Native Tongue

by Carl Hiaasen

  On the night of July 25, however, Annette Fury’s stint as Princess Golden Sun ended abruptly in a scandal that defied even Chelsea’s talents for cosmetic counter-publicity. Shortly before the pageant, the dancer had ingested what were probably the last three Quaalude tablets in the entire continental United States. She had scrounged the dusty pills from the stale linty recesses of her purse, and washed them down with a warm bottle of Squirt. They had kicked in just as the float made the wide horseshoe turn onto Kingsbury Lane. By the time it rolled past the Cimarron Saloon, Annette Fury was bottomless, having surrendered her deerskin costume to a retired postal worker who had brought his wife and family all the way from Providence, Rhode Island. By the time the float reached the Wet Willy, the stone-faced Indian entourage of Princess Golden Sun had been augmented by nine rowdy Florida State fraternity men, who were taking turns balancing the drowsy young maiden on their noses, or so it must have appeared to the children in the audience. Afterwards, several parents threatened to file criminal obscenity charges against the park. They were appeased by a prompt written apology signed by Francis X. Kingsbury, and a gift of laminated lifetime passes to the Amazing Kingdom. Reluctantly, Charles Chelsea advised the Talent Manager to inform Annette Fury that her services were no longer required. The following day, Carrie Lanier was told that the role of Princess Golden Sun was hers if she wanted it. This was after they’d asked for her measurements.

  So tonight she’d splurged on a bottle of Mondavi.

  “To the late Robbie Raccoon,” Carrie said, raising her glass.

  “No one did him better,” said Joe Winder.

  He put on a tape of Dire Straits and they both agreed that it sounded pretty darn good, even with only one speaker. The wine was tolerable, as well.

  Carrie said, “I told them I want a new costume.”

  “Something in beads and grass would be authentic.”

  “Also, no lip-synching,” she said. “I don’t care if the music’s canned, but I want to do my own singing.”

  “What about the lion?” Joe Winder asked.

  “They swear she’s harmless.”

  “Tranked out of her mind is more like it. I’d be concerned, if I were you.”

  “If she didn’t maul Annette, I can’t imagine why she’d go after me.”

  A police siren penetrated the aluminum husk of the trailer; Joe Winder could hear it even over the guitar music and the tubercular groan of the ancient air conditioner. Parting the drapes, he watched one Metro squad car, and then another, enter the trailer park at high speed. Throwing dust, they sped past the turnoff to Carrie’s place.

  “Another domestic,” Winder surmised.

  “We average about four a week.” Carrie refilled the wineglasses. “People who take love too damn seriously.”

  “Which reminds me.” He opened his wallet and removed twelve dollars and placed it on a wicker table. “I was a very bad boy. I called her three times.”

  “You shmuck.”

  The Nina Situation. Every time he picked up the phone, it added four bucks to Carrie Lanier’s bill. Worse, Nina pretended not to recognize his voice—stuck to the script to the bitter end, no matter how much he pleaded for her to shut up and listen.

  “It is pathetic,” Winder conceded.

  “No other word for it.”

  “Haven’t you ever been like this?” Obsessed is what he meant.

  “Nope.” Carrie shrugged. “I’ve got to be honest.”

  “So what’s the matter with me?”

  “You’re just having a bad week.”

  She went to the bedroom and changed into a lavender nightshirt that came down to the knees—actually, a good four inches above the knees. Her hair was pulled back in a loose, sandy-colored ponytail.

  Winder said, “You look sixteen years old.” Only about three dozen other guys must have told her the same thing. His heart was pounding a little harder than he expected. “Tomorrow I’ll get a motel room,” he said.

  “No, you’re staying here.”

  “I appreciate it but—”

  “Please,” Carrie said. “Please stay.”

  “I’ve got serious plans. You won’t approve.”

  “How do you know? Besides, I’m a little nervous about this new job. It’s nice to have someone here at the end of the day, someone to talk with.”

  Gazing at her, Winder thought: God, don’t do this to me. Don’t make me say it.

  But he did: “You just want to keep an eye on me. You’re afraid I’ll screw everything up.”

  “You’re off to a pretty good start.”

  “It’s only fair to warn you: I’m going after Kingsbury.”

  “That’s what I figured, Joe. Call it a wild hunch.” She took his hand and led him toward the bedroom.

  I’m not ready for this, Winder thought. Sweat broke out in a linear pattern on the nape of his neck. He felt as if he were back in high school, the day the prettiest cheerleader winked at him in biology class; at the time, he’d been examining frog sperm under a microscope, and the wink from Pamela Shaugnessy had fractured his concentration. It had taken a month or two for Joe Winder to recover, and by then Pamela was knocked up by the co-captain of the junior wrestling squad. The teacher said that’s what she got for not paying attention in class.

  The sheets in Carrie Lanier’s bedroom were rose, the blanket was plum. A novel by Anne Tyler was open on the bedstand, next to a bottle of nose drops.

  A fuzzy stuffed animal sat propped on the pillow: shoebutton eyes, round ears and short whiskers. Protruding slightly from its upturned, bucktoothed mouth was a patch of turquoise cotton that could only be a tongue.

  “Violet the Vole,” Carrie explained. “Note the sexy eyelashes.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Joe Winder said.

  “The Vance model comes with a tiny cigar.”

  “How much?” Winder asked.

  “Eighteen ninety-five, plus tax. Mr. X ordered a shipment of three thousand.” Carrie stroked his arm. “Come on, I feel like cuddling.”

  Wordlessly, Winder moved the toy mango vole off the bed. The tag said it was manufactured in the People’s Republic of China. What must they think of us on the assembly line? Winder wondered. Stuffed rats with cigars!

  Carrie Lanier said, “I’ve got the jitters about singing in the parade. I don’t look much like a Seminole.”

  Winder assured her she would do just fine. “Listen, I need to ask a favor. If you say no, I’ll understand.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I need you to steal something for me,” he said. “Sure.”

  “Just like that?”

  Carrie said, “I trust you. I want to help.”

  “Do you see the possibilities?”

  “Surprise me,” she said.

  “Don’t worry, it won’t be dangerous. A very modest effort, as larcenies go.”

  “Sure. First thing tomorrow.”

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

  “Because it’s a fraud, the whole damn place. But mainly because an innocent man is dead. I liked Will Koocher.” She paused. “I like his wife, too.”

  She didn’t have to add the last part, but Winder was glad she did. He said, “You might lose your job.”

  Carrie smiled. “There’s always dinner theater.”

  It seemed a good time to break the ice, so he tried—a brotherly peck on the cheek.

  “Joe,” she murmured, “you kiss like a parakeet.”

  “I’m slightly nervous myself.”

  Slowly she levered him to the bed, pinning his arms. “Why,” she said, giggling, “why are you so nervous, little boy?”

  “I really don’t know.” Her breasts pressed against his ribs, a truly wonderful sensation. Winder decided he could spend the remainder of his life in that position.

  Carrie said, “Lesson Number one: How to smooch an Indian maiden.”

  “Go ahead,” said Winder, “I’m all lips.”

  “Now do as I say.”

 
“Anything,” he agreed. “Anything at all.”

  As they kissed, an unrelated thought sprouted like a mushroom in the only dim crevice of Joe Winder’s brain that was not fogged with lust.

  The thought was: If I play this right, we won’t need the gun after all.

  22

  Pedro Luz was in Francis Kingsbury’s den when the blackmailers called. He listened to Kingsbury’s half of the conversation, a series of impatient grunts, and said to Churrito, “Looks like we’re in business.”

  Kingsbury put down the phone and said, “All set. Monkey Mountain at four sharp. In front of the baboons.”

  Monkey Mountain was a small animal park off Krome Avenue, a cut-rate imitation of the venerable Monkey Jungle. To Pedro Luz, it didn’t sound like an ideal place to kill a couple of burglars.

  With a snort, Kingsbury said, “These assholes, who knows where they get these cute ideas. Watching television, maybe.”

  “What is this monkey place?” Churrito asked.

  “For Christ’s sake, like the name says, it’s basically monkeys. Two thousand of the damn things running all over creation.” Kingsbury disliked monkeys and had summarily vetoed plans for a Primate Pavilion at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. He felt that apes had limited commercial appeal; Disney had steered clear of them, too, for what that was worth.

  “For one thing, they bite. And, two, they shit like a sewer pipe.” Kingsbury put the issue to rest. “If they’re so damn smart, how come they don’t hold it. Like people.”

  “They tasty good,” Churrito remarked, licking his lips. “Squirrel monkey is best, where I come from.”

  Pedro Luz sucked noisily on the open end of the IV tube. He had purchased a dozen clear bags of five-percent dextrose solution from a wholesale medical shop in Perrine. The steroid pills he pulverized with the butt of his Colt, and funneled the powder into the bags. No one at the gym had ever heard of getting stoked by this method; Pedro Luz boasted that it was all his idea, he’d never even checked with a doctor. The only part that bothered him was using the needle—a problematic endeavor, since anabolic steroids were usually injected into muscle, not veins. Whenever Pedro Luz was having second thoughts, he’d yank out the tube and insert it directly in his mouth.

  Sitting in Kingsbury’s house, it gave him great comfort to feel again these magnificent potent chemicals flooding his system. With nourishment came strength, and with strength came confidence. Pedro Luz was afraid of nothing. He felt like stepping in front of a speeding bus, just to prove it.

  Churrito pointed at the intravenous rig and said: “Even monkeys aren’t that stupid.”

  “Put a lid on it,” Pedro growled. He thought: No wonder these dorks lost the war.

  “Stuff make you bulls shrink up. Dick get leetle tiny.” Churrito seemed unconcerned by the volcanic mood changes that swept over Pedro Luz every few hours. To Francis Kingsbury he said, “Should see the zits on his cholders.”

  “Some other time,” Kingsbury said. “You guys, now, don’t get into it. There’s work to do—I want these assholes off my back, these fucking burglars, and I want the files. So don’t start up with each other, I mean, save your energy for the job.”

  Pedro Luz said, “Don’t worry.”

  The phone rang and Kingsbury snatched it. The call obviously was long-distance because Kingsbury began to shout. Something about a truck accident ruining an important shipment of fish. The caller kept cutting in on Kingsbury, and Kingsbury kept making half-assed excuses, meaning some serious money already had changed hands.

  When Kingsbury hung up, he said, “That was Hong Kong. Some cat-food outfit, I set up this deal and it didn’t work out. What the hell, they’ll get their dough back.”

  “My uncle had a fish market,” remarked Pedro Luz. “It’s a very hard business.”

  Without warning Mrs. Kingsbury came into the room. She wore terry-cloth tennis shorts and the top half of a lime-colored bikini. She nodded at Churrito, who emitted a low tomcat rumble. Pedro Luz glowered at him.

  She said, “Frankie, I need some money for my lessons.”

  Under his breath, Churrito said, “I give her some lessons. Chew bet I will.”

  Kingsbury said, “I just gave you—was it yesterday?—like two hundred bucks.”

  “That was yesterday.” Mrs. Kingsbury’s eyes shifted to Pedro Luz, and the bottle of fluid on the hanger. “What’s the matter with him?” she asked.

  “One of them crash diets,” said her husband.

  Churrito said, “Yeah, make your muscles get big and your dick shrivel up like a noodle.”

  Pedro Luz reddened. “It’s vitamins, that’s all.” He gnawed anxiously on the end of the tube, as if it were a piece of beef jerky.

  “What kind of vitamins?” asked Kingsbury’s wife.

  “For men,” said Pedro Luz. “Men-only vitamins.”

  As always, it was a test to be in the same room with Mrs. Kingsbury and her phenomenal breasts. Pedro Luz had given up sex three years earlier in the misinformed belief that ejaculation was a waste of precious hormones. Somehow, Pedro Luz had acquired the false notion that semen was one-hundred-percent pure testosterone, and consequently he was distraught when a popular weightlifter magazine reported that the average sexually active male would squirt approximately 19.6 gallons in a lifetime. For a fitness fiend such as Pedro Luz, the jism statistic was a shocker. To expend a single pearly drop of masculine fuel on a recreational pleasure was frivolous and harmful and plainly against God’s plan; how could it do anything but weaken the body?

  As it happened, Pedro Luz’s fruit-and-steroid diet had taken the edge off his sex drive anyway. Abstinence had not proved to be difficult, except when Mrs. Kingsbury was around.

  “I don’t like needles,” she announced. “I don’t like the way they prick.”

  Again Churrito began to growl lasciviously. Pedro Luz said, “After a while, you don’t even notice.” He showed Mrs. Kingsbury how the IV rig moved on wheels.

  “Like a shopping cart,” she said gaily. Her husband handed her a hundred-dollar bill and she waved goodbye.

  “There she goes,” Kingsbury said. “Pedro, did you show your little buddy the golf painting? The one we did at Biltmore?”

  “I saw,” Churrito said. “In the living room.”

  “Those are the real McCoys,” said Kingsbury.

  Churrito looked perplexed. “McCoys?”

  “Her tits, I mean. How you say, hoot-aires?” Kingsbury cackled. “Now, about this afternoon, these assholes—I’m not interested in details. Not at all interested.”

  That was fine with Pedro Luz. He’d skipped the details the last time, too, when they had roughed up the old lady at the condo. Although Churrito had nagged him to lighten up, the beating had been therapeutic for Pedro, a venting of toxic brain fumes. Like the rush he got while pinching the heads off Joe Winder’s twin Siamese fighting fish.

  “I doubt this monkey place will be crowded,” Kingsbury was saying, “except for the baboons.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Pedro Luz assured him.

  “You get caught, no offense, but I don’t know you. Never seen you bastards before in my life.”

  “We won’t get caught.”

  Kingsbury snapped his fingers. “The files, I’ll give you a list. Don’t do anything till you get my files back. After that, it’s your call.”

  Pedro Luz looked at his wristwatch and said it was time to go. The wheels on the IV rig twittered as it followed him to the door.

  “I wanted to ask,” Churrito said, “is it okay I look at the pitcher again? The one with your wife and those real McCoys.”

  “Be my guest,” said Kingsbury, beaming. “That’s what it’s there for.”

  One problem, Bud Schwartz realized, was that he and his partner had never done a blackmail before. In fact, he wasn’t sure if it was blackmail or extortion, technically speaking.

  “Call it a trade,” said Danny Pogue.

  Bud Schwartz smiled. Not bad, he thought. A
trade it is.

  They were waiting in the rented Cutlass in the parking lot of Monkey Mountain. Mrs. Kingsbury’s chrome-plated pistol lay on the seat between them. Neither of them wanted to handle it.

  “Christ, I hate guns,” said Bud Schwartz.

  “How’s your hand?”

  “Getting there. How’s your foot?”

  “Pretty good.” Danny Pogue opened a bag of Burger King and the oily smell of hot fries filled the car. Bud Schwartz rolled down the window and was counter-assailed by the overpowering odor of monkeys.

  Chewing, Danny Pogue said, “I can’t get over that guy in the house, Molly’s friend. Just come right in.”

  “Bigfoot,” said Bud Schwartz, “without the manners.”

  “I just hope he don’t come back.”

  “You and me both.”

  Bud Schwartz was watching out for Saabs. Over the phone Kingsbury had told him he’d be driving a navy Saab with tinted windows; so far, no sign of the car.

  He asked his partner: “You ever done a Saab?”

  “No, they all got alarms,” said Danny Pogue. “Like radar is what I heard. Just look at ’em funny, and they go off. Same with the Porsches, I fucking whisper just walkin’ by the damn things.”

  At two minutes after four, Bud Schwartz said it was time to get ready. Gingerly he put the gun in his pocket. “Leave the files under the seat,” he said. “We’ll make the trade after we got the money.”

  At the ticket window they got a map of Monkey Mountain. It wasn’t exactly a sprawling layout.