Native Tongue (2 page)

“So his real name was—”

“Mike Jr. Now it’s Bud Jr.”

“You say so,” said Danny Pogue, grinning again, a jack-o’-lantern with volcanic acne.

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“No, I don’t believe you,” said Danny Pogue, “but it was a damn good story. Whatever your fucking name is.”

“Bud is just fine. Bud Schwartz. And let’s not fight no more, we’re gonna be rich.”

Danny Pogue got two beers out of the Styrofoam cooler in the back of the cab. He popped one of the cans for his partner and handed it to him. “I still can’t believe they’re payin’ us ten grand apiece to steal a boxful of rats.”

“This is Miami,” said Bud Schwartz. “Maybe they’re voodoo rats. Or maybe they’re fulla dope. I heard where they smuggle coke in French rubbers, so why not rats.”

Danny Pogue lifted the box from behind the front seat and
placed it carefully on his lap. He leaned down and put his ear to the lid. “Wonder how many’s in there,” he said.

Bud Schwartz shrugged. “Didn’t ask.”

The den box was eighteen inches deep, and twice the size of a briefcase. It was made of plywood, painted dark green, with small hinged doors on each end. Air holes had been drilled through the side panels; the holes were no bigger than a dime, but somehow one of the animals had managed to squeeze out. Then it had scaled the front seat and perched on Danny Pogue’s headrest, where it had balanced on its hind legs and wiggled its velvety snout in the air. Laughing, Bud Schwartz had deftly snatched it by the tail and dangled it in his partner’s face. Over Danny Pogue’s objections, Bud Schwartz had toyed with the rodent for six or seven miles, until he’d spotted the red convertible coming the other way down the road. Then he had said, “Watch this,” and had tossed the animal out the window, into the passing car.

Now Danny Pogue lifted the green box off his lap and said, “Sure don’t weigh much.”

Bud Schwartz chuckled. “You want a turn, is that it? Well, go ahead then, grab one.”

“But I don’t wanna get bit.”

“You got to do it real fast, way I did. Hurry now, here comes one of them Winnebagos. I’ll slow down when we go by.”

Danny Pogue said, “The top of this box ain’t even locked.”

“So what’re you waiting for?” said his partner. “Pop goes the weasel.”

After the rat attack, the Whelper family rode in edgy silence until they arrived at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. They parked the red LeBaron in the Mr. Bump-a-Rump lot, Section Jellybean, and took the tram to the main gate. There they came
upon a chaotic scene: police cars, an ambulance, TV trucks, news photographers. The ticket turnstiles were all blocked.

“Swell,” said Terry Whelper. “Beautiful.”

“Maybe they’re filming a movie,” his wife suggested. “Maybe it’s not real.”

But it was. The center of attention was a supremely tanned young man in a blue oxford shirt with a dark red club tie, loosened fashionably at the throat. Once all the TV lights were on, the man started to read from a typed sheet of paper. He said he was a spokesperson for the company.

“This is a message for all our friends and visitors to the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills,” the man began. “We deeply regret the incident that disturbed today’s Summerfest celebration. We are proud of our security arrangements here at the park, and proud of our safety record. Up until today, there had been—and I say this unequivocally—no serious crimes committed within our friendly gates.”

In the swell of the crowd, Terry Whelper felt his wife’s chin digging into his shoulder blade. “What do you suppose he’s talking about?” she said.

The man in the oxford shirt continued: “We believe there was no way to anticipate, much less prevent, what happened this afternoon in the Rare Animal Pavilion.”

Terry Whelper said, “This oughta be good.” A large woman wearing a damp cotton blouse and a Nikkormat around her neck turned and shot him a dirty look.

The man at the TV microphones was saying, “At approximately 2:15
P.M.
, two men entered the compound and attacked one of the wildlife exhibits with a sledgehammer, breaking the glass. One of our park employees courageously tried to stop the intruders, but was overpowered and beaten. The two men then grabbed a box of specimens from the exhibit arena and ran. In the confusion, the suspects managed to escape from the park, apparently
by mingling with ordinary tourists aboard the Jungle Jerry Amazon Boat Cruise.”

Jason Whelper said, “Specimens? What kinda specimens?”

Jennifer announced, “I don’t want to go on the Jungle Jerry anymore.”

Terry Whelper told the children to be quiet and listen. The tanned man in the blue shirt was saying that the park employee who had so bravely tried to stop the crime was being rushed to the hospital for X-rays.

“Hey, look!” said Jason, pointing.

Somebody in an oversized polyester animal outfit was being loaded into the ambulance.

“That’s Robbie Raccoon!” cried Jennifer Whelper. “He must be the one who got hurt.”

All around them in the crowd, other tourist children began to whimper and sniffle at the sight of Robbie Raccoon on the stretcher. Jason swore he saw some blood on Robbie Raccoon’s nose.

“No, he’s going to be fine,” said Gerry Whelper. “See there, he’s waving at us!”

And, indeed, whoever was inside the Robbie Raccoon costume managed a weak salute to the crowd before the ambulance door swung closed.

“It’s gotta be ninety-eight degrees out here,” marveled Terry Whelper. “You’d think they’d get the poor guy out of that raccoon getup.”

Terry Whelper’s wife whispered urgently to the nape of his neck, “Not in front of Jennifer. She thinks he’s real.”

“Oh, you’re kidding,” Terry said.

Under the TV lights, the tan young spokesperson finally was revealing what had been stolen in the daring robbery.

“As many of you know,” he said, “the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills is home to several endangered varieties of wildlife. Unfortunately,
the animals that were stolen this afternoon are among the rarest, and most treasured, in our live-animal collection. In fact, they were believed to be the last two surviving specimens of the blue-tongued mango vole.” Here the handsome spokesman paused dramatically. Then: “The animals were being kept here in a specially climatized habitat, in the hope that they might breed and keep the species alive. Tragically, that dream came to an end this afternoon.”

“Mango voles!” exclaimed Jason Whelper. “Dad, did you hear? Maybe that’s what landed in our car. Maybe those guys in the pickup truck were the crooks!”

Terry Whelper took his son by the arm and led him back toward the tram, away from the tourist crowd. Gerry and Jennifer followed steadfastly.

Gerri whispered to her husband: “What do you think? Maybe Jason is right.”

“I don’t know what to think. You were the one who wanted to come to Florida.”

Jason cut in: “Dad, there was only two of those mangos left in the whole wide world. And we shot one!”

“No, we didn’t. The policeman did.”

“But we told him to!”

Terry Whelper said, “Be quiet, son. We didn’t know.”

“Your father’s right,” added Gerri. “How were we to know?”

Jennifer hugged her mother fiercely around the waist. “I’m so scared—can we drive to Epcot instead?”

“Excellent idea,” said Terry Whelper. Like a cavalry commander, he raised his right arm and cocked two fingers toward the parking lot. “Everybody back to the car.”

As soon as Charles Chelsea got back to the Publicity Department, he took a poll of the secretaries. “How was I?” he asked. “How’d I do? What about the necktie?”

The secretaries told Chelsea that he looked terrific on television, that loosening the necktie was a nifty touch, that overall it was quite a solid performance. Chelsea asked if Mr. Kingsbury had called, but the secretaries said he hadn’t.

“Wonder why not,” said Chelsea.

“He’s playing golf up at Ocean Reef.”

“Yeah, but he’s got a cellular. He could’ve called.” Chelsea told one of the secretaries to get Joe Winder, and then went into his private office and closed the door.

Ten minutes later, when Joe Winder got there, Charles Chelsea was watching himself on the VCR, reliving the press conference.

“Whadja think?” he asked, motioning at the television screen in the cabinet.

“I missed it,” said Joe Winder.

“You missed it? It was your bloody speech—how’d you miss it?”

“I heard you were dynamite.”

Charles Chelsea broke into a grin. “Yeah? Who said?”

“Everybody,” lied Joe Winder. “They said you’re another Mario Cuomo.”

“Well, your speech had something to do with it.”

It wasn’t a speech, Winder thought; it was a
statement
. Forty lines, big deal.

“It was a great speech, Joe,” Chelsea went on, “except for one part.
Specially climatized habitat
. That’s a mouthful. Maybe we should’ve tried something else.” With pursed lips he repeated the culprit phrase: “‘Climatized habitat’—when I was trying to say it, I accidentally spit on that girl from Channel 10. The cute one. Next time be more careful, okay? Don’t sneak in any zingers without me knowing.”

Joe Winder said, “I was in a hurry.” The backs of his eyeballs were starting to throb. Sinus headache: Chelsea always gave him one. But Winder had to admit, the guy looked like a million bucks in an oxford shirt. He looked like a vice president in charge of public relations, which he was.

Chelsea was saying, “I don’t even know what it means, climatized habitat.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Winder said.

“Now, now.” Chelsea wagged a well-tanned finger. “None of that, Joey. There’s no place for cynics here at the Amazing Kingdom. You know what Kingsbury says.”

“Yeah. We’re all little kids.” Winder kneaded his skull with both hands, trying to squeeze out the pain.

“Children,” Charles Chelsea said. He turned off the VCR and spun his chair to face Joe Winder. “The moment we walk through that gate, we’re all children. We see the world through children’s eyes; we cry children’s tears, we laugh children’s laughter. We’re all innocent again, Joe, and where there’s innocence there can’t be cynicism. Not here in the Amazing Kingdom.”

Joe Winder said, “You’re giving me a fucking headache. I hope you’re happy.”

Charles Chelsea’s blue eyes narrowed and darkened. “Look, we hired you because you’re good and you’re fast. But this isn’t a big-city
newsroom, you can’t use that type of coarse language. Children don’t talk like that, Joe. That’s gutter language.”

“Sorry,” said Winder, concealing his amusement. Gutter language, that was a good one.

“When’s the last time you heard a child say that word?”

“Which word, Charlie?”

“You know. The ‘F’ word.”

“I’ve heard children say it. Plenty of times.”

“Not here, you haven’t.” Charles Chelsea sat up straight, trying to radiate authority. “This is a major event for us, Joey. We’ve had a robbery on the premises. Felons invaded the theme park. Somebody could’ve been hurt.”

“Rat-nappers,” Winder remarked. “Not exactly Ted Bundy.”

“Hey,” Chelsea said, tapping a lacquered fingernail on the desk. “Hey, this is serious. Mr. X is watching very closely to see how we do. All of us, Joe, all of us in Publicity are on red alert until this thing blows over. We mishandle it, and it blows up into a story about crime at the Amazing Kingdom. If we can spin it around, it’s a story about a crime against Nature. Nature with a capital ‘N.’ The annihilation of an entire species. Where’s your notebook?”

“Downstairs, on my desk.”

“Listen, you’re my ace in the hole. Whatever gets dumped in my lap gets dumped in yours.”

Joe Winder’s sinuses hurt so much he thought his eyeballs must be leaking from the inside. He didn’t want to be Chelsea’s ace in the hole.

Chelsea said, “And, Joe, while we’re at it, what’d I tell you about the hair? No braids.”

“But it’s all the rage,” Winder said.

“Get it cut before Kingsbury sees you. Please, Joe, you look like a Navajo nightmare.”

“Nice talk, Charlie.”

“Sit down,” said Chelsea, “and put on your writing cap.”

“I’d love to look as spiffy as you, but you bought up all the oxford shirts in Miami. Either that or you wear the same one every day.”

Chelsea wasn’t listening. “Before we begin, there’s some stuff you need to know.”

“Like what?”

“Like their names.”

“Whose names?”

“The voles,” Charles Chelsea said. “Vance and Violet—two helpless, adorable, fuzzy little furballs. Mated for life. The last of their species, Joey.”

With a straight face, Winder repeated the names of the missing creatures. “Vance and Violet Vole. That’s lovely.” He glanced at his wristwatch, and saw that it was half past five. “Charlie,” he said, “you don’t happen to have any Darvons?”

Chelsea said, “I wish you were writing this stuff down.”

“What the hell for?”

“For the story. The story of how Francis X. Kingsbury tried everything in his power to save the blue-tongued mango voles from extinction.”

“Only to be thwarted by robbers?”

“You got it,” said Charles Chelsea. “Stay late if necessary and take a comp day next week—I need a thousand words by tomorrow morning. I promised Corporate a press kit.” He stood up and waited for Joe Winder to do the same. “Get with Koocher for more background on the missing animals. He’s got reams of pictures, too, in case you need inspiration. By the way, did you ever get to see them?”

Winder felt oddly detached. “The voles? No, not in person,” he said. “I wasn’t even aware they had actual names.”

“They do now.”

At the door, Charles Chelsea winked and shook Joe Winder’s
hand. “You know, Joe, some people in the organization weren’t too thrilled when we brought you aboard. I mean, after what happened up at Disney.”

Winder nodded politely. Chelsea’s hand felt moist and lifeless, like a slab of cold grouper.

“But, by God, I knew you’d be fine. That speech today was masterful, Joey, a classic.”

“A classic.”

“I need you on this one. The other kids are fine, they can turn a phrase. But they’re right out of school, most of them, and they’re not ready for something so big. For this I need somebody with scars. Combat experience.”