fish croaks, how can they blame us?"

Joe Winder shrugged. "Why not?" he said.

Cutting in quickly, Chelsea said: "Don't worry, sir, it'll die down. It's just the crazy pro-animal types, that's all." He planted a moist hand on Winder's shoulder. "Joe's got the perfect touch for this."

"Hope so," said Francis X. Kingsbury. "Meanwhile, the stink, holy Christ! Don't we have some Glade. I mean, this is f.u.c.king rank."

"Right away," said Chelsea, dashing off in search of air freshener.

Kingsbury gestured at the billowing tent, the murmuring onlookers, the husk of deceased behemoth. "You believe this s.h.i.t?" he said to Joe Winder. "I'm a G.o.dd.a.m.n real-estate man is all. I don't know from animals."

"It's a tricky business," Winder agreed.

"Who'd believe it, I mean, looking at this thing."

It was quite a strange scene, Joe Winder had to admit. "I'm sure they can find a new whale for the show."

"This time mechanical," Kingsbury said, jabbing a finger at Orky's lifeless form. "No more real ones. Computerized, that'd be the way to go. That's how Disney would handle it, eh?"

"Either that or a hologram," said Joe Winder with a wink. "Think of all the money you'd save on whale food."

Just then Dr. Kukor, the veterinarian, tripped on something and fell down inside Orky's closet-sized stomach cavity. Two of Uncle Ely's Elves bravely charged forward to help, hoisting the doctor to his feet.

"Oh my," Kukor said, pointing. The elves ran away frantically, their huge curly-toed shoes slapping noisily on the blood-slickened asphalt.

"What?" barked Francis X. Kingsbury. "What is it?"

"I don't believe this," said the veterinarian.

Kingsbury stepped forward to see for himself and Joe Winder followed, though he was sorry he did.

"Call somebody," wheezed Dr. Kukor.

"Looks like a human," Kingsbury remarked. He turned to stare at Winder because Winder was clinging to his arm. "Don't puke on me or you're fired," said Kingsbury.

Joe Winder was trying not to pa.s.s out. The corpse wasn't in perfect condition, but you could tell who it was.

A wan and shaky Dr. Kukor stepped out of Orky's excavated carca.s.s. "Asphyxiation," he declared numbly. "The whale choked to death."

"Well, d.a.m.n," said Francis X. Kingsbury.

Joe Winder thought: Choked to death on Will Koocher. Koocher, in a mint-green golf shirt.

"Somebody call somebody," Kukor said. "This is way out of my field."

Winder reeled away from the scene. In a croaky voice he said, "That's the worst thing I ever saw."

"You?" Kingsbury laughed harshly. Three f.u.c.king tons of whale meat, talk about a nightmare."

"Yes," Joe Winder said, gasping for fresh air.

"I'm thinking South Korea or maybe the Sudan," Kingsbury was saying. "Stamp it 'Tuna,' who the h.e.l.l would ever know? Those little f.u.c.kers are starving."

"What?" said Winder. "What did you say?"

"Providing I can get some G.o.dd.a.m.n ice, p.r.o.nto."

ELEVEN.

Charles Chelsea decreed that there should be no mention of Dr. Will Koocher in the press release. "Stick to Orky," he advised Joe Winder. "Three hundred words max."

"You're asking me to lie."

"No, I'm asking you to omit a few superfluous details. The whale died suddenly overnight, scientists are investigating, blah, blah, blah. Oh, and be sure to include a line that Mr. Francis X. Kingsbury is shocked and saddened." Chelsea paused, put a finger to his chin. "Scratch the 'shocked,' he said. " 'Saddened' is plenty. "Shocked" makes it sound like something, I don't know, somethinga""

"Out of the ordinary?" said Joe Winder.

"Right. Exactly."

"Charlie, you are one sorry bucket of puss."

Chelsea steepled his hands on his chest. Then he unfolded them. Then he folded them once more and said, "Joe, this is a question of privacy, not censorship. Until Dr. Koocher's wife is officially notified, the least we can do is spare her the agony of hearing about it on the evening news."

For a moment, Winder saw two Charles Chelseas instead of one. Somewhere in the cacophonous gearbox of his brain, he heard the hiss of a petc.o.c.k, blowing off steam. "Charlie," he said blankly, "the man was eaten by a f.u.c.king thirty-foot leviathan. This isn't going to remain our little secret very long."

Chelsea's brow wrinkled. "Eventually, yes, I suppose we'll have to make some sort of public statement. Seeing as it was our whale."

Joe Winder leaned forward on one elbow. "Charlie, I'm going to be honest."

"I appreciate that."

"Very soon I intend to kick the living s.h.i.t out of you."

Chelsea stiffened. He shifted in his chair. "I don't know what to make of a remark like that."

Joe Winder imagined his eyeb.a.l.l.s pulsating in the sockets, as if jolted by a hot wire.

Charles Chelsea said, "You mean, punch me? Actually punch me?"

"Repeatedly," said Winder, "until you are no longer conscious."

The publicity man's voice was plaintive, but it held no fear. "Do you know what kind of day I've had? I've dealt with two dead bodiesa"first the man on the bridge, and now the vole doctor. Plus I've been up to my knees in whale guts. I'm drained, Joe, physically and emotionally drained. But if it makes you feel better to beat me up, go ahead."

Joe Winder said he was a reasonable man. He said he would reconsider the beating if Charles Chelsea would show him the suicide note allegedly written by Dr. Will Koocher.

Chelsea unlocked a file drawer and took out a sheet of paper with block printing on it. "It's only a Xerox," he said, handing it to Winder, "but still it breaks your heart."

It was one of the lamest suicide notes that Joe Winder had ever seen. In large letters it said: "TO MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY,.

I SORRY BUT I CAN'T GO ON. NOW THAT MY WORKS IS OVER, SO AM I.".

The name signed at the bottom was "William Bennett Koocher, PhD."

Winder stuffed the Xerox copy in his pocket and said, "This is a fake."

"I know what you're thinking, Joey, but it wasn't only the voles that got him down. There were problems at home, if you know what I mean."

"My goodness." Winder whistled. "Problems at home. I had no idea."

Chelsea continued: "And I know what else you're thinking. Why would anybody kill himself in this...extreme fashion? Jumping in a whale tank and all."

"It struck me as a bit unorthodox, yes."

"Well, me too," said Chelsea, regaining some of his starch, "until I remembered that Koocher couldn't swim a lick. More to the point, he was deathly afraid of sharks. It's not so surprising that he chose to drown himself here, indoors, rather than the ocean."

"And the green shirt?"

"Obviously he wasn't aware of Orky's, ah, problem."

Joe Winder blinked vigorously in an effort to clear his vision. He said, "The man's spine was snapped like a twig."

"I am told," said Charles Chelsea, "that it's not as bad as it appears. Very quick, and nearly painless." He took out a handkerchief and discreetly dried the palms of his hands. "Not everyone has the stomach for using a gun," he said. "Myself, I'd swallow a bottle of roach dust before I'd resort to violence. But, anyway, I was thinking: Maybe this was Koocher's way of joining the lost voles. A symbolic surrender to Nature, if you will. Sacrificing himself to the whale."