James Smith - The Flock

Off to the right was what was serving as a police station. The building was a sprawling, single story structure done up in red brick and white trim, pale shutters bordering the kind of windows one would expect to see on a house, rather than a police station. In fact, it was a private security firm, owned and operated by Berg Brothers Studios, that gave the citizens their sense of safety from the outside world. There was some debate already about how and when real police were going to be integrated into Salutations. Currently, the place didn't even have elected officials, but that was coming soon, since no other town was near enough to have incorporated these lands into its borders.

He drove on, passing the already thriving retail and entertainment district. The place looked busy with people, mainly young mothers, children in tow, and older women with silver hair and no one to fret over. He noticed a pair of competing groceries, the superstore types, and a small indoor mall took up most of a block. There was a sign for a cinema that was showing the latest films, including the newest Berg Brothers bomb that had ceased to show everywhere else save for the odd dollar cinema here and there. Ron admired the particularly long and tanned legs of a mom holding hands with her little blonde tyke, her short shorts giving a truly traffic-stopping view. He almost did run the next intersection and his tires barked quickly as he came to a stop. Even so, he watched the woman until she vanished into some kind of curio shop on the opposite corner. An older lady scowled at him from the parking lot of one of the groceries, and Ron felt a bit guilty. He would have tipped his hat at her if he'd been wearing one.

Taking a moment to refer to his street map, he looked at it, frowning at the parade of cartoon characters along the borders who smiled and pointed at various sights. "Harmony Way," he muttered. "Give me a break." He noted the address again: 100 West Harmony Way, and continued on, pressing the brightly colored map into the folds in the seat.

At the next intersection, he took a right. And there he was, right in front of Town Administration. The company men were keeping it neat and orderly until such time as the town voted to form their own government. He was sure they were looking forward to that. At least there was plenty of parking. He found a space well away from the building and got out. The temperature had already climbed another degree or two, and he paused just long enough to lower the windows a couple of inches on both sides of the cab. Once again he made a mental note to requisition a truck with air-conditioning.

The parking lot was busy with tourists, he noticed. It had seemed the way in was a road to nowhere, and he had seen no other vehicles coming in or going out along the way. But here they all were, Florida's combined curse and blessing: the tourists from points north. Everyone was a Yankee to a native Floridian. Overweight parents and their hamburger fatted broods went this way and that, going toward the curio shops and the enclosed mall and the theaters and the restaurants. Ron reckoned Salutations didn't really need any citizens to make this place work. The green oil from the tourists would probably lubricate the money machine just fine, thanks.

As he approached the red brick steps leading up to great, wide, whitewashed pine walls, the door opened and a tall, carefully groomed man in a neat suit came out. A wide face capped by a blond buzz cut beamed down. Although he was only standing two steps above, the fellow seemed to loom there, like a giant. Ron quickly decided the man stood at about six and a half feet, considerably taller than Ron. The big man's appropriately big hand shot out as Riggs came up the stairs.

"You must be Mr. Riggs from Fish and Wildlife." He took Ron's hand and squeezed it. Ron squeezed back.

"Yes, sir. And you're Andrew Dorkin?" Dorkin was the company executive who had first called the Service, touching base with those who could be either the company's friend or adversary, depending on the circumstances.

The big man smiled, a perfect grin in a tanned face, crow's-feet webbing out upon skin that had spent considerable time in the sun. "Oh, nonono. I'm Bill Tatum," he said, giving Ron's hand a final athletic squeeze and then releasing it. "I'm in charge of security here at Salutations. Have been since the studio broke ground two years ago." He smiled even more broadly and gazed around them. "This place was just the old base going to weed when I got here."

"I see," Ron said. "Well, I just assumed I'd be talking with Mr. Dorkin, since he's the one who's been speaking with the boys down at the office."

"Mr. Dorkin is very busy. I usually take up the slack in minor situations like this." He breathed in, seeming to enjoy the intake. In fact, the air was sweet, scented by the forest and wetlands that lay all about the town like a carefully painted picture.

Tatum was staring hard at something in the parking lot behind them, his smile fading ever so slightly, and Ron turned to see what it was. The expression on Tatum's face was that severe.

A smallish man was coming their way. He was dressed in rumpled khaki, a new digital camera hanging from his neck. Ron almost smiled at the way the man bounced their way, until he realized that his odd up and down gait was probably due to some old serious injury or, perhaps, a moderate birth defect. The guy was very thin, a dark brown beard artfully covering what was a generally chinless face. Coke bottle lenses expanded a pair of friendly eyes above a beak of a nose. And the whole picture was capped by what had to be one of the thickest and curliest heads of hair Ron had ever seen. Three pens of various types jutted out of that hair like a tribal decoration on some ancient Neanderthal. Once again Ron wanted to chuckle, but quickly noted that all vestige of Tatum's friendly demeanor had vanished as the goofball came their way.

Tatum spoke first. "Mr. Dodd. We keep telling you there's no story here. And we can do without your kind of publicity."

The Dodd fellow came up the steps, and Ron had in mind that the three of them looked to be a mismatched set of progressively smaller figures. "Hello," he said, and extended his hand to Ron. Ron took it. "I'm Tim Dodd, with the National Inquirer. Down here to get the story on what's going on in paradise." He smiled a lopsided grin.

"Ron Riggs," Ron told him. "U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service."

Tatum cleared his throat and seemed to glare a message at Ron. Ron got the message, but lying to the press wasn't part of his job. At least not this one.

"Yes. I saw your truck," the reporter said. "What exactly is the problem around here, Mr. Riggs?"

"There isn't a problem," Tatum said. "Due to the outstanding status of most of the property surrounding Salutations USA, we are obliged by law to confer with various governmental and environmental agencies whenever the company wishes to make any kind of decision involving construction or modifications of almost any type."

"Modifications, eh? Is that what you call a hunting party to exterminate the local wildlife?"

Whatever of friendliness remained in Tatum's face vanished and was instantly replaced with something quite darker. "Mr. Dodd. I've warned you once. You can't find a story here, so you're just trying to create one."

"What story?" Ron asked.

"Don't you read the Inquirer? My column, 'In Dodd We Trust'?" Dodd looked indignant.

"Afraid not," Riggs told him, a grin cracking his face.

Dodd raised his thin arms in the air, as if asking the gods for a reason. "You're a deprived individual, Mr. Riggs. Which is better than being depraved, eh Tatum?"

"This is private property, Dodd." Tatum ground out the words.

"Yes, it is, Mr. Tatum. But you don't really need or want the negative publicity of having me tossed out of here, do you? I know you've already discussed it in your various board meetings. So I'm just going to hang out until I dig up the truth. What do you say, Riggs? Want to cough it all up for me?"