Carl Hiassen - NativeTongue

Swimming is an exercise that depends more on style than muscle, and Pedro Luz was plainly a terrible swimmer. The throbbing of his truncated leg added pain to ineptitude as he paddled the tank haplessly in search of a ladder. When the massive dolphin rolled beside him in the dark, Pedro Luz cursed and splashed his arms angrily. He was not the least bit afraid of stupid fish; perhaps he was deceived by the dolphin's friendly smile, or misled by childhood memories of the hokey "Flipper" television series. In any event, Pedro Luz struck out at the creature with the misguided assumption that he could actually hurt it, and that it was too tame and good-natured to retaliate. Pedro's drug-inflamed brain failed to register the fact that Dickie the Dolphin was a more attuned physiological specimen than Pedro Luz himself, and about five hundred pounds larger. When the animal nudged him playfully with its snout, Pedro Luz balled his fists and slugged its silky gray flank.

"Be careful," Joe Winder advised from the walkway, but Pedro Luz paid no attention. The damn fish would not go away! Using its pectoral flippers almost as arms, it held Pedro Luz in a grasp that was gentle yet firm.

Spitting curses, he kicked the dolphin savagely and pushed away. Stroking clumsily for the wall of the tank, he saw the long sleek form rise beneath him. A fin found Pedro Luz's armpit and spun him roughly. He came up choking, but again the creature tugged him down. Once more Pedro Luz fought his way to the top, and this time Dickie the Dolphin began to nip mischievously – tiny needle-like teeth raking Pedro's neck, his shoulders, his bare thighs. Then the dolphin rolled languidly on its side and gave a soft inquisitive whistle, the same sound Flipper used to make at the end of the TV show when he waved at the camera. Pedro Luz tried not to be afraid, but he couldn't understand what this dolphin was trying to say, or do. The salt water stung his eyes and his throat, and the stump of his leg felt as if it were on fire.

Again Pedro Luz felt cool fins slide under his arms as the dolphin gradually steered him toward the deepest part of the tank. The security man tried to break free, but it did no good. Something else propelled him now – a formidable protuberance that left no doubt as to Dickie the Dolphin's true purpose.

Pedro Luz was awestruck and mortified. The long pale thing loomed from the gray water and touched him – hooking, in fact, around his buttocks. The amphibious prodding brought an unfamiliar plea to Pedro Luz's lips: "Help!"

Watching events unfold in the tank below, Skink agreed it was an extraordinary scene.

"I told you," said Joe Winder. "It's one of Nature's marvels."

Pedro Luz began to whimper. No regimen of weight training and pharmaceutical enhancement could have prepared him, or any mortal man, for an all-out sexual attack by a healthy bottle-nosed dolphin. Pedro Luz had never felt so helpless, exhausted and inadequate; desperately he punched at the prodigious inquiring tuber, only to be rebuked by a well-placed slap from Dickie's sinewy fluke.

Leaning over the rail, Joe Winder offered more advice: "Just roll with it. Don't fight him."

But the futility of resistance was already clear to Pedro Luz, who found himself – for the first time in his adult life – completely out of strength. As he was pulled underwater for the final time, terror gave way to abject humiliation: he was being fucked to death by a damn fish.

Nina asked where he was calling from.

"Charlie's office," Winder said. "Here's what I'm going to do: I'll leave the phone off the hook all night. That way you can work on your poetry and still make money."

"Joe, that'll cost him a fortune. It's four bucks a minute."

"I know the rates, Nina. Don't worry about it."

"You ready for the latest?"

"Just one verse. Time's running out."

"Here goes," she said, and began to recite:

"You flooded me with passions

Hard and lingering.

You took me down again

Pumping breathless, biting blind.

Hot in your bloodrush, I dreamed of more."

"Wow," Winder said. Obviously things were going gangbusters between Nina and the light-truck salesman.

"You really like it? Or are you patronizing me again?"

"Nina, you're breaking new ground."

"Guess what the moron at the phone syndicate wants. Limericks! Sex limericks, like they publish in Playboy. That's his idea of erotic poetry!"

"Stick to your guns," Winder said.

"You bet I will."

"The reason I called was to say good-bye."

"So tonight's the night," she said. "Will I be seeing you on the news?"

"I hope not." He thought: What the hell. "I met a woman," he said.

"I'm very happy for you."

"Aw, Nina, don't say that."

"I am. I think it's great."

"Christ Almighty, aren't you the least bit jealous?"

"Not really."

God, she was a pisser. "Then lie to me," Winder said. "Have mercy on my lunatic soul and lie to me. Tell me you're mad with jealousy."

"You win, Joe. You saw through my act."

"Was that a giggle I heard?"

"No!" Nina said. The giggle burst into a full-blown laugh. "I'm dying here. I might just leap off the building, I'm so damn jealous. Who is she? Who is this tramp?"

Now Winder started laughing, too. "I'd better go," he said, "before I say something sensible."

"Call me, Joe. Whatever happens, I'd love to get a phone call."

"I know the number by heart," he said. "Me and every pervert on the Gold Coast."

"You go to hell," Nina teased. "And be careful, dammit."

He said good-bye and placed the receiver on Charles Chelsea's desk.

Skink mulched a cotton candy and said, "These are excellent seats."

They ought to be." Joe Winder assumed Francis X. Kingsbury would arrive at any moment; it was his private viewing box, after all – leather swivel chairs, air-conditioning, video monitors, a wet bar. Thirty rows up, overlooking the parade route.

"What will you do when he gets here?" Skink asked.

"I haven't decided. Maybe he'd like to go swimming with Pedro's new friend."

The grandstand was packed, and Kingsbury Lane was lined five deep with eager spectators. As the history of Florida unfolded in song and skit, Joe Winder imagined that the Stations of the Cross could be similarly adapted and set to music, if the audience would only forgive a few minor revisions. Every float in the Summerfest pageant was greeted with the blind and witless glee displayed by people who have spent way too much money and are determined to have fun. They cheered at the sight of a bootless Ponce de Leon, an underaged maiden on each arm, wading bawdily into the Fountain of Youth; they roared as the pirate Black Caesar chased a concubine up the mizzenmast while his men plundered a captured galleon; they gasped as the Killer Hurricane of 1926 tore the roof off a settler's cabin and the smock off his brave young wife.

Skink said, "I never realized cleavage played such an important role in Florida history." Joe Winder told him to just wait for the break-dancing migrants.

Carrie Lanier gave a cassette of the new music to the driver, and took her place on the last float. The Talent Manager showed up and demanded to know why she wasn't wearing the Indian costume.

"That wasn't an Indian costume," Carrie said, "unless the Seminoles had streetwalkers."

The Talent Manager, a middle-aged woman with sweeping peroxide hair and ropes of gold jewelry, informed Carrie that a long gown was unsuitable for the Jubilee parade.

"It's ideal for what I'm singing," Carrie replied.

"And what would that be?"

"That would be none of your business." She adjusted the microphone, which was clipped into the neck of her dress.