Carl Hiassen - NativeTongue

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 a 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 sound 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 commercial?"

"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.