Carl Hiassen - NativeTongue

But there was no trace of Pedro, and despair clawed at Kingsbury's gut. People now were pouring out of the park, and taking their money with them. Even if they had wished to stop and purchase one last overpriced souvenir, no one was available to sell it to them.

Chickenshits! Kingsbury raged inwardly. All this panic, and no fire. Can't you idiots see it's a false alarm?

Then came the screams.

Kingsbury's throat tightened. He ducked into a photo kiosk and removed the laminated ID card from his belt. Why risk it if the crowd turned surly?

The screaming continued. In a prickly sweat, Kingsbury tracked the disturbance to the whale tank, where something had caught the attention of several families on their way out of the park. They lined the walkway, and excitedly pointed to the water. Assuming the pose of a fellow tourist, Kingsbury nonchalantly joined the others on the rail. He overheard one man tell his wife that there wasn't enough light to use the video camera; she encouraged him to try anyway. A young girl cried and clutched at her mother's leg; her older brother told her to shut up, it's just a plastic dummy.

It wasn't a dummy. It was the partially clothed body of Pedro Luz, facedown in the Orky tank. His muscular buttocks mooned the masses, and indeed it was this sight – not the fact he was dead – that had shocked customers into shrieking.

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?"

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.