Native Tongue

by Carl Hiaasen

  Charles Chelsea understood that the dispatches soon to be filed from the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills wouldn’t be bright or warm or fluffy. They would be dark and ominous and chilling. They would describe a screaming rupture of the civil order, a culture in terminal moral hemorrhage.

  And this would almost certainly have a negative effect on tourism.

  Oh well, Chelsea thought, I gave it my best.

  He foraged in the refrigerator, unearthed a stale bagel and began gnawing dauntlessly. Hearing a knock at the door, he assumed that the pathologically impatient Kingsbury had sent a car for him.

  “Just a second!” Chelsea called, and went to put on a robe. When he opened the door, he faced the immutable, bewhiskered grin of Robbie Raccoon.

  Who was holding, in his three-fingered polyester paw, a gun.

  Which was pointed at Charles Chelsea’s throat.

  “What’s this?” croaked the publicity man.

  “Show time,” said Joe Winder.

  32

  The raccoon suit was musty and stifling, but it smelled reassuringly of Carrie’s hair and perfume. Even the lint seemed familiar. Through slits in the cheeks Joe Winder was able to see the procession: Bud Schwartz, Danny Pogue and the captive Charles Chelsea, entering the gates of the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills.

  To affect Robbie Raccoon’s most recognizable mannerisms, Winder took floppy exaggerated steps (the way Carrie had showed him) and jauntily twirled the bushy tail. In spite of the serious circumstances, he felt a bolt of childlike excitement as the amusement park prepared to open for the Summerfest Jubilee. Outside, the trams were delivering waves of eager tourists—the children stampeding rabidly toward the locked turnstiles; the women bravely toting infants and designer baby bags; the men with shoulder-mounted Camcorders aimed at anything that moved. Fruity-colored balloons decorated every lamppost, every shrubbery, every concession; Broadway show tunes blasted through tinny public-address speakers. Mimes and jugglers and musicians rehearsed on street corners while desultory maintenance crews collected cigarette butts, Popsicle sticks and gum wrappers off the pavement. A cowboy from the Wild Bill Hiccup show tested his six-shooter by firing blanks at Peter Possum’s scraggly bottom.

  “Show business,” said Joe Winder, “is my life.” The words echoed inside the plaster animal head.

  If the costume had a serious flaw (besides the nonfunctioning air conditioner), it was a crucial lack of peripheral vision. The slits, located several inches below Robbie Raccoon’s large plastic eyes, were much too narrow. Had the openings been wider, Winder would have spotted the fleshy pale hand in time to evade it.

  It was the hand of famed TV weatherman Willard Scott, and it dragged Joe Winder in front of a camera belonging to the National Broadcasting Company. Danny Pogue, Bud Schwartz and Charles Chelsea stopped in their tracks: Robbie Raccoon was on the “Today Show.” Live. Willard flung one meaty arm around Winder’s shoulders, and the other around a grandmother from Hialeah who said she was 107 years old. The old woman was telling a story about riding Henry Flagler’s railroad all the way to Key West.

  “A hunnert and seven!” marveled Danny Pogue.

  Charles Chelsea shifted uneasily. Bud Schwartz shot him a look. “What, she’s lying?”

  Morosely the publicity man confessed. “She’s a complete fake. A ringer. I arranged the whole thing.” The burglars stared as if he were speaking another language. Chelsea lowered his voice: “I had to do it. Willard wanted somebody over a hundred years old, they told me he might not come, otherwise. But I couldn’t find anyone over a hundred—ninety-one was the best I could do, and the poor guy was completely spaced. Thought he was Rommel.”

  Danny Pogue whispered, “So who’s she?”

  “A local actress,” Chelsea said. “Age thirty-eight. The makeup is remarkable.”

  “Christ, this is what you do for a living?” Bud Schwartz turned to his partner. “And I thought we were scumballs.”

  To the actress, Willard Scott was saying: “You’re here to win that 300-Z, aren’t you, sweetheart? In a few minutes the park opens and the first lucky customer through the gate will be Visitor Number Five Million. They’ll get the new sports car and all kinds of great prizes!”

  “I’m so excited!” the actress proclaimed.

  “You run along now, but be careful getting in line. The folks are getting pretty worked up out there. Good luck, sweetheart!” Then Willard Scott gave the bogus 107-year-old grandmother a slurpy smooch on the ear. As he released his grip on the woman, he tightened his hug on Joe Winder.

  And an awakening nation heard the famous weatherman say: “This ring-tailed rascal is one of the most popular characters here at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. Go ahead, tell us your name.”

  And in a high squeaky voice, Joe Winder gamely replied: “Hi, Willard! My name is Robbie Raccoon.”

  “You’re certainly a big fella, Robbie. Judging by the size of that tummy, I’d say you’ve been snooping through a few garbage cans!”

  To which Robbie Raccoon responded: “Look who’s talking, lardass.”

  Briefly the smile disappeared from Willard’s face, and his eyes searched desperately off-camera for the director. A few feet away, Charles Chelsea tasted bile creeping up his throat. The burglars seemed pleased to be standing so close to a genuine TV star.

  A young woman wearing earphones and a jogging suit held up a cue card, and valiantly the weatherman attempted to polish off the segment: “Well, spirits are obviously running high for the big Summerfest Jubilee, so pack up the family and come down to”—here Willard paused to find his place on the card—“Key Largo, Florida, and enjoy the fun! You can swim with a real dolphin, or go sliding headfirst down the Wet Willy or bust some broncos with Wild Bill Hiccup. And you kids can get your picture taken with all your favorite animal characters, even Robbie Raccoon.”

  Obligingly Joe Winder cocked his head and twirled his tail. Willard appeared to regain his jolly demeanor. He prodded at something concealed under one of the fuzzy raccoon arms. “It looks like our ole pal Robbie’s got a surprise for Uncle Willard, am I right?”

  From Winder came a strained chirp: “’Fraid not, Mr. Scott.”

  “Aw, come on. Whatcha got in that paw?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Let’s see it, you little scamp. Is it candy? A toy? Whatcha got there?”

  And seventeen million Americans heard Robbie Raccoon say: “That would be a gun, Willard.”

  Chelsea’s ankles got rubbery and he began to sway. The burglars each grabbed an elbow.

  “My, oh, my,” Willard Scott said with a nervous chuckle. “It even looks like a real gun.”

  “Doesn’t it, though,” said the giant raccoon.

  Please, thought Bud Schwartz, not on national TV. Not with little kids watching.

  But before anything terrible could happen, Willard Scott adroitly steered the conversation from firearms to a tropical depression brewing in the eastern Caribbean. Joe Winder was able to slip away when the weatherman launched into a laxative commercial.

  On the path to the Cimarron Saloon, Charles Chelsea and the burglars heard howling behind them; a rollicking if muffled cry that emanated from deep inside the globular raccoon head.

  “Aaaahhh-oooooooooo,” Joe Winder sang. “We’re the werewolves of Florida! Aaaahhh-oooooooooo!”

  The smoke from Moe Strickland’s cigar hung like a purple shroud in The Catacombs. Uncle Ely’s Elves had voted unanimously to boycott the Jubilee, and Uncle Ely would honor their decision.

  “The cowboy getups look stupid,” he agreed.

  The actor who played the elf Jeremiah, and sometimes Dumpling, lit a joint to counteract the stogie fumes. He declared, “We’re not clowns, we’re actors. So fuck Kingsbury.”

  “That’s right,” said another elf. “Fuck Mr. X.”

  Morale in the troupe had been frightfully low since the newspapers had picked up the phony story about a hepatitis outbreak. Several of the actor-elves had advocated changin
g the name of the act to escape the stigma. Others wanted to hire a Miami attorney and file a lawsuit.

  Moe Strickland said, “I heard they’re auditioning up at Six Flags.”

  “Fuck Six Flags,” said Jeremiah-Dumpling elf. “Probably another damn midget routine.”

  “Our options are somewhat limited,” Moe Strickland said, trying to put it as delicately as possible.

  “So fuck our options.”

  The mood began to simmer after they’d passed the joint around about four times. Moe Strickland eventually stubbed out the cigar and began to enjoy himself. On the street above, a high-school marching band practiced the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Filtered through six feet of stone, it didn’t sound half bad.

  One of the actor-elves said, “Did I mention there’s a guy living in our dumpster?”

  “You’re kidding,” said Moe Strickland.

  “No, Uncle Ely, it’s true. We met him yesterday.”

  “In the Dumpster?”

  “He fixed it up nice like you wouldn’t believe. We gave him a beer.”

  Moe Strickland wondered how a homeless person could’ve found a way into The Catacombs, or why he’d want to stay where it was so musty and humid and bleak.

  “A nice guy,” said the actor-elf. “A real gentleman.”

  “We played poker,” added Jeremiah-Dumpling. “Cleaned his fucking clock.”

  “But he was a sport about it. A gentleman, like I said.”

  Again Moe Strickland raised the subject of Six Flags. “Atlanta’s a great town,” he said. “Lots of pretty women.”

  “We’ll need some new songs.”

  “That’s okay,” said Moe Strickland. “Some new songs would be good. We’ll have the whole bus ride to work on the arrangements. Luther can bring his guitar.”

  “Why not?” said Jeremiah-Dumpling. “Fuck Kingsbury anyhow.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Moe Strickland said.

  From the end of the tunnel came the sound of boots on brick. A man bellowed furiously.

  “Damn,” said one of the actor-elves. He dropped the nub of the joint and ground it to ash under a long, curly-toed, foam-rubber foot.

  The boots and the bellowing belonged to a jittery Spence Mooher, who was Pedro Luz’s right-hand man. Mooher was agitated because none of the other security guards had shown up for work on this, the busiest day of the summer. Mooher had been up all night patrolling the Amazing Kingdom, and now it looked as if he’d be up all day.

  “I smell weed,” he said to Moe Strickland.

  In this field Mooher could honestly boast of expertise; he had served six years with the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration until he was involuntarily relieved of duty. There had been vague accusations of unprofessional conduct in Puerto Rico—something about a missing flash roll, twenty or thirty thousand dollars. As Spence Mooher was quick to point out, no charges were ever filed.

  He shared his new boss’s affinity for anabolic steroids, but he strongly disapproved of recreational drugs. Steroids hardened the body, but pot and cocaine softened the mind.

  “Who’s got the weed?” he demanded of Uncle Ely’s Elves.

  “Lighten up, Spence,” sighed Moe Strickland.

  “Why aren’t you shitheads up top in rehearsal? Everybody’s supposed to be there.”

  “Because we’re boycotting,” said Jeremiah-Dumpling. “We’re not going to be in the damn show.”

  Mooher’s mouth twisted. “Yes, you are,” he said. “This is the Summerfest Jubilee!”

  “I don’t care if it’s the second coming of Christ,” said Jeremiah-Dumpling. “We’re not performing.”

  Moe Strickland added. “It’s a labor action, Spence. Nothing you can do.”

  “No?” With one hand Mooher grabbed the veteran character actor by the throat and slammed him against a row of tall lockers. The actor-elves could only cry out helplessly as the muscular security officer banged Uncle Ely’s head again and again, until blood began to trickle from his ears. The racket of bone against metal was harrowing, amplified in the bare tunnel.

  Finally Spence Mooher stopped. He held Moe Strickland at arm’s length, three feet off the ground; the actor kicked spasmodically.

  “Have you reconsidered?” Mooher asked. Moe Strickland’s eyelids drooped, but he managed a nod.

  A deep voice down the passageway said, “Let him go.”

  Spence Mooher released Uncle Ely and wheeled to face … a bum. An extremely tall bum, but a bum nonetheless. It took the security guard a few moments to make a complete appraisal: the damp silver beard, braided on one cheek only; the flowered plastic rain hat pulled taut over the scalp; the broad tan chest wrapped in heavy copper-stained bandages; a red plastic collar around the neck; one dead eye steamed with condensation, the other alive and dark with anger; the mouthful of shiny white teeth.

  Here, thought Spence Mooher, was a bum to be reckoned with. He reached this conclusion approximately one second too late, for the man had already seized Mooher’s testicles and twisted with such forcefulness that all strength emptied from Mooher’s powerful limbs; quivering, he felt a rush of heat down his legs as he soiled himself. When he tried to talk, a weak croaking noise came out of his mouth.

  “Time to go night-night,” said the bum, twisting harder. Spence Mooher fell down unconscious.

  With a slapping of many oversized feet, the actor-elves scurried toward the slack figure of Moe Strickland, who was awake but in considerable pain. Jeremiah-Dumpling lifted Moe’s bloody head and said, “This is the guy we told you about. The one in the Dumpster.”

  Skink bent down and said, “Pleased to meet you, Uncle Ely. I think your buddies better get you to the vet.”

  Charles Chelsea tested the door to Francis X. Kingsbury’s office and found it locked. He tapped lightly but received no reply.

  “I know he’s in there,” Chelsea said.

  Danny Pogue said, “Allow us.” He produced a small screwdriver and easily popped the doorjamb.

  “Like ridin’ a bicycle,” said Bud Schwartz.

  From inside the raccoon costume came a hollow command. The others stood back while Joe Winder opened the door. Upon viewing the scene, he clapped his paws and said: “Perfect.”

  Francis X. Kingsbury was energetically fondling himself in front of a television set. On the screen, a dark young man in a torn soccer jersey was copulating with a wild-haired brunette woman, who was moaning encouragement in Spanish. Other video cassettes were fanned out like a poker hand on the desk.

  Kingsbury halted mid-pump and wheeled to confront the intruders. The boxer shorts around his ankles greatly diminished his ability to menace. Today’s hairpiece was a silver Kenny Rogers model.

  “Get out,” Kingsbury snarled. He fumbled for the remote control and turned off the VCR. He seemed unaware that the Amazing Kingdom’s stalwart mascot, Robbie Raccoon, was pointing a loaded semiautomatic at him. Joe Winder tucked the gun under one arm while he unzipped his head and removed it.

  “So you’re alive,” Kingsbury hissed. “I had a feeling, goddammit.”

  Bud Schwartz laughed and pointed at Kingsbury, who shielded his receding genitals. The burglar said, “The asshole’s wearing golf shoes!”

  “For traction,” Joe Winder theorized.

  Charles Chelsea looked disgusted. Danny Pogue tossed a package on the desk. “Here,” he said to Kingsbury, “even though you tried to kill us.”

  “What’s this?”

  “The files we swiped. Ramex, Gotti, it’s all there.”

  Kingsbury was confused. Why would they return the files now? Bud Schwartz read his expression and said, “You were right. It was out of our league.”

  Which was baloney. The true reason for returning the files was to ensure that no one would come searching for them later. Like the police or the FBI.

  “I suppose you want, what, a great big thank-you or some such goddamn thing.” Francis X. Kingsbury tugged the boxer shorts high on his gelatinous waist. The indignity of the
moment finally had sunk in. “Get out or I’m calling Security!”

  “You’ve got no Security,” Winder informed him.

  “Charlie?”

  “I’m afraid that’s right, sir. I’ll explain later.”

  Bud Schwartz said to his partner, “This is pathetic. Let’s go.”

  “Wait.” Danny Pogue stepped up to Kingsbury and said: “Beating up an old lady, what’s the matter with you?”

  “What the hell do you care.” By now Kingsbury had more or less focused on Joe Winder’s gun, so he spoke to Danny Pogue without looking at him. “That fucking Pedro, he gets carried away. Not a damn thing I can do.”

  “She’s a sick old woman, for Chrissake.”

  “What’s your point, Jethro?”

  “My point is this,” said Danny Pogue, and ferociously punched Francis Kingsbury on the chin. Kingsbury’s golf cleats snagged on the carpet as he toppled.

  Surveying the messy scene, Charles Chelsea felt refreshingly detached. He truly didn’t care anymore. Outside, a roar of thousands swept the Amazing Kingdom, followed by gay cheers and applause. Chelsea went to the window and parted the blinds. “What do you know,” he said. “Our five-millionth customer just walked through the gate.”

  With gray hands Kingsbury clutched the corner of the desk and pulled himself to his feet. In this fashion he was also able to depress a concealed alarm button that rang in the Security Office.

  Bud Schwartz said, “We’ll be saying good-bye now.”

  “You’re welcome to stay,” offered Joe Winder.

  “No thanks.” Danny Pogue examined his knuckles for bruises and abrasions. He said, “Molly’s having surgery this afternoon. We promised to be at the hospital.”

  “I understand,” Winder said. “You guys want to take anything?” He motioned with his gun paw around the lavish office. “The VCR? Some tapes? How about a cellular phone for the car?”