Native Tongue (44 page)

Diamond J. Love was elated to be hired for the security force at the Amazing Kingdom, and pleased to find himself surrounded with colleagues of similarly checkered backgrounds. On slow days, when they weren’t breaking into the RVs of tourists, they’d sit around and swap stories about the old police days—tales of stacking the civil-service boards to beat a brutality rap; perjuring themselves silly before grand juries; rounding up hookers on phony vice sweeps just to cop a free hummer; switching kilos of baking soda for cocaine in the evidence rooms. Diamond J. Love enjoyed these bull sessions, and he enjoyed his job. For the most part.

The only area of concern was the boss himself, a monster steroid freak whose combustible mood swings had prompted several of his own officers to leave their holsters permanently unsnapped, just in case. Some days Pedro Luz was reasonable and coherent, other days he was a drooling psycho. The news that he had chewed off his own foot only heightened the anxiety level on the security squad; even the potheads were getting jumpy.

Which is why Diamond J. Love did not wish to be late for work on this very important morning, and why he reacted with exceptionally scathing impudence to the mild-mannered inquiry of a black state trooper who had pulled over his car on County Road 905.

“May I see your driver’s license, please?”

“Get serious, Uncle Ben.”

From there it went downhill. The trooper was singularly unimpressed by Diamond J. Love’s expired NYPD police badge; nor was he particularly understanding on the issue of Diamond J. Love’s outdated New York driver’s license. Or the fact that, according
to some computer, the serial numbers on Diamond J. Love’s Camaro matched precisely those of a Camaro stolen eight months earlier in New Smyrna Beach.

“That’s bullshit,” suggested Diamond J. Love.

“Please get out of the car,” the trooper said.

At which point Diamond J. Love attempted to speed away, and instead felt himself dragged by the collar through the window and deposited face-first on the macadam. Upon regaining consciousness, Diamond J. Love discovered Plasticuffs cinched painfully to his wrists and ankles. He further was surprised to see that he shared his predicament with several other security guards, who had apparently encountered the highway patrol on the pre-dawn journey to the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. There sat Ossie Cano, former Seattle robbery detective-turned-fence; William Z. Ames, former Orlando patrolman-turned-pornographer; Neal “Bart” Bartkowski, former sergeant with the Atlanta police, currently appealing a federal conviction for tax evasion.

“The hell’s going on here?” demanded Diamond J. Love.

“Roadblock,” Cano replied.

“A one-man roadblock?”

“I heard him radio for backup.”

“But still,” said Diamond J. Love. “One guy?”

By sunrise there were nine of them handcuffed or otherwise detained, a row of sullen penguins lined up along County Road 905. Basically it was the Amazing Kingdom’s entire security force, except for Pedro Luz and one other guard, who had spent the night at the amusement park.

Trooper Jim Tile was impressed by the accuracy of Joe Winder’s intelligence, particularly the makes and license numbers of the guards’ personal cars—information pilfered by Carrie Lanier from the files of the Personnel Department. Jim Tile was also impressed that not a single one of the guards had a clean record; to a man there arose problems with driver’s licenses, expired
registration stickers, doctored title certificates or unpaid traffic tickets. Each of the nine attempted to slide out of the road check by flashing outdated police ID—“badging,” in cop vernacular. Two of the nine had offered Jim Tile a whispered inducement of either cash or narcotics; three others had sealed their fate by making racial remarks. All had been disarmed and handcuffed so swiftly, and with such force, that physical resistance had been impossible.

When the van from the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office arrived, the deputy’s eyes swept from Jim Tile to the cursing horde of prisoners and back again.

The deputy said, “Jimmy, you do this all by yourself?”

“One at a time,” the trooper answered. “A road check, that’s all.”

“I know some of these boys.”

“Figured you might.”

“We lookin’ at anything serious?”

“We’re considering it.”

From the end of the line came an outcry from Diamond J. Love: “Dwight, you gonna let this nigger get away with it?”

Jim Tile gave no indication of hearing the remark. The deputy named Dwight did, however. “Damndest thing,” he said in a hearty voice. “The air-conditioning broke down in the paddy wagon. Just now happened.”

The trooper said, “What a shame.”

“Gonna be a long trip back to the substation.”

“Probably gets hot as hell inside that van.”

“Like an oven,” Dwight agreed with a wink.

“Fuck you!” shouted Diamond J. Love. “Fuck the both of you.”

*         *         *

The phone bleeped in Charles Chelsea’s apartment at seven-fifteen. It might as well have been a bomb.

“That fucking Pedro, I can’t find him!” Who else but Francis X. Kingsbury.

“Have you tried the gym?” Chelsea said foggily.

“I tried everywhere, hell, you name it. And there’s no guards! I waited and waited, finally said fuck it and drove myself to work.” He was on the speaker phone, hollering as he stormed around the office.

“The security men never showed up?”

“Wake up, dicklick! I’m alone,
comprende?
No Pedro, no guards,
nada.”

Dicklick? Charles Chelsea sat up in bed and shook his head like a spaniel. Do I really deserve to be called a dicklick? Is that what I get for all my loyalty?

Kingsbury continued to fulminate: “So where in the name of Christ Almighty is everybody? Today of all days—is there something you’re not telling me, Charlie?”

“I haven’t heard a thing, sir. Let me check into it.”

“You do that!” And he was gone.

Chelsea dragged himself to the kitchen and fine-tuned the coffeemaker. In less than two hours, some lucky customer would breach the turnstiles at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills and be proclaimed the Five-Millionth Visitor. Officially, at least. Chelsea was fairly certain that at least one enterprising journalist would take the time to add up the park’s true attendance figures and expose the promotion for the hoax that it was. The scene was set for a historic publicity disaster; already the national newsmagazines and out-of-state papers were snooping around, waiting for poor Jake Harp to expire. In recent days Chelsea’s office had been deluged with applications for media credentials from publications that previously had displayed no interest in covering the Amazing Kingdom’s Summerfest Jubilee. Chelsea wasn’t naive enough to
believe that the New York
Daily News
was seriously interested in a feature profile of the engineer who’d designed the Wet Willy water slide; no, their presence was explained by pure rampant bloodlust. The kidnapped mango voles, the dead scientist, the dead Orky, the nearly dead Jake Harp, flaming bulldozers, phony snake invasions, exploding cement trucks—an irresistible convergence of violence, mayhem and mortality!

Charles Chelsea understood that the dispatches soon to be filed from the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills wouldn’t be bright or warm or fluffy. They would be dark and ominous and chilling. They would describe a screaming rupture of the civil order, a culture in terminal moral hemorrhage.

And this would almost certainly have a negative effect on tourism.

Oh well, Chelsea thought, I gave it my best.

He foraged in the refrigerator, unearthed a stale bagel and began gnawing dauntlessly. Hearing a knock at the door, he assumed that the pathologically impatient Kingsbury had sent a car for him.

“Just a second!” Chelsea called, and went to put on a robe. When he opened the door, he faced the immutable, bewhiskered grin of Robbie Raccoon.

Who was holding, in his three-fingered polyester paw, a gun.

Which was pointed at Charles Chelsea’s throat.

“What’s this?” croaked the publicity man.

“Show time,” said Joe Winder.

The raccoon suit was musty and stifling, but it smelled reassuringly of Carrie’s hair and perfume. Even the lint seemed familiar. Through slits in the cheeks Joe Winder was able to see the procession: Bud Schwartz, Danny Pogue and the captive Charles Chelsea, entering the gates of the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills.

To affect Robbie Raccoon’s most recognizable mannerisms, Winder took floppy exaggerated steps (the way Carrie had showed him) and jauntily twirled the bushy tail. In spite of the serious circumstances, he felt a bolt of childlike excitement as the amusement park prepared to open for the Summerfest Jubilee. Outside, the trams were delivering waves of eager tourists—the children stampeding rabidly toward the locked turnstiles; the women bravely toting infants and designer baby bags; the men with shoulder-mounted Camcorders aimed at anything that moved. Fruity-colored balloons decorated every lamppost, every shrubbery, every concession; Broadway show tunes blasted through tinny public-address speakers. Mimes and jugglers and musicians rehearsed on street corners while desultory maintenance crews collected cigarette butts, Popsicle sticks and gum wrappers off the pavement. A cowboy from the Wild Bill Hiccup show tested his six-shooter by firing blanks at Peter Possum’s scraggly bottom.

“Show business,” said Joe Winder, “is my life.” The words echoed inside the plaster animal head.

If the costume had a serious flaw (besides the nonfunctioning air conditioner), it was a crucial lack of peripheral vision. The slits, located several inches below Robbie Raccoon’s large plastic eyes, were much too narrow. Had the openings been wider, Winder would have spotted the fleshy pale hand in time to evade it.

It was the hand of famed TV weatherman Willard Scott, and it dragged Joe Winder in front of a camera belonging to the National Broadcasting Company. Danny Pogue, Bud Schwartz and Charles Chelsea stopped in their tracks: Robbie Raccoon was on the “Today Show.”
Live
. Willard flung one meaty arm around Winder’s shoulders, and the other around a grandmother from Hialeah who said she was 107 years old. The old woman was telling a story about riding Henry Flagler’s railroad all the way to Key West.

“A hunnert and seven!” marveled Danny Pogue.

Charles Chelsea shifted uneasily. Bud Schwartz shot him a look. “What, she’s lying?”

Morosely the publicity man confessed. “She’s a complete fake. A ringer. I arranged the whole thing.” The burglars stared as if he were speaking another language. Chelsea lowered his voice: “I
had
to do it. Willard wanted somebody over a hundred years old, they told me he might not come, otherwise. But I couldn’t find anyone over a hundred—ninety-one was the best I could do, and the poor guy was completely spaced. Thought he was Rommel.”

Danny Pogue whispered, “So who’s she?”

“A local actress,” Chelsea said. “Age thirty-eight. The makeup is remarkable.”

“Christ, this is what you do for a living?” Bud Schwartz turned to his partner. “And I thought
we
were scumballs.”

To the actress, Willard Scott was saying: “You’re here to win
that 300-Z, aren’t you, sweetheart? In a few minutes the park opens and the first lucky customer through the gate will be Visitor Number Five Million. They’ll get the new sports car and all kinds of great prizes!”

“I’m so excited!” the actress proclaimed.

“You run along now, but be careful getting in line. The folks are getting pretty worked up out there. Good luck, sweetheart!” Then Willard Scott gave the bogus 107-year-old grandmother a slurpy smooch on the ear. As he released his grip on the woman, he tightened his hug on Joe Winder.

And an awakening nation heard the famous weatherman say: “This ring-tailed rascal is one of the most popular characters here at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. Go ahead, tell us your name.”

And in a high squeaky voice, Joe Winder gamely replied: “Hi, Willard! My name is Robbie Raccoon.”

“You’re certainly a big fella, Robbie. Judging by the size of that tummy, I’d say you’ve been snooping through a few garbage cans!”

To which Robbie Raccoon responded: “Look who’s talking, lardass.”

Briefly the smile disappeared from Willard’s face, and his eyes searched desperately off-camera for the director. A few feet away, Charles Chelsea tasted bile creeping up his throat. The burglars seemed pleased to be standing so close to a genuine TV star.

A young woman wearing earphones and a jogging suit held up a cue card, and valiantly the weatherman attempted to polish off the segment: “Well, spirits are obviously running high for the big Summerfest Jubilee, so pack up the family and come down to”—here Willard paused to find his place on the card—“Key Largo, Florida, and enjoy the fun! You can swim with a real dolphin, or go sliding headfirst down the Wet Willy or bust some broncos with Wild Bill Hiccup. And you kids can get your picture taken with all your favorite animal characters, even Robbie Raccoon.”

Obligingly Joe Winder cocked his head and twirled his tail. Willard appeared to regain his jolly demeanor. He prodded at something concealed under one of the fuzzy raccoon arms. “It looks like our ole pal Robbie’s got a surprise for Uncle Willard, am I right?”

From Winder came a strained chirp: “’Fraid not, Mr. Scott.”

“Aw, come on. Whatcha got in that paw?”

“Nothing.”

“Let’s see it, you little scamp. Is it candy? A toy? Whatcha got there?”

And seventeen million Americans heard Robbie Raccoon say: “That would be a gun, Willard.”

Chelsea’s ankles got rubbery and he began to sway. The burglars each grabbed an elbow.

“My, oh, my,” Willard Scott said with a nervous chuckle. “It even
looks
like a real gun.”

“Doesn’t it, though,” said the giant raccoon.

Please, thought Bud Schwartz, not on national TV. Not with little kids watching.

But before anything terrible could happen, Willard Scott adroitly steered the conversation from firearms to a tropical depression brewing in the eastern Caribbean. Joe Winder was able to slip away when the weatherman launched into a laxative commercial.