Native Tongue (18 page)

“Says who?” said Bud Schwartz. “Bunch a dumb cowboy shitkickers. Thanks, but I think we’ll try our luck with an actual doctor.”

The Cowpokes didn’t look so amiable anymore, or so Western.
In fact, they were starting to look like pissed-off Miami insurance men. Danny Pogue got to his feet, dusted off his butt and said, “Hell, Bud, it’s my fault anyhow—”

“Not another word.” Bud Schwartz seized his partner by the elbow, as if to prop him up. Then he announced to the Cowpokes: “We’d like to file a complaint about this ride. Where exactly is the administration office?”

The Cowpoke in charge of the blood-pressure cuff said, “It’s closed today.”

“Then we’ll come back Monday,” said Bud Schwartz. “Where is the office, please?”

“Over Sally’s Saloon,” the Cowpoke answered. “Upstairs, ask for Mr. Dexter in Risk Management.”

“And he’ll be in Monday?”

“Nine sharp,” muttered the Cowpoke.

The other tourists watched curiously as Bud Schwartz led Danny Pogue haltingly out of the corral. By this time the Wild Bill Hiccup attraction had come to a complete and embarrassing stop (a man with a sprocket wrench had beheaded Danny Pogue’s bull), and Bud Schwartz wanted to depart the arena before his partner spoiled the plan by saying something irretrievably stupid.

Into Danny Pogue’s ear he said, “You’re doing fine.”

“It wasn’t on purpose.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling.”

As they watched Danny Pogue’s genuine hobble, the three Cowpokes from Risk Management began to worry that they might have missed something during their quickie medical exam.

One of them called out: “Hey, how about a wheelchair?”

Without turning around, Bud Schwartz declined the offer with the wave of an arm.

“No thanks, li’l pardner,” he called back.

*         *         *

The same tool that picked the lock on Francis X. Kingsbury’s office did the job on the rosewood file cabinet.

“So now what?” Danny Pogue said.

“We read.” Bud Schwartz divided the files into two stacks. He showed his partner how to save time by checking the index labels.

“Anything to do with banks and property, put it in the bag. Also, anything that looks personal.”

“What about Falcon Trace?” asked Danny Pogue. “That’s what Mrs. McNamara said to get.”

“That, too.”

They used pocket flashlights to examine the files because Bud Schwartz didn’t want to turn on the lights in Kingsbury’s office. They were on the third floor of the administration building, above Sally’s Cimarron Saloon. Through the curtains Bud Schwartz could watch the Wild West show on the dusty street below. Tourists shrieked as two scruffy bank robbers suddenly opened fire on the sheriff; bloodied, the sheriff managed to shoot both bandits off their horses as they tried to escape. The tourists cheered wildly. Bud Schwartz grunted and said, “Now there’s a job for you. Fallin’ off horses.”

Sitting on the floor amid Kingsbury’s files, Danny Pogue looked orphaned. He said, “I know lawyers that couldn’t make sense a this shit.” He couldn’t take his eyes off a portable Canon photocopier: seventy-five bucks, staring him in the face.

“We’ll give it an hour,” said Bud Schwartz, but it didn’t take him that long to realize that his partner was right. The files were impenetrable, stuffed with graphs and pie charts and computer printouts that meant nothing to your average break-in artist. The index tabs were marked with hopelessly stilted titles like “Bermuda Intercontinental Services, Inc.,” and “Ramex Global Trust, N.A.,” and “Jersey Premium Market Research.”

Bud Schwartz arbitrarily selected the three thickest files and
stuffed them in the camera bag. This would keep the old bat busy for a while.

“Look here,” said Danny Pogue, holding up a thin file. “Credit cards.”

The index tab was marked “Personal Miscellany.” Inside was a folder from the American Express Company that listed all the activity on Francis X. Kingsbury’s Platinum Card for the previous twelve months. Bud Schwartz’s expression warmed as he skimmed the entries.

Reading over his shoulder, Danny Pogue said, “The guy sure knows how to eat.”

“He knows how to buy jewelry, too.” Bud Schwartz pointed at some large numbers. “Look here.”

“Yeah,” said Danny Pogue, catching on. “I wonder where he keeps it, all that jewelry.”

Bud Schwartz slipped Kingsbury’s American Express folder into the camera bag. “This one’s for us,” he told his partner. “Don’t show the old lady unless I say so.”

Danny Pogue said, “I heard a that place in New York. Cartier’s.” He pronounced it “Car-teer’s.”

“That’s some expensive shit they sell.”

“You bet,” said Bud Schwartz. Another thin file had caught his attention. He opened it on his lap, using his good hand to hold the flashlight while he read. The file contained Xeroxed copies of numerous old newspaper clippings, and three or four letters from somebody at the U.S. Department of Justice. The letterhead was embossed, and it felt important.

“Jesus,” said Bud Schwartz, sizing things up.

“What is it?”

He thrust the file at Danny Pogue. “Put this in the damn bag, and let’s get going.”

Danny Pogue peered at the index tab and said, “So what does it mean?”

“It means we’re gonna be rich, li’l pardner.”

Danny Pogue contemplated the name on the file folder. “So how do you pronounce it anyway?”

“Gotti,” said Bud Schwartz. “Rhymes with body.”

Rummaging through a dead man’s belongings at midnight was not Joe Winder’s idea of fun. The lab was as cold and quiet as a morgue. Intimate traces of the late Will Koocher were everywhere: a wrinkled lab coat hung on the back of a door; a wedding picture in a brass frame on a corner of his desk; a half-eaten roll of cherry-flavored Tums in the drawer; Koocher’s final paycheck, endorsed but never cashed.

Winder shivered and went to work. Methodically he pored through the vole files, and quickly learned to decipher Koocher’s daily charts: size, weight, feeding patterns, sleeping patterns, stool patterns. Some days there was blood work, some days there were urine samples. The doctor’s notes were clinical, brief and altogether unenlightening. Whatever had bothered Koocher about the mango-vole program, he hadn’t put it in the charts.

It was an hour before Joe Winder found something that caught his eye: a series of color photographs of the voles. These were different from the glossy publicity pictures—these were extreme close-ups taken from various angles to highlight anatomical characteristics. Typed labels identified the animals as either “Male
One” or “Female One.” Several pictures of the female had been marked up in red wax pencil, presumably by Will Koocher. In one photograph, an arrow had been drawn to the rump of the mango vole, accompanied by the notation “CK. TAIL LENGTH.” On another, Koocher had written: “CK. MICROTUS FUR COLOR—IS THERE BLOND PHASE?” In a third photograph, the animal’s mouth had carefully been propped open with a Popsicle stick, which allowed a splendid frontal view of two large yellow incisors and a tiny indigo tongue.

Obviously the female vole had troubled Koocher, but why? Winder slipped the photos into his briefcase, and turned to the next file. It contained a muddy Xerox of a research paper titled, “Habitat Loss and the Decline of
Microtus mango
in Southeastern Florida.” The author of the article was listed as Dr. Sarah Hunt, PhD, of Rollins College. In red ink Koocher had circled the woman’s name, and put a question mark next to it. The research paper was only five pages long, but the margins were full of Koocher’s scribbles. Winder was trying to make sense of them when he heard a squeaking noise behind him.

In the doorway stood Pedro Luz—pocked, bloated, puffy-eyed Pedro. “The fuck are you doing?” he said.

Joe Winder explained that a janitor had been kind enough to loan him a key to the lab.

“What for?” Pedro Luz demanded.

“I need some more information on the voles.”

“Haw,” said Pedro Luz, and stepped inside the lab. The squeaking came from the wheels of his mobile steroid dispenser, the IV rig he had swiped from the hospital. A clear tube curled from a hanging plastic bag to a scabby junction in the crook of Pedro Luz’s left arm; the needle was held in place by several cross-wraps of cellophane tape.

The idea had come to him while he was hospitalized with the ferret bites. He had been so impressed with the wonders of intravenous
refueling that he’d decided to try it with his anabolic steroids. Whether this method was effective, or even safe, were questions that Pedro Luz hadn’t considered because the basic theory seemed unassailable: straight from bottle to vein, just like a gasoline pump. No sooner had he hung the first bag than he had felt the surge, the heat, the tingling glory of muscles in rapture. Even at ease, his prodigious biceps twitched and rippled as if prodded by invisible electrodes.

Joe Winder wondered why Pedro Luz kept staring down at himself, smiling as he admired the dimensions of his own broad chest and log-sized arms.

“Are you feeling all right?” Winder asked.

Pedro Luz looked up from his reverie and blinked toadlike.

Affably, Winder remarked, “You’re working mighty late tonight.”

Pedro Luz grunted: “I feel fine.” He walked up to the desk and grabbed the briefcase. “You got no authorization to be here after hours.”

“Mr. Chelsea won’t mind.”

Invoking Charlie’s name made no impression on Pedro Luz, who plucked a leaf out of Joe Winder’s hair. “Look at this shit on your head!”

“I spent some time in the mangroves,” Winder said. “Ate snake-on-a-stick.”

Pedro Luz announced: “I’m keeping your damn briefcase.” He tucked it under his right arm. “Until I see some fucking authorization.”

“What’s in the IV bag?” Joe Winder asked.

“Vitamins,” said Pedro Luz. “Now get the hell out.”

“You know what I think? I think Will Koocher was murdered.”

Pedro Luz scrunched his face as if something toxic were burning his eyes. His jaw was set so rigidly that Joe Winder expected to hear the teeth start exploding one by one, like popcorn.

Winder said, “Well, I guess I’ll be going.”

Pedro Luz followed him out the door, the IV rig squeaking behind them. To the back of Winder’s neck, he growled, “You dumb little shit, now I gotta do a whole report.”

“Pedro, you need some rest.”

“The doctor wasn’t murdered. He killed hisself.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Man, I used to be a cop. I know the difference between murder and suicide.”

Pedro Luz turned to lock the laboratory door. Joe Winder thought it would be an excellent moment to snatch his briefcase from the security man and make a run for it. He figured Pedro Luz could never catch him as long as he was attached to the cumbersome IV rig.

Winder pondered the daring maneuver too long. Pedro Luz glanced over his shoulder and caught him staring at the briefcase.

“Go ahead,” the big man taunted. “Just go ahead and try.”

Francis X. Kingsbury and Jake Harp had an early starting time at the Ocean Reef Club, up the road a few miles from the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. Kingsbury played golf two or three times a week at Ocean Reef, even though he was not a member and would never be a member. A most exclusive outfit, the Ocean Reef board had voted consistently to blackball Kingsbury because it could not verify several important details of his biography, beginning with his name. Infuriated by the rejection, Kingsbury made himself an unwelcome presence by wheedling regular golf invitations from all acquaintances who happened to be members, including the famous Jake Harp.

Reluctantly Jake Harp had agreed to play nine holes. He didn’t like golf with rich duffers but it was part of the deal; playing with Francis X. Kingsbury, though, was a special form of torture. All
he talked about was Disney this and Disney that. If the stock had dropped a point or two, Kingsbury was euphoric; if the stock was up, he was bellicose and depressed. He referred to the Disney mascot as Mickey Ratface, or sometimes simply The Rat. “The Rat’s updating his pathetic excuse for a jungle cruise,” Kingsbury would report with a sneer. “The fake hippos must be rusting out.” Another time, while Jake Harp was lining up a long putt for an eagle, Kingsbury began to cackle. “The Rat’s got a major problem at the Hall of the Presidents! Heard they had to yank the Nixon robot because his jowls were molting!”

Jake Harp, a lifelong Republican, had suppressed the urge to take a Ping putter and clobber Francis X. Kingsbury into a deep coma. Jake Harp had to remain civil because of the Falcon Trace gig. It was his second chance at designing a golf course and he didn’t want to screw up again; over on Sanibel they were still searching for that mysterious fourteenth tee, the one Jake Harp’s architects had mistakenly located in the middle of San Carlos Bay.

As for his title of Falcon Trace “touring pro,” it was spending money, that’s all—tape a couple of television spots, get your face on a billboard, play a couple of charity tournaments in the winter. Hell, no one seriously expected you to actually show up and give golf lessons. Not the great Jake Harp.

In the coffee shop Francis X. Kingsbury announced that he was in a hurry because he was leaving town later in the day. The sooner the better, thought Jake Harp.

Standing on the first tee, Kingsbury spotted two of the Ocean Reef board members waiting in a foursome behind them. The men smiled thinly and nodded at him. Kingsbury placidly flipped them the finger. Jake Harp grimaced and reached for his driver.

“Love it,” said Kingsbury. “Think they’re such hot snots.”

Jake Harp knocked the ball two hundred and sixty yards down the left side of the fairway. Kingsbury hit it about half as far and
shrugged as if he didn’t care. Once he got in the golf cart, he drove like a maniac and cursed bitterly.

“Our club’ll make this place look like a buffalo latrine.” The cart jounced heedlessly along the asphalt path. “Like fucking Goony Golf—I can’t wait.”

Jake Harp, who was badly hung over, said: “Let’s take it easy, Frank.”

“They’re dying to know how I did it,” Kingsbury went on, full tilt. “This island, it’s practically a goddamn nature preserve. I mean, you can’t mow your lawn without a permit from the fucking EPA.”