Native Tongue

by Carl Hiaasen

  Molly McNamara said, “You think this man might have broken into my house to use the phone!”

  “Not exactly,” Hawkins said.

  She peered at him skeptically. “How do you know it was he on the line? Did you use one of those voice-analyzing machines?”

  The FBI man chuckled. “No, we didn’t need a machine. The caller identified himself.”

  “By name?” The blockhead! Molly thought.

  “No, not by name. He told Mr. Delicato that he was an acquaintance of Gino Ricci’s brother. It just so happens that Buddy Michael Schwartz served time with Mario Ricci at the Lake Butler Correctional Institute.”

  Molly McNamara said, “Could be a coincidence.”

  “They shared a cell. Buddy and Gino’s brother.”

  “But still—”

  “Would you have a problem,” the agent said, “if I asked you to come downtown and take a polygraph examination?”

  Molly stopped rocking and fixed him with an indignant glare. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

  “Call it a hunch.”

  “Agent Hawkins, I’m offended.”

  “And I’m tired of this baloney.” He closed the notebook and capped the pen. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Hawkins stood up, pocketed his notebook, straightened his tie. “Let’s go for a ride,” he said. “Come on.”

  “No!”

  “Don’t make it worse for yourself.”

  “You’re not paying attention,” Molly said. “I thought G-men were trained to be observant.”

  Billy Hawkins laughed. “G-men? I haven’t heard that one in a long—”

  It was then he noticed the pistol. The old lady held it impassively, with both hands. She was pointing it directly at his crotch.

  “This is amazing,” said the agent. “The stuff of legends.” Wait till the tough guys at Quantico hear about it.

  Molly asked Billy Hawkins to raise his hands.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because you’re going to give me the gun now.”

  “No,” said Molly, “I’m going to shoot you.”

  “Lady, gimme the goddamn gun!”

  Calmly she shot him in the thigh, two and one-quarter inches below the left hip. The FBI man went down with a howl, clawing at the burning hole in his pants.

  “I told you to watch your language,” Molly said.

  The pop of the pistol brought Danny Pogue and Buddy Schwartz scrambling down the stairs. From a living-room window they cautiously surveyed the scene on the porch: Molly rocking placidly, a man in a gray suit thrashing on the floor.

  Danny Pogue cried, “She done it again!”

  “Christ on a bike,” said Bud Schwartz, “it’s that dick from the FBI.”

  The burglars cracked the door and peeked out. Molly assured them the situation was under control.

  “Flesh wound,” she reported. “Keep an eye on this fellow while I get some ice and bandages.” She confiscated Billy Hawkins’s Smith & Wesson and gave it to Bud Schwartz, who took it squeamishly, like a dog turd, in his hands.

  “It works best when you aim it,” Molly chided.

  Danny Pogue reached for the barrel. “I’ll do it!”

  “Like hell,” said Bud Schwartz, spinning away. He sat in the rocker and braced the pistol on his knee. The air smelled pun-gently of gunpowder; it brought back the memory of Monkey Mountain and the trigger-happy baboon.

  Watching the gray-suited man squirm in pain, Bud Schwartz fought the urge to get up and run. What was the old bat thinking this time? Nothing good could come of shooting an FBI man. Surely she understood the consequences.

  Danny Pogue opened the front door for Molly, who disappeared into the house with a pleasant wave. Danny Pogue sat down, straddling an iron patio chair. “Take it easy,” he told the agent. “You ain’t hurt so bad.”

  Billy Hawkins grunted up at him. “What’s your name?”

  “Marcus Welby,” Bud Schwartz cut in. “Don’t he look like a doctor?”

  “I know who you are,” the agent said. It felt as if a giant wasp were boring into his thigh. Billy Hawkins unbuckled his trousers and grimaced at the sight of his Jockey shorts soaked crimson.

  “You assholes are going to jail,” he said, pinching the pale flesh around the bullet wound.

  “We’re just burglars,” said Danny Pogue.

  “Not anymore.” Hawkins attempted to rise to his feet, but Bud Schwartz wiggled the gun and told him to stay where he was. The agent’s forehead was sprinkled with sweat, and his lips were gray. “Hey, Bud,” he said, “I’ve seen your jacket, and this isn’t your style. Assault on a federal officer, man, you’re looking at Atlanta.”

  Bud Schwartz was deeply depressed to hear the FBI man call him by name. “You don’t know shit about me,” he snapped.

  “Suppose you tell me what the hell’s going on out here. What’s your beef with Frankie King?”

  Bud Schwartz said, “I don’t know who you’re talkin’ about.”

  Miraculously, Danny Pogue caught on before saying something disastrous. He flashed a checkerboard grin and said, “Yeah, who’s Frankie King? We never heard a no Frankie King.”

  “Bullshit,” Agent Billy Hawkins growled. “Go ahead and play stupid. You’re all going to prison, anyhow. You and that crazy old lady.”

  “If it makes you feel any better,” said Danny Pogue, “she shot us, too.”

  The campsite was … gone.

  “I’m not surprised,” Joe Winder said. He took Carrie’s hand and kept walking. A light rain was falling, and the woods smelled cool.

  Carrie asked, “What do we do if he’s really gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ten minutes later she asked if they were lost.

  “I got turned around,” Winder admitted. “It can’t be too far.”

  “Joe, where are we going?”

  The rain came down harder, and the sky blackened. From the west came a roll of thunder that shook the leaves. The birds fell silent; then the wind began to race across the island, and Joe Winder could taste the storm. He dropped Carrie’s hand and started to jog, slapping out a trail with his arms. He called over his shoulder, urging Carrie to keep up.

  It took fifteen minutes to find the junkyard where the ancient Plymouth station wagon sat on rusty bumpers. The yellow beach umbrella—still stuck in the dashboard—fluttered furiously in the gale.

  Joe Winder pulled Carrie inside the car, and hugged her so tightly she let out a cry. “My arms are tingling,” she said. “The little hairs on my arms.”

  He covered her ears. “Hold on, it’s lightning.”

  It struck with a white flash and a deafening rip. Twenty yards away, a dead mahogany tree split up the middle and dropped a huge leafless branch. “God,” Carrie whispered. “That was close.”

  Raindrops hammered on the roof. Joe Winder turned around in the seat and looked in the back of the car. “They’re gone,” he said.

  “What, Joe?”

  “The books. This is where he kept all his books.”

  She turned to see. Except for several dead roaches and a yellowed copy of the New Republic, the station wagon had been cleaned out.

  Winder was vexed. “I don’t know how he did it. You should’ve seen—there were hundreds in here. Steinbeck, Hemingway. Jesus, Carrie, he had García Márquez in Spanish. First editions! Some of the greatest books ever written.”

  “Then he’s actually gone.”

  “It would appear to be so.”

  “Think we should call somebody?”

  “What?”

  “Somebody up in New York,” Carrie said, “at the prison. I mean, just in case.”

  “Let me think about this.”

  “I can’t believe he’d try it.”

  The thunderstorm moved quickly over the island and out to sea. Soon the lightning stopped and the downpour softened to a drizzle. Carrie
said, “The breeze felt nice, didn’t it?”

  Joe Winder wasn’t listening. He was trying to decide if they should keep looking or not. Without Skink, new choices lay ahead: bold and serious decisions. Winder suddenly felt responsible for the entire operation.

  Carrie turned to kiss him and her knee hit the glove compartment, which popped open. Curiously she poked through the contents—a flashlight, a tire gauge, three D-sized batteries and what appeared to be the dried tail of a squirrel.

  And one brown envelope with Joe Winder’s name printed in small block letters.

  He tore it open. Reading the note, he broke into a broad smile. “Short and to the point,” he said.

  Carrie read it:

  Dear Joe,

  You make one hell of an oracle.

  Don’t worry about me, just keep up the fight.

  We all shine on!

  Carrie folded the note and returned it to the envelope. “I assume this means something.”

  “Like the moon and the stars and the sun,” Joe Winder said. He felt truly inspired.

  28

  The Amazing Kingdom of Thrills reopened with only a minimal drop in attendance, thanks to a three-for-one ticket promotion that included a free ride on Dickie the Dolphin, whose amorous behavior was now inhibited by four trainers armed with electric stun guns. Francis X. Kingsbury was delighted by the crowds, and emboldened by the fact that many customers actually complained about the absence of wild snakes. Kingsbury regarded it as proof that closing the Amazing Kingdom had been unnecessary, a costly overestimation of the average tourist’s brainpower. Obviously the yahoos were more curious than afraid of lethal reptiles. A thrill is a thrill, Kingsbury said.

  The two persons forced to sit through this speech were Pedro Luz and Special Agent Ron Donner of the U.S. Marshal Service. Agent Donner had come to notify Francis X. Kingsbury of a possible threat against his life.

  “Ho! From who?”

  “Elements of organized crime,” the marshal said. “Well, fuck ’em.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This is just, I mean really, the word is horseshit!” Kingsbury flapped his arms like a tangerine-colored buzzard. He was dressed for serious golf; even his cleats were orange.

  Agent Donner said: “We think it would be wise if you left town for a few weeks.”

  “Oh, you do? Leave town, like hell I will.”

  Pedro Luz spun his wheelchair slightly toward the marshal. “Organized crime,” he said. “You mean the Mafia?”

  “We’re taking it very seriously,” said Agent Donner, thinking: Who’s the freak with the IV bag?

  With the proud sweep of a hand, Francis Kingsbury introduced his chief of Security. “He handles everything for the park and so on. Personal affairs, as well. You can say anything in front of him, understand? He’s thoroughly reliable.”

  Pedro Luz casually adjusted the drip valve on the intravenous tube.

  The marshal asked, “What happened to your foot?”

  “Never mind!” blurted Kingsbury.

  “Car accident,” Pedro Luz volunteered affably. “I had to chew the damn thing off.” He pointed with a swathed, fore-shortened index finger. “Right there above the anklebone, see?”

  “Tough luck,” said Agent Donner, thinking: Psycho City.

  “It’s what animals do,” Pedro Luz added, “when they get caught in traps.”

  Kingsbury clapped his hands nervously. “Hey, hey! Can we get back to the issue, please, this Godfather thing. For the record, I’m not going anyplace.”

  The marshal said, “We can have you safely in Bozeman, Montana, by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “What, do I look like fucking Grizzly Adams? Listen to me—Montana, don’t even joke about something like that.”

  Pedro Luz said, “Why would the Mafia want to kill Mr. Kingsbury? I don’t exactly make the connection.” Then his chin dropped, and he appeared to drift off.

  Agent Donner said, “I wish you’d consider the offer.”

  “Two words,” Kingsbury held up two fingers as if playing charades. “Summerfest Jubilee. One of our biggest days, receipt-wise, of the whole damn year. Parades, clowns, prizes. We’re giving away … I forget, some kinda car.”

  “And I suppose you need to be here.”

  “Yeah, damn right. It’s my park and my show. And know what else? You can’t make me go anywhere. I kept my end of the deal. I’m free and clear of you people.”

  “You’re still on probation,” said the marshal. “But you’re right, we can’t force you to go anyplace. This visit is a courtesy—”

  “And I appreciate the information. I just don’t happen to believe it.” But a part of Francis Kingsbury did believe it. What if the men who stole his files had given up on the idea of blackmail? What if the damn burglars had somehow made touch with the Gotti organization? It strained Kingsbury’s imagination because they’d seemed like such jittery putzes that night at the house. Yet perhaps he’d misjudged them.

  “Where’d you get the tip?” he demanded.

  Agent Donner was briefly distracted by the cartoon depiction of rodent fellatio that adorned Kingsbury’s forearm. Eventually the marshal looked up and said, “It surfaced during another investigation. I can’t go into details.”

  “But, really, you guys think it’s on the level? You think some guineas are coming after me?” Kingsbury struggled to maintain an air of amused skepticism.

  Soberly the marshal said, “The FBI is checking it out.”

  “Well, regardless, I’m not going to Montana. Just thinking about it hurts my mucous membranes—I got the world’s worst hay fever.”

  “So your mind is made up.”

  “Yep,” said Kingsbury. “I’m staying put.”

  “Then let us provide you with protection here at the park. A couple of men, at least.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I got Pedro.”

  At the mention of his name, Pedro Luz’s swollen eyelids parted. He reached up and squeezed the IV bag. Then he tugged the tube out of the needle in his arm, and fitted the end into the corner of his mouth. The sound of energetic sucking filled Francis Kingsbury’s office.

  Agent Donner was dumbfounded. In a brittle voice he assured Kingsbury that the marshals would be extremely discreet, and would in no way interfere with the Summerfest Jubilee events. Kingsbury, in a tone approaching politeness, declined the offer of bodyguards. The last thing he needed was federal dicks nosing around the Amazing Kingdom.

  “Besides, like I mentioned, there’s Pedro. He’s as tough as they come.”

  “All right,” said Agent Donner, casting his eyes once again on the distended, scarified, cataleptic, polyp-headed mass that was Pedro Luz.

  Kingsbury said, “I know what you’re thinking but, hell, he’s worth ten of yours. Twenty of yours! Any son-of abitch that would bite off his own damn leg—you tell me, is that tough or what?”

  The marshal rose stiffly to leave. “Tough isn’t the word for it,” he said.

  The trailer fire had left Carrie Lanier with only three possessions: her Buick Electra, the gun she had taken from Joe Winder and the newly retired raccoon suit. The costume and the gun had been stowed in the trunk of the car. Everything else had been destroyed in the blaze.

  Molly McNamara offered her a bedroom on the second floor of the old house. “I’d loan you the condo but the cleaners are in this week,” Molly said. “It’s hard to rent out a place with bloodstains in the carpet.”

  “What about Joe?” Carrie said, “I’d like him to stay with me.”

  Molly clucked. “Young lady, I really can’t approve. Two unmarried people—”

  “But under the circumstances,” Carrie persisted, “with all that’s happened.”

  “Oh … I suppose it’s all right.” Molly had a sparkle in her eyes. “I was teasing, darling. Besides, you act as if you’re in love.”

  Carrie said it was a long shot. “We’re both very goal-oriented, and very stubborn. I’m not sure we’re heading in
the same direction.” She paused and looked away. “He doesn’t seem to fit anywhere.”

  “You wouldn’t want him if he did,” Molly said. “The world is full of nice boring young men. The crazy ones are hard to find and harder to keep, but it’s worth it.”

  “Your husband was like that?”

  “Yes. My lovers, too.”

  “But crazy isn’t the word for it, is it?”

  Molly smiled pensively. “You’re a smart cookie.”

  “Did you know that Joe’s father built Seashell Estates?”

  “Oh dear,” Molly said. A dreadful project: six thousand units on eight hundred acres, plus a golf course. Wiped out an egret rookery. A mangrove estuary. And too late it was discovered that the fairways were leaching fertilizer and pesticides directly into the waters of Biscayne Bay.

  Molly McNamara said, “Those were the bad old days.”

  “Joe’s still upset.”

  “But it certainly wasn’t his fault. He must’ve been barely a teenager when Seashell was developed.”

  “He’s got a thing about his father,” Carrie said.

  “Is that what this is all about?”

  “He hears bulldozers in his sleep.”

  Molly said, “It’s not as strange as you might imagine. The question is, can you take it? Is this the kind of fellow you want?”

  “That’s a tough one,” Carrie said. “He could easily get himself killed this week.”

  “Take the blue bedroom at the end of the hall.”

  “Thank you, Miss McNamara.”

  “Just one favor,” Molly said. “The headboard—it’s an antique. I found it at a shop in Williamsburg.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Carrie promised.