by Carl Hiaasen
Francis X. Kingsbury glared spitefully at the corpse. Pedro’s bobbing bare ass seemed to mock him—a hairy faceless smile, taunting as it floated by. So this is how it goes, thought Kingsbury. Give a man a second chance, this is how he pays you back.
Suddenly, and without warning, Dickie the Dolphin rocketed twenty feet out of the water and performed a perfect triple-reverse somersault.
The tourists, out of pure dumb reflex, broke into applause.
The Amazing Kingdom of Thrills emptied in forty minutes. Two hook-and-ladder rigs arrived from Homestead, followed by a small pumper truck from the main fire station in lower Key Largo. The fire fighters unrolled the hoses and wandered around the park, but found no sign of a fire. They were preparing to leave when three green Jeeps with flashing lights raced into the empty parking lot. The fire fighters weren’t sure what to make of the Game and Fish officers; an amusement park seemed an unlikely hideout for gator poachers. Sergeant Mark Dyerson flagged down one of the departing fire trucks and asked the captain if it was safe to take dogs into the area. The captain said sure, be my guest. Almost immediately the hounds struck a scent, and the old tracker turned them loose. The wildlife officers loaded up the dart guns and followed.
Francis Kingsbury happened to be staring out the window when he spotted the lion loping erratically down Kingsbury Lane; a pack of dogs trailed closely, snapping at its tail. The doped-up cat attempted to climb one of the phony palm trees, but fell when its claws pulled loose from the Styrofoam bark. Swatting at the hounds, the cat rose and continued its disoriented escape.
Lunacy, thought Kingsbury.
Someone knocked twice on the office door and came in—a short round man with thin brown hair and small black eyes. A hideous polyester-blend shirt identified him as a valued customer. Pinned diagonally across the man’s chest was a wrinkled streamer that said “OUR FIVE-MILLIONTH SPECIAL GUEST!” In the crook of each arm sat a stuffed toy animal with reddish fur, pipestem whiskers and a merry turquoise tongue.
Vance and Violet Vole.
“For my nieces,” the man explained. “I got so much free stuff I can hardly fit it in the car.”
Kingsbury smiled stiffly. “The big winner, right? That’s you.”
“Yeah, my wife can’t fuckin’ believe it.”
“Didn’t you hear it, the fire alarm? Everybody else, I mean, off they went.”
“But I didn’t see no fire,” the man said. “No smoke, neither.” He arranged the stuffed animals side by side on Kingsbury’s sofa.
The guy’s a total yutz, Kingsbury thought. Does he want my autograph or what? Maybe a snapshot with the big cheese.
“What’s that you got there?” the man asked. “By the way, the name’s Rossiter.” He nodded toward a plaid travel bag that lay open on Kingsbury’s desk. The bag was full of cash, mostly twenties and fifties.
The man said, “Looks like I wasn’t the only one had a lucky day.”
Kingsbury snapped the bag closed. “I’m very busy, Mr. Rossiter. What’s the problem—something with the new car, right? The color doesn’t match your wife’s eyes or whatever.”
“No, the car’s great. I got no complaints about the car.”
“Then what?” Kingsbury said. “The parade, I bet. That last song, I swear to Christ, I don’t know where that shit came from—”
“You kiddin’ me? It was beautiful. It was Puccini.”
Kingsbury threw up his hands. “Whatever. Not to be rude, but what the fuck do you want?”
The man said, “I got a confession to make. I cheated a little this morning.” He shrugged sheepishly. “I cut in line so we could be the first ones through the gate. That’s how I won the car.”
It figures, thought Kingsbury. Your basic South Florida clientele.
The man said, “I felt kinda lousy, but what the hell. Opportunity knocks, right? I mean, since I had to be here anyway—”
“Mr. Rossiter, do I look like a priest? All this stuff, I don’t need to hear it—”
“Hey, call me Lou,” the man said, “and I’ll call you Frankie.” From his Sansibelt slacks he withdrew a .38-caliber pistol with a silencer.
Francis Kingsbury’s cheeks went from pink to gray. “Don’t tell me,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Lou, “can you believe it?”
36
Francis X. Kingsbury asked the hit man not to shoot.
“Save your breath,” said Lou.
“But, look, a fantastic new world I built here. A place for little tykes, you saw for yourself—roller coasters and clowns and talking animals. Petey Possum and so forth. I did all this myself.”
“What a guy,” said Lou.
Kingsbury was unaccustomed to such bald sarcasm. “Maybe I make a little dough off the operation, so what? Look at all the fucking happiness I bring people!”
“I enjoyed myself,” Lou admitted. “My wife, she’s crazy about the Twirling Teacups. She and her mother both. I almost spit up on the damn thing, to be honest, but my wife’s got one a them cast-iron stomachs.”
Kingsbury brightened. “The Twirling Teacups, I designed those myself. The entire ride from scratch.”
“No shit?”
The hit man seemed to soften, and Kingsbury sensed an opening. “Look, I got an idea about paying back the Zubonis. It’s a big construction deal, we’re talking millions. They’d be nuts to pass it up—can you make a phone call? Tell ’em it’s once in a lifetime.”
Lou said, “Naw, I don’t think so.”
“Florida waterfront—that’s all you gotta say. Florida fucking waterfront, and they’ll be on the next plane from Newark, I promise.”
“You’re a good salesman,” said the hit man, “but I got a contract.”
Kingsbury nudged the plaid travel bag across the desk. “My old lady, she wanted me to go on a trip—Europe, the whole nine yards. I was thinking why not, just for a couple months. She’s never been there.”
Lou nodded. “Now’s a good time to go. The crowds aren’t so bad.”
“Anyhow, I emptied the cash registers after the parade.” Kingsbury patted the travel bag. “This is just from ticket sales, not concessions, and still you’re talking three hundred and forty thousand. Cash-ola.”
“Yeah? That’s some vacation, three hundred forty grand.”
“And it’s all yours if you forget about the contract.”
“Hell,” said Lou, “it’s mine if I don’t.”
Outside there was a bang, followed by a hot crackling roar. When Kingsbury spun his chair toward the window, his face was bathed in flickering yellow light.
“Lord,” he said.
The Wet Willy was on fire—hundreds of feet of billowed latex, squirming and thrashing like an eel on a griddle. White sparks and flaming bits of rubber hissed into the tropical sky, and came down as incendiary rain upon the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. Smaller fires began to break out everywhere.
Francis Kingsbury shivered under his hairpiece.
Lou went to the window and watched the Wet Willy burn. “You know what it looks like?”
“Yes,” Kingsbury said.
“A giant Trojan.”
“I know.”
“It ain’t up to code, that’s for sure. You must’ve greased some county inspectors.”
“Another good guess,” Kingsbury said. Why did the alarm cut off? he wondered. Where did all the firemen go?
Lou farted placidly as he walked back to the desk. “Well, I better get a move on.”
Kingsbury tried to hand him the telephone. “Please,” he begged, “call the Zuboni brothers.”
“A deal’s a deal,” Lou said, checking the fit of the silencer.
“But you saw for yourself!” Kingsbury cried. “Another five years, goddamn, I’ll be bigger than Disney.”
Lou looked doubtful. “I wasn’t gonna say anything, but what the hell. The car and the prizes are great, don’t get me wrong, but the park’s got a long ways to go.”
Petulantly, Kingsbury said, “
Fine, let’s hear it.”
“It’s the bathrooms,” said Lou. “The fuckin’ Port Authority’s got cleaner bathrooms.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, and it wouldn’t hurt to keep an extra roll of toilet paper in the stalls.”
“Is that it? That’s your big gripe?”
Lou said, “People notice them things, they really do.” Then he stepped toward Francis X. Kingsbury and raised the pistol.
* * *
Joe Winder led her through the dense hammock, all the way to the ocean’s edge. It took nearly an hour because Carrie wore high heels. The gown kept snagging on branches, and the insects were murder.
“I’m down two pints,” she said, scratching at her ankles.
“Take off the shoes. Hurry.” He held her hand and waded into the water.
“Joe!” The gown rose up around her hips; the sequins sparkled like tiny minnows.
“How deep are we going?” she asked.
At first the turtle grass tickled her toes, then it began to sting. Winder kept walking until the water was up to his chest.
“See? No more bugs.”
“You’re full of tricks,” Carrie said, clinging to his arm. From the flats it was possible to see the entire curving shore of the island, including the naked gash made by the bulldozers at Falcon Trace. She asked if the trees would ever come back.
“Someday,” Joe Winder said, “if the bastards leave it alone.”
Stretching toward the horizon was a ribbon of lights from the cars sitting bumper-to-bumper on County Road 905—the exodus of tourists from the Amazing Kingdom. Winder wondered if Skink had waited long enough to make his big move.
He listened for the distant sounds of sirens as he moved through the shallows, following the shoreline south. The warm hug of the tide soothed the pain in his chest. He pointed at a pair of spotted leopard rays, pushing twin wakes.
“What else do you see?” Carrie said.
“Turtles. Jellyfish. A pretty girl with no shoes.” He kissed her on the neck.
“How far can we go like this?” she asked.
“Big Pine, Little Torch, all the way to Key West if you want.”
She laughed. “Joe, that’s a hundred miles.” She kicked playfully into the deeper water. “It feels so good.”
“You sang beautifully tonight. Watch out for the coral.”
When Carrie stood up, the water came to her chin. Blowing bubbles, she said, “I didn’t know you liked opera.”
“I hate opera,” Winder said, “but you made it wonderful.”
She splashed after him, but he swam away.
They didn’t leave the ocean until the road was clear and the island was dark. They agreed it would be best to get out of Monroe County for a while, so they took Card Sound Road toward the mainland. The pavement felt cool under their feet. They wanted to hold hands, but it hampered their ability to defend themselves against the swarming mosquitoes. Every few minutes Winder would stop walking and check the sky for a change in the light. One time he was sure he heard a helicopter.
Carrie said, “What’s your feeling about all this?”
“Meaning Kingsbury and the whole mess.”
“Exactly.”
“There’s thousands more where he came from.”
“Oh, brother,” Carrie said. “I was hoping you’d gotten it all out of your system.”
“Never,” said Winder, “but I’m open to suggestions.”
“All right, here’s one: Orlando.”
“God help us.”
“Now wait a second, Joe. They’re shooting commercials at those new studios up there. I’ve got my first audition lined up for next week.”
“What kind of commercials?”
“The point is, it’s national exposure.”
“Promise me something,” Winder said. “Promise it’s not one of those personal-hygiene products.”
“Fabric softener. The script’s not bad, all things considered.”
“And will there be singing?”
“No singing,” Carrie said, picking up the pace. “They’ve got newspapers in Orlando, don’t they?”
“Oh no, you don’t.”
“It’d be good for you, Joe. Write about the important things, whatever pisses you off. Just write something. Otherwise you’ll make me crazy, and I’ll wind up killing you in your sleep.”
The Card Sound Bridge rose steeply ahead. A handful of crabbers and snapper fishermen sleepily tended slack lines. Joe and Carrie took the sidewalk. For some reason she stopped and gave him a long kiss.
Halfway up the rise, she tugged on his hand and told him to turn around.
There it was: the eastern sky aglow, fat clouds roiling unnaturally under a pulsing halo of wild pink and orange. Baleful columns of tarry smoke rose from the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills.
Joe Winder whistled in amazement. “There’s arson,” he said, “and then there’s arson.”
Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue were surprised to find Molly McNamara wide awake, propped up with a stack of thin hospital pillows. She was brushing her snowy hair and reading the New Republic when the burglars arrived.
“Pacemaker,” Molly reported. “A routine procedure.”
“You look so good,” said Danny Pogue. “Bud, don’t she look good?”
“Hush now,” Molly said. “Sit down here, the news is coming on. There’s a story you’ll both find interesting.” Without being asked, Danny Pogue switched the television to Channel 10, Molly’s favorite.
Bud Schwartz marveled at the old woman in bed. Days earlier, she had seemed so weak and withered and close to death. Now the gray eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s, her cheeks shone, and her voice rang strong with maternal authority.
She said, “Danny, did you get the bullets?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He handed Molly the yellow box.
“These are .22-longs,” she said. “I needed shorts. That’s what the gun takes.”
Danny Pogue looked lamely toward his partner. Bud Schwartz said, “Look, we just asked for .22s. The guy didn’t say nothin’ about long or short.”
“It’s all right,” Molly McNamara said. “I’ll pick up a box at the range next week.”
“We don’t know diddly about guns,” Danny Pogue reiterated. “Neither of us do.”
“I know, and I think it’s precious.” Molly put on her rose-framed glasses and instructed Bud Schwartz to adjust the volume on the television. A nurse came in to check the dressing on Molly’s stitches, but Molly shooed her away. She pointed at the TV and said, “Look here, boys.”
The news opened with videotape of a colossal raging fire. The scene had been recorded at a great distance, and from a helicopter. When the TV reporter announced what was burning, the burglars simultaneously looked at one another and mouthed the same profane exclamation.
“Yes,” Molly McNamara said rapturously. “Yes, indeed.”
Danny Pogue felt mixed emotions as he watched the Amazing Kingdom burn. He recalled the gaiety of the promenade, the friendliness of the animal characters, the circus colors and brassy music, the wondrous sensation of being inundated with fun. Then he thought of Francis X. Kingsbury killing off the butterflies and crocodiles, and the conflagration seemed more like justice than tragedy.
Bud Schwartz was equally impressed by the destruction of the theme park—not as a moral lesson, but as a feat of brazen criminality. The torch artist had been swift and thorough; the place was engulfed in roaring, implacable flames, and there was no saving it. The man on TV said he had never witnessed such a fierce, fast-moving blaze. Bud Schwartz felt relieved and lucky and wise.
“And you wanted to stay,” he said to Danny Pogue. “You wanted to ride the Jungle Jerry again.”
Danny Pogue nodded solemnly and slid the chair close to the television. “We could be dead,” he murmured.
“Fried,” said his partner. “Fried clams.”
“Hush now,” Molly said. “There’s no call for melodrama.”
&
nbsp; She announced that she wasn’t going to ask why they’d gone to the Amazing Kingdom that night. “I don’t like to pry,” she said. “You’re grown men, you’ve got your own lives.”
Danny Pogue said, “It wasn’t us who torched the place.”
Molly McNamara smiled as if she already knew. “How’s your foot, Danny?”
“It don’t hardly hurt at all.”
Then to Bud Schwartz: “And your hand? Is it better?”
“Gettin’ there,” he said, flexing the fingers.
Molly removed her glasses and rested her head against the pillows. “Nature is a wonder,” she said. “Such power to renew, or to destroy. It’s an awesome paradox.”
“A what?” said Danny Pogue.
Molly told them to think of the fire as a natural purge, a cyclical scouring of the land. Bud Schwartz could hardly keep a straight face. He jerked his chin toward the flickering images on television, and said, “So maybe it’s spontaneous combustion, huh? Maybe a bolt of lightning?”
“Anything’s possible,” Molly said with a twinkle. She asked Danny Pogue to switch to the Discovery Channel, which just happened to be showing a documentary about endangered Florida manatees. A mating scene was in progress as Danny Pogue adjusted the color tint.
Not tonight, thought Bud Schwartz, and got up to excuse himself.
Molly said, “There’s a Dodgers game on ESPN. You can watch across the hall in Mr. McMillan’s room—he is in what they call a nonresponsive state, so he probably won’t mind.”
“Swell,” Bud Schwartz muttered. “Maybe we’ll go halfsies on a keg.”
Danny Pogue heard none of this; he was already glued to the tube. Bud Schwartz pointed at his partner and grinned. “Look what you done to him.”
Molly McNamara winked. “Go on now,” she said. “I think Ojeda’s pitching.”
Trooper Jim Tile braked sharply when he saw the three green Jeeps. The wildlife officers had parked in a precise triangle at the intersection of Card Sound Road and County 905.
