Carl Hiassen - NativeTongue

It was the story about the theft of the blue-tongued mango voles. The Herald had stripped it across the top of the Local News page, a feature play. "Hey," Winder said brightly, "they even used one of our pictures."

"Never mind that, just read the last three graphs."

The newspaper story ended like this:

An anonymous caller identifying himself as an animal-rights activist telephoned the Miami office of the Associated Press late Monday and took credit for the incident at the popular theme park. The caller claimed to be a member of the radical Wildlife Rescue Corps.

"We freed the voles because they were being exploited," he said. "Francis Kingsbury doesn't care about saving the species, he just wanted another stupid tourist attraction."

Officials at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills were unavailable for comment late Monday night.

Joe Winder gave the newspaper back to Charles Chelsea and said, "What a kick in the nuts. I'll bet the boss man is going batshit."

"You find this amusing?"

"Don't you?" Winder asked. "I guess not."

"No," said Chelsea. He refolded the newspaper and returned it to his armpit. "What do you suggest in the way of a response?"

"I suggest we forget the fucking voles and get on with our lives."

"This is serious."

Winder said, "So I was right, Kingsbury's on a tear. Then I would suggest you tell him that we're waiting to see if there's any truth to this claim. Tell him that if we say anything now, it might turn around and bite us in the rat hole."

Chelsea started rubbing his chin, a sign of possible cognition. "Go on," he told Winder. "I'm listening."

"For instance, suppose the real Wildlife Rescue Corps calls up and denies any involvement. Hell, Charlie, there's a good chance the caller was a crank. Had nothing to do with the group. To play it safe, we don't respond for now. We say absolutely nothing."

"But if it turns out to be true?"

"Then," said Joe Winder, "we express outrage that any organization, no matter how worthy its cause, would commit a violent felony and endanger the lives of innocent bystanders."

Chelsea nodded enthusiastically; he liked what he was hearing. "Not just any bystanders," he said. "Tourists."

Winder went on: "We would also recount Mr. Kingsbury's many philanthropic gifts to the ASPCA, the World Wildlife Fund, Save the Beavers, whatever. And we would supply plenty of testimonial quotes from eminent naturalists supporting our efforts on behalf of the endangered mango vole."

"Excellent," Charles Chelsea said. "Joe, that's perfect."

"Pure unalloyed genius," Winder said.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Chelsea said. "You don't want to spend the rest of the week writing about rodents. Too much like covering City Hall, right?"

Joe Winder chuckled politely. He could tell Chelsea was worried about pitching it to Kingsbury.

In a hopeful voice, Chelsea said, "You think the guy was really just a nut? This guy who called the AP?"

"Who knows," Winder said. "We've certainly got our share."

Charles Chelsea nodded hopefully. A simple nut would be fine with him, PR-wise; it's the zealots you had to worry about.

"The only thing to do is wait," said Joe Winder. Already he could feel his sinuses drying up. He felt suddenly clearheaded, chipper, even optimistic. Maybe it was the medicine flushing his head, or maybe it was something else.

Like having a real honest-to-God story, for a change. A story getting good and hot.

Just like the old days.

Chelsea had a stark, irrational fear of Francis X. Kingsbury. It was not Kingsbury's physical appearance (for he was gnomish and flabby) but his volcanically profane temper that caused Chelsea so much anxiety. Kingsbury long ago had practically ceased speaking in complete sentences, but his broken exclamations could be daunting and acerbic. The words struck venomously at Charles Chelsea's insecurities, and made him tremble.

On the afternoon of July 17, Chelsea finished his lunch, threw up, flossed his teeth and walked briskly to Kingsbury's office. Kingsbury was leaning over the desk; the great man's sleeves were rolled up to reveal the famous lewd tattoo on his doughy left forearm. The other arm sparkled with a gold Robbie Raccoon wristwatch, with emerald insets. Today's surfer-blond hairpiece was longish and curly.

Kingsbury grunted at Charles Chelsea and said: "Wildlife Rescue Corps?" He raised his hands. "Well?"

Chelsea said, "The group exists, but the phone call could be a crank. We're checking it out."

"What's this exploitation – shit, we're talking about, what, some kind of rodent or such goddamn thing."

Not even close to a quotable sentence, Chelsea thought. It was astounding – the man spoke in over-torqued, expletive-laden fragments that somehow made perfect sense. At all times, Charles Chelsea knew exactly what Francis X. Kingsbury was talking about.

The publicity man said, "Don't worry, sir, the situation is being contained. We're ready for any contingency."

Kingsbury made a small fist. "Damage control," he said.

"Our top gun," Chelsea said. "His name is Joe Winder, and he's a real pro. Offering the reward money was his idea, sir. The AP led with it this morning, too."

Kingsbury sat down. He fingered the florid tip of his bulbous nose. "These animals, there's still a chance maybe?"

Chelsea could feel a chilly dampness spreading in deadly crescents from his armpits. "It's unlikely, sir. One of them is dead for sure. Shot by the highway patrol. Some tourists apparently mistook it for a rat."

"Terrific," said Kingsbury.

"The other one, likewise. The bandits threw it in the window of a Winnebago camper."

Kingsbury peered from beneath dromedary lids. "Don't," he said, exhaling noisily. "This is like...no, don't bother."

"You might as well know," said Chelsea. "It was a church group from Boca Raton in the Winnebago. They beat the poor thing to death with a golf umbrella. Then they threw it off the Card Sound Bridge."

There, Chelsea thought. He had done it. Stood up and delivered the bad news. Stood up like a man.

Francis X. Kingsbury entwined his hands and said: "Who knows about this? Knows that we know? Anybody?"

"You mean anybody on the outside? No." Charles

Chelsea paused. "Well, except the highway patrol. And I took care of them with some free passes to the Kingdom."

"But civilians?"

"No, sir. Nobody knows that we know the voles are dead."

"Fine," said Francis X. Kingsbury. "Good time to up the reward."

"Sir?"

"Make it a million bucks. Six zeros, if I'm not mistaken."

Chelsea took out a notebook and a Cross pen, and began to write. "That's one million dollars for the safe return of the missing voles."

"Which are dead."

"Yes, sir."

"Simple, hell. Very simple."

"It's a most generous offer," said Charles Chelsea. "Bullshit," Kingsbury said. "It's PR, whatever. Stuff for the fucking AP."

"But your heart's in the right place." Impatiently Kingsbury pointed toward the door. "Fast," he said. "Before I get sick."

Chelsea was startled. Backing away from Kingsbury's desk, he said, "I'm sorry, sir. Is it something I said?"

"No, something you are." Kingsbury spoke flatly, with just a trace of disgust.

On the way back to his office, Charles Chelsea stopped in the executive washroom and threw up again.

Like many wildly successful Floridians, Francis X. Kingsbury was a transplant. He had moved to the Sunshine State in balding middle age, alone and uprooted, never expecting that he would become a multimillionaire.

And, like so many new Floridians, Kingsbury was a felon on the run. Before arriving in Miami, he was known by his real name of Frankie King. Not Frank, but Frankie; his mother had named him after the singer Frankie Laine. All his life Frankie King had yearned to change his name to something more distinguished, something with weight and social bearing. A racketeering indictment (twenty-seven counts) out of Brooklyn was as good an excuse as any.