Native Tongue (13 page)

A jurisdictional dispute had delayed the removal of the offending body for most of the morning. It was a tricky geographic dilemma. The middle of the Card Sound Bridge marked the boundary line between Dade and Monroe counties. The Monroe County medical examiner’s man had arrived first on the scene, and decided that the dead man was hanging in Dade County airspace and therefore was not his responsibility. The Dade County medical examiner’s man had argued vigorously that the victim had most certainly plummeted from the Monroe County side of the bridge. Besides which the Dade County morgue was already packed to the rafters with homicides, and it wouldn’t kill Monroe
County to take just one. Neither coroner would budge, so the dead body just hung there for four hours until the Monroe County medical examiner announced that he was needed at a fatal traffic accident in Marathon, and scurried away, leaving his colleague stuck with the corpse—and now some whiny pain-in-the-ass PR man.

The coroner said to Charles Chelsea: “We’ve got to get some pictures. Take some measurements. Preserve the scene, just in case.”

“In case of what? The poor jerk killed himself.” Chelsea sounded annoyed. Preserving the scene was the opposite of what he wanted.

Trooper Jim Tile removed his sunglasses and folded them into a breast pocket. “I guess I can go home. Now that we got an expert on the case.”

Charles Chelsea started to rebuke this impertinent flatfoot, but changed his mind when he took a good look. The trooper was very tall and very muscular and very black, all of which made Chelsea edgy. He sensed that Jim Tile was not the sort to be impressed by titles, but nonetheless he introduced himself as a vice president at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills.

“How nifty,” said the trooper.

“Yes, it is,” Chelsea said pleasantly. Then, lowering his voice: “But, to be frank, we could do without this kind of spectacle.” His golden chin pointed up at the hapless corpse. Then he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the chattering throng of onlookers.

“All these people,” Chelsea said urgently, “were on their way to our theme park.”

“How do you know?” asked Jim Tile.

“Look around here—where else would they be going? What else is there to see?”

“In other words, you would like us to remove the deceased as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, exactly,” said Charles Chelsea.

“Because it’s competition.”

The publicity man’s eyes narrowed. Frostily he said, “That’s not at all what I meant.” Giving up on the black policeman, he appealed to the coroner’s sense of propriety: “All the young children hanging around—they shouldn’t be witness to something like this. Vacations are for fun and fantasy, not for looking at dead bodies.”

Jim Tile said, “They seem to be enjoying it.”

“We didn’t ask for an audience,” the coroner added. He was accustomed to gawkers in Miami. Shopping malls were the worst; drug dealers were always leaving murdered rivals in the trunks of luxury automobiles at shopping malls. The crowds were unbelievable, pushing and shoving, everybody wanting a peek at the stiff.

The coroner told Charles Chelsea: “This always happens. It’s just a sick fact of human nature.”

“Well, can’t you hurry up and get him—it—down? The longer it stays up there, the more people will stop.” Chelsea paused to survey the size of the crowd. “This is horrible,” he said, “right in the middle of Summerfest. It’s giving all these folks the wrong idea.”

Jim Tile couldn’t wait to hear more. “The wrong idea about what?”

“About Florida,” said Charles Chelsea. The indignation in his tone was authentic. “This is not the image we’re trying to promote. Surely you can understand.”

Grimly he turned and disappeared into the gallery of onlookers.

The coroner once again fixed his attention on what was hanging from the Card Sound Bridge. He asked Jim Tile, “So what do you think about getting him down from there?”

“Easy,” said the trooper. “I’ll go up and cut the line.”

“You really think that’s safe?”

Jim Tile looked at him curiously.

“With all these people milling around,” said the coroner. “What if he hits somebody? Look at all these damn boats.” He frowned and shook his head. “I think we’ve got a serious liability risk here. Somebody could be injured or killed.”

“By a falling corpse,” said Jim Tile thoughtfully.

“You betcha. Look at all these damn tourists.”

Jim Tile took out a bullhorn and ordered the boats to weigh anchor. He also instructed the bystanders to get off the jetty under threat of arrest. Then he went to the top of the bridge and quickly found what he was looking for: a nest of heavy monofilament fishing line tangled around the base of a concrete column. One end of the monofilament was attached to the type of flat plastic spool used by Cuban handline fishermen. The other end of the line led over the side of the bridge, and was attached to the dead man’s neck.

The trooper got a 35-millimeter camera out of the patrol car and took pictures of the column and the knot. Then he got down on his belly and extended his head over the side of the bridge and snapped several aerial-type photographs of the hanging corpse.

After Jim Tile put the camera away, he waved twice at the coroner, still standing on the rocks below. Then, when the coroner gave the signal, the trooper unfolded his pocketknife and cut through the monofilament fishing line.

He heard the crowd go
ooooohhhh
before he heard the splash. A marine patrol boat idled up to the dead man and fished him out of the water with a short-handled gaff.

They were loading the body into the van when the coroner told his theory to Jim Tile. “I don’t think it’s suicide,” he said.

“What, somebody was using him for bait?”

“No, this is what I think happened,” said the coroner, demonstrating with his arms. “You know how these Cuban guys twirl the
fishlines over their heads real fast to make a long cast? It looks to me like he messed up and wrapped the damn thing tight around his neck, like a bolo. That’s what I think.” He picked up a clipboard and began to write. “What was the color of his eyes? Brown, I think.”

“I didn’t look,” said Jim Tile. He wasn’t crazy about dead bodies.

The man from the medical examiner’s reached into the van and tugged at the woolen blanket, revealing the dead man’s features.

“I was right,” said the coroner, scribbling again. “Brown they are.”

Jim Tile stared at the rictus face and said, “Damn, I know that guy.” He wasn’t a fisherman.

“A name would be nice,” the coroner said. “He lost his wallet when he lost his pants.”

“Angel,” the trooper said. “Angel Gaviria. Don’t ask me how to spell it.”

“Where do you know him from?”

“He used to be a cop.” Jim Tile yanked the blanket up to cover the dead man’s face. “Before he got convicted.”

“Convicted of what?”

“Everything short of first-degree murder.”

“Jesus Christ. And here he is, out of the slammer already.”

“Yeah,” said Jim Tile. “Modeling neckwear.”

Bud Schwartz had been a two-bit burglar since he was seventeen years old. He was neither proud of it nor ashamed. It was what he did, period. It suited his talents. Whenever his mother gave him a hard time about getting an honest job, Bud Schwartz reminded her that he was the only one of her three children who was not in psychoanalysis. His sister was a lawyer and his brother was a stockbroker, and both of them were miserably
fucked up. Bud Schwartz was a crook, sure, but at least he was at peace with himself.

He considered himself a competent burglar who was swift, thorough and usually cautious. The times he’d been caught—five in all—these were flukes. A Rottweiler that wasn’t in the yard the night before. A nosy neighbor, watering her begonias at three in the goddamn morning. A getaway car with bad plugs. That sort of thing. Occupational hazards, in Bud Schwartz’s opinion—plain old lousy luck.

Normally he was a conservative guy who played the odds and didn’t like unnecessary risks. Why he ever accepted the rat-napping job from Molly McNamara, he couldn’t figure. Broad daylight, thousands of people, the middle of a fucking theme park. Jesus! Maybe he did it just to break the monotony. Or maybe because ten grand was ten grand.

Definitely a score. In his entire professional burgling career, Bud Schwartz had never stolen anything worth ten thousand dollars. The one time he’d pinched a Rolex Oyster, it turned out to be fake. Another time he got three diamond rings from a hotel room on Key Biscayne—a big-time movie actress, too—and the fence informed him it was all zircon. Fucking paste. Or so said the fence.

Who could blame him for saying yes to Molly McNamara, or at least checking it out? So when he gets out of jail, he rounds up Danny Pogue—Danny, who’s really nothing but a pair of hands; somebody you drag along to help carry the shit to the car. But reliable, as far as that goes. Not really smart enough to pull anything.

So together they meet the old lady once, twice. Get directions, instructions. Go over the whole damn thing until they’re bored to tears, except for the part about what to do with the voles. Bud Schwartz had assumed the whole point was to free the damn things, the way Molly talked. “Liberate” was the word she’d used.
Of course, if he’d known then what he knew now, he wouldn’t have chucked that one little rat into the red convertible. If he’d known there were only two of the damn things left on the whole entire planet, he wouldn’t ever have let Danny take a throw at the Winnebago.

Now the voles were gone, and Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue were nursing their respective gunshot wounds in the old lady’s apartment.

Watching a slide show about endangered species.

“This formidable fellow,” Molly McNamara was saying, “is the North American crocodile.”

Danny Pogue said, “Looks like a gator.”

“No, it’s a different animal entirely,” said Molly. “There’s only a few dozen left in the wild.”

“So what?” said Danny Pogue. “You got tons of gators. So many they went and opened a hunting season. I can’t see gettin’ all worked up about crocodiles dyin off, not when they got a season on gators. It don’t make sense.”

Molly said, “You’re missing the point.”

“He can’t help it,” said Bud Schwartz. “Just go on to the next slide.”

Molly clicked the remote. “This is the Schaus’ swallow-tail butterfly.”

“Now that’s pretty,” said Danny Pogue. “I can see wanting to save somethin’ like that. Isn’t that a pretty butterfly, Bud?”

“Beautiful,” said Bud Schwartz. “Really gorgeous. Next?”

Molly asked why he was in such a hurry.

“No reason,” he replied.

Danny Pogue snickered. “Maybe ’cause there’s a movie he wants to see on cable.”

“Really?” Molly said. “Bud, you should’ve told me. We can always continue the orientation tomorrow.”

“That’s okay,” Bud Schwartz said. “Go on with the program.”

“Amazon Cheerleaders,”
said Danny Pogue. “We seen the ending the other night.”

Molly said, “I don’t believe I’ve heard of that one.”

“Get on with the slides,” said Bud Schwartz gloomily. Of all the partners he’d ever had, Danny Pogue was turning out to be the dumbest by a mile.

A picture of something called a Key Largo wood rat appeared on the slide screen, and Danny exclaimed: “Hey, it looks just like one of them voles!”

“Not really,” said Molly McNamara patiently. “This hardy little fellow is one of five endangered species native to the North Key Largo habitat.” She went on to explain the uniqueness of the island—hardwood hammocks, brackish lakes and acres of precious mangroves. And, only a few miles offshore, the only living coral reef in North America. “Truly a tropical paradise,” said Molly McNamara, “which is why it’s worth fighting for.”

As she clicked through the rest of the slides, Bud Schwartz was thinking: How hard would it be to overpower the old bat and escape? Two grown men with six functional limbs, come on. Just grab the frigging purse, take the gun—what could she do?

The trouble was, Bud Schwartz wasn’t fond of guns. He didn’t mind stealing them, but he’d never pointed one at anybody, never fired one, even at a tin can. Getting shot by Molly McNamara had only reinforced his view that guns were a tool for the deranged. He knew the law, and the law smiled on harmless unarmed house burglars. A burglar with a gun wasn’t a burglar anymore, he was a robber. Not only did robbers get harder time, but the accommodations were markedly inferior. Bud Schwartz had never been up to Raiford but he had a feeling he wouldn’t like it. He also had a hunch that if push came to shove, Danny Pogue would roll over like a big dumb puppy. Do whatever the cops wanted, including testify.

Bud Schwartz decided he needed more time to think.

A new slide came up on the screen and he told Molly McNamara to wait a second. “Is that an endangered species, too?” he asked.

“Unfortunately not,” Molly said. “That’s Francis X. Kingsbury, the man who’s destroying the island.”

Danny Pogue lifted his chin out of his hands and said, “Yeah? How?”

“Mr. Kingsbury is the founder and chief executive officer of the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills—the so-called amusement park you boys raided the other day. It’s a tourist trap, plain and simple. It brings traffic, garbage, litter, air pollution, effluent—Kingsbury cares nothing about preserving the habitat. He’s a developer.”

The word came out as an epithet.

Bud Schwartz studied the jowly middle-aged face on the screen. Kingsbury was smiling, and you could tell it was killing him. His nose was so large that it seemed three-dimensional, a huge mottled tuber of some kind, looming out of the wall.

“Public enemy number one,” said Molly. She glared at the picture on the screen. “Yes, indeed. The park is only a smokescreen. We’ve got reason to believe that Mr. Kingsbury holds the majority interest in a new golfing resort called Falcon Trace, which abuts the Amazing Kingdom. We have reason to believe that Kingsbury’s intention is to eventually bulldoze every square inch of ocean waterfront. You know what that means?”

Danny Pogue pursed his lips. Bud Schwartz said nothing; he was trying to guess where the old coot was heading with this.