Native Tongue Part 42

"Too bad we're not stealin" anything," Bud Schwartz mused.

"Want to?" said his partner. "Just for old times" sake."

"What's the point?"

"I saw one of the kids has a CD player."

"Wow," said Bud Schwartz acidly. "What's that, like, thirty bucks. Maybe forty?"

"No, man, it's a Sony."

"Forget it. Now gimme the papers."

In captivity Billy Hawkins had agreed to notify his family that he was out of town on a top-secret a.s.signment. However, the agent had displayed a growing reluctance to call the FBI office and lie about being sick. To motivate him, Molly McNamara had composed a series of cryptic notes and murky correspondence suggesting that Hawkins was not the most loyal of government servants. Prominently included in the odd jottings were the telephone numbers of the Soviet Emba.s.sy and the Cuban Special Interest Section in Washington, D.C. For good measure, Molly had included a bank slip showing a suspicious $25,000 deposit to Agent Billy Hawkins's personal savings accounta"a deposit that Molly herself had made at the South Miami branch of Unity National Savings & Loan. The purpose of these maneuvers was to create a shady portfolio that, despite its sloppiness, Billy Hawkins would not wish to try to explain to his colleagues at the FBI.

Who would definitely come to the house in search of clues, if Agent Hawkins failed to check in.

Molly McNamara had entrusted the bank receipt, phone numbers and other manufactured evidence to Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue, whose mission was to conceal the material in a semi-obvious location in Billy Hawkins's bedroom.

Bud Schwartz chose the second drawer of the night-stand. He placed the envelope under two unopened boxes of condoms. "Raspberry-colored," he marveled. "FBI man uses raspberry rubbers!" Another stereotype shattered.

Danny Pogue was admiring a twelve-inch portable television as if it were a rare artifact. "Jesus, Bud, you won't believe this."

"Don't tell me it's a black-and-white."

"Yep. You know the last time I saw one?"

"Little Havana," said Bud Schwartz, "that duplex off Twelfth Avenue. I remember."

"Remember what we got for it."

"Yeah. Thirteen G.o.dd.a.m.n dollars." The fence was a man named Fat Jack on Seventy-ninth Street, near the Boulevard. Bud Schwartz couldn't stand Fat Jack not only because he was cheap but because he smelled like dirty socks. One day Bud Schwartz had boosted a case of Ban Extra Dry Roll-on Deodorant sticks from the back of a Publix truck, and given it to Fat Jack as a hint. Fat Jack had handed him eight bucks and said that n.o.body should ever use roll-ons because they cause cancer of the armpits.

"I don't get it," said Danny Pogue. "I thought the FBI paid big bucksa"what's a baby Magnavox go for, two hundred retail? You'd think he could spring for color."

"Who knows, maybe he spends it all on clothes. Come on, let's take off." Bud Schwartz wanted to be long gone before the mailman arrived and noticed what had happened to the front door.

Danny Pogue turned on the portable TV and said, "That's not a bad picture." The noon news was just starting.

"I said let's go, Danny."

"Wait, look at this!"

A video clip showed a heavyset man in golf shoes being hoisted on a stretcher. The man's shirt was drenched in blood, but his eyelids were half open. A plastic oxygen mask covered the man's face and nose, but the jaw moved as if he were trying to speak. The newscaster reported that the shooting had taken place at a new resort development called Falcon Trace, near Key Largo.

"Lou! He did it!" exclaimed Danny Pogue. "You were right."

"Only trouble is, that ain't Mr. Kingsbury."

"You sure?"

Bud Schwartz sat down in front of the television. The anchorman had tossed the sniper story to a sportscaster, who was somberly recounting the stellar career of Jake Harp. The golfer's photograph, taken in happier times, popped up on a wide green mat behind the sports desk.

Danny Pogue said, "Who the h.e.l.l's that?"

"Not Kingsbury," grunted Bud Schwartz. The mishap confirmed his worst doubts about Lou's qualifications as a hit man. It was unbelievable. The a.s.shole had managed to shoot the wrong guy.

"Know what?" said Danny Pogue. "There's a Jake Harp Cadillac in Boca Raton where I swiped a bunch of tape decks once. Is that the same guy? This golfer?"

Bud Schwartz said, "I got no earthly idea." What was all this c.r.a.p the TV guy was yakking abouta"career earnings, number of Top Ten finishes, average strokes per round, percentage of greens. .h.i.t in regulation. To Bud Schwartz, golf was as foreign as polo. Except you didn't see so many fat guys playing polo.

"The main thing is, did they catch the shooter?"

"Nuh-huh." Danny Pogue had his nose to the tube. They said he got away in a boat. No arrests, no motives is what they said."

Bud Schwartz was trying to picture Lou from Queens at the helm of a speedboat, racing for the ocean's horizon.

"He's gonna be p.i.s.sed," Danny Pogue said.

"Yeah, well, I don't guess his boss up North is gonna be too d.a.m.n thrilled, either. Whackin" the wrong man."

"He ain't dead yet. Serious but stable is what they said."

Bud Schwartz said it didn't really matter. "Point is, it's still a f.u.c.kup. A major major f.u.c.kup."

The Mafia had gunned down a life member of the Professional Golfers a.s.sociation.

Pedro Luz finally emerged from the storage room, where he had been measuring his p.e.n.i.s. He rolled the wheelchair out to Kingsbury Lane for the morning rehearsal of the Summerfest Jubilee, a greatly embellished version of the nightly musical pageant. Pedro Luz needed something to lift his spirits. His leg had begun to throb in an excruciating way; no combination of steroids and a.n.a.lgesics put a dent in the pain. To add psychic misery to the physical, Pedro Luz had now doc.u.mented the fact that his s.e.xual wand was indeed shrinking as a result of prolonged steroid abuse. At first, Pedro Luz had a.s.sured himself that it was only an optical illusion; the more swollen his face and limbs became, the smaller everything else appeared to be. But weeks of meticulous calibrations had produced conclusive evidence: His wee-wee had withered from 10.4 centimeters to 7.9 centimeters in its flaccid state. Worse, it seemed to Pedro Luz (although there was no painless way to measure) that his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es had also become smallera"not yet as tiny as BBs, as Churrito had predicted, but more like gumb.a.l.l.s.

These matters weighed heavily on his mind as Pedro Luz sat in the broiling sun and watched the floats rumble by. He was hoping that the sight of Annette Fury's regal bosom would buoy his mood, and was disappointed to see that she had been replaced as Princess Golden Sun. The new actress looked familiar, but Pedro Luz couldn't place the face. She was a very pretty girl, but the black wig needed some work, as did the costumea"buckskin culottes and a fringed halter top. Her singing was quite lovely, much better than Annette"s, but Pedro Luz would've preferred larger b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The lioness that shared the Seminole float was in no condition to rehea.r.s.e; panting miserably in the humidity, the animal sprawled half-conscious on one side, thus thwarting the cat-straddling exit that culminated the princess's dramatic performance.

As the parade disbanded, Pedro Luz eased the wheelchair off the curb and approached the Seminole float. The pretty young singer was not to be seen; there was only the driver of the float and Dr. Kukor, the park veterinarian, who had climbed aboard to revive the heatstruck lioness. Dr. Kukor was plainly flabbergasted by the sight of Pedro Luz.

"I lost my foot in an accident," the security chief explained.

Dr. Kukor hadn't noticed the missing foot. It was the condition of Pedro Luz's face, so grossly inflated, that had generated the horror. The man looked like a blow-fish: puffed cheeks, bulging lips, teeny eyes wedged deep under a pimpled, protuberant brow.

To Pedro Luz, Dr. Kukor directed the most inane inquiry of a long and distinguished career: "Are you all right?"

"Just fine. Where's the young lady?"

Dr. Kukor pointed, and Pedro Luz spun the wheelchair to see: Princess Golden Sun stood behind him. She was zipping a black Miami Heat warm-up jacket over the halter.

Pedro Luz introduced himself and said, "I've seen you before, right?"

"It's possible," said Carrie Lanier, who recognized him instantly as the goon who shot up her double-wide, the creep she'd run over with the car. She noticed the bandaged trunk of his leg, and felt a pang of guilt. It pa.s.sed quickly.

"You sing pretty nice," Pedro Luz said, "but you could use a couple three inches up top. If you get my meaning."

"Thanks for the advice."

"I know a doctor who specializes in that sort of thing. Maybe I could get you a discount."

"Actually," said Carrie, patting her chest, "I kind of like the little fellas just the way they are."

"Suit yourself." Pedro Luz scratched brutally at a raw patch on his scalp. "I'm trying to figure where I saw you before. Take off the wig for a second, okay?"

Carrie Lanier pressed her hands to her eyes and began to crya"plaintive, racking sobs that attracted the concern of tourists and the other pageant performers.

Pedro Luz said, "Hey, what's the matter?"

"It's not a wig!" Carrie cried. "It's my real hair." She turned and scampered down a stairwell into The Catacombs.

"Geez, I'm sorry," said Pedro Luz, to no one. Fl.u.s.tered, he rolled full tilt toward the security office. Speeding downhill past the Wet w.i.l.l.y, he chafed his knuckles trying to brake the wheelchair. When he reached the chilled privacy of the storage room, he slammed the door and drove the bolt. In the blackness Pedro Luz probed for the string that turned on the ceiling's bare bulb; he found it and jerked hard.

The white light revealed a shocking scene. Someone had entered Pedro's sanctuary and destroyed the delicate web of sustenance. Sewing shears had snipped the intravenous tubes into worthless inch-long segments, which littered the floor like plastic rice. The same person had sliced open every one of Pedro's unused IV bags; the wheelchair rested, literally, in a pond of liquid dextrose.

But by far the worst thing to greet Pedro Luz was the desolate sight of brown pill bottles, perhaps a half-dozen, open and empty on the floor. Whoever he was, the sonofab.i.t.c.h had flushed Pedro's anabolic steroids down the John. The ceramic pestle with which he had so lovingly powdered his Winstrols lay shattered beneath the toilet tank.

And, on the wall, a message in coral lipstick. Pedro Luz groaned and backed the wheelchair so he could read it easier. A wild rage heaved through his chest and he began to s.n.a.t.c.h items from the storage shelves and hurl them against the cinder block: nightsticks, gas masks, flashlights, handcuffs, cans of Mace, pistol grips, boxes of bullets.

Only when there was nothing left to throw did Pedro Luz stop to read the words on the wall again. Written in a loopy flamboyant script, the message said: Good morning, Dips.h.i.t!

Just wanted you to know I'm not dead.

Have a nice day, and don't forget your Wheaties!

It was signed, "Yours truly, J. Winder."

Pedro Luz emitted a feral cry and aimed himself toward the executive gym, where he spent the next two hours alone on the bench press, purging the demons and praying for his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es to grow back.

THIRTY.

Somehow Charles Chelsea summoned the creative energy necessary for fabrication: Golf legend Jake Harp was accidentally shot Thursday during groundbreaking ceremonies for the new Falcon Trace Golf and Country Club Resort on North Key Largo.

The incident occurred as Mr. Harp was preparing to hit a ball off what will be the first tee of the 6,970-yard championship golf course, which Mr. Harp designed himself. The golfer apparently was struck by a stray bullet from an unidentified boater, who may have been shooting at nearby sea gulls.

Mr. Harp was listed in serious but stable condition after undergoing surgery at South Miami Hospital.

"This is a tragedy for the entire golfing world, professionals and amateurs alike," said Francis X. Kingsbury, the developer of Falcon Trace, and a close personal friend of Mr. Harp.

"We're all praying for Jake to pull through," added Kingsbury, who is also the founder and chairman of the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills, the popular family theme park adjacent to the sprawling Falcon Trace project.

By mid-afternoon Thursday, police had not yet arrested any suspects in the shooting. Charles Chelsea, vice president of publicity for Falcon Trace Ltd., disputed accounts by some reporters on the scene who claimed that Mr. Harp was the victim of a deliberate sniper attack.

"There's no reason to believe that this terrible event was anything but a freak accident," Chelsea said.

Kingsbury approved the press release with a disgusted flick of his hand. He drained a third martini and asked Chelsea if he had ever before witnessed a man being shot.

"Not that I can recall, sir."

"Close up, I mean," Kingsbury said. "Dead bodies are one thinga"car wrecks, heart attacksa"I'm not counting those. What I mean is, bang!"

Chelsea said, "It happened so d.a.m.n fast."

"Well, you know who they were aiming at? Moi, that's who. How about that!" Kingsbury pursed his lips and drummed his knuckles.

"You?" Chelsea said. "Who would try to kill you?" He instantly thought of Joe Winder.

But Kingsbury smiled drunkenly and began to hum the theme from The G.o.dfather.

Chelsea said, "There's something you're not telling me."

"Of course there's something I'm not telling you. There's tons of s.h.i.t I'm not telling you. What, I look like a total moron?"

Watching Francis Kingsbury pour another martini, Chelsea felt like seizing the bottle and guzzling himself into a Tanqueray coma. The time had come to look for another job; the fun had leaked out of this one. A malevolent force, unseen and uncontrollable, had perverted Chelsea's role from cheery town crier to conniving propagandist. Reflecting on the past weeks, he realized he should've quit on the day the blue-tongued voles were stolen, the day innocence was lost.

We are all no longer children, Chelsea thought sadly. We are potential co-defendants.

"No offense," Kingsbury was saying, "but you're just a flack. I only tell you what I've absolutely got to tell you. Which is precious d.a.m.ned little."

"That's the way it should be," Chelsea said lifelessly.

"Right! Loose d.i.c.ks sink ships. Or whatever." Kingsbury slurped at the gin like a thirsty mutt. "Anyhow, don't worry about me. I'm takinga"well, let's just say, the necessary precautions. You can be G.o.dd.a.m.n sure."

"That's wise of you."

"Meanwhile, sharpen your pencil. I ordered us more animals." Kingsbury wistfully studied his drink. "Who's the guy in the Bible, the one with the ark. Was it Moses?"

"Noah," Chelsea said. Boy, was the old man smashed.

"Yeah, Noah, that's who I feel like. Me and these f.u.c.king critters. Anyhow, we're back in the endangered-species business, saving the animals. There oughta be some publicity when they get here. You see to it."

The woman named Rachel Lark had phoned all the way from New Zealand. She said she'd done her best on such short notice, and said Kingsbury would be pleased when he saw the new attractions for the Rare Animal Pavilion. I hope so, he'd told her, because we could d.a.m.n sure use some good news.

Fearing the worst, Charles Chelsea said, "What kind of animals are we talking about?"

"Cute is what I ordered. Thirty-seven hundred dollars' worth of cute." Kingsbury snorted. "Could be anything. The point is, we've got to rebound, Charlie. We got a f.u.c.king void to fill."

"Right."

"Speaking of which, we also need another golfer. In case Jake croaks, G.o.d forbid."