Native Tongue (12 page)

“Mr. Fisherman,” said the big one acidly.

“That’s me,” said Winder. “You must be the one who wanted to talk about Dr. Koocher.”

The goon named Angel turned off the flashlight and buried it in his jacket. “Two hours with these damn mosquitoes and you
standing right here, the whole fugging tine!” He punched Joe Winder ferociously in the kidney.

As Winder fell, he thought: So they’re not here to chat.

His head bounced against limestone and he began to lose consciousness. Then he felt himself being lifted by the armpits, which hurt like hell. They were carrying him somewhere in a hurry.

The husky one, Spearmint Breath, was talking in Joe Winder’s ear. “What’d he say on the phone?”

“Who?”

“The rat doctor.”

“Nothing.” Winder was panting.

“Aw, bullshit.”

“I swear. He left a message, that’s all.” Winder tried to walk but felt his legs pedaling air, being swept along. “Just a message was all,” he said again. “He wanted to see me but he didn’t say why.”

In his other ear, Joe Winder heard the wiry one call him a sunken fugging liar.

“No, I swear.”

They had him up against the side of a truck. Bronco. White. Rusty as hell. Ford Bronco, Winder thought. In case I live through this.

In case anybody might be interested.

The big goon spun Joe Winder around and pinned his arms while the one named Angel slugged him on the point of the jaw. Then he hit him once in each eye. Winder felt his face start to bloat and soften, like a melon going bad. With any luck, total numbness would soon follow.

Angel was working up a sweat. Every time he threw a punch, he let out a sharp yip, like a poodle. It would have been hilarious except for the pain that went with it.

Finally, Spearmint Breath said, “I don’t think he knows jack shit.” Then he said something in Spanish.

Angel said, “Chur he does, the cokesucker.” This time he hit Joe Winder in the gut.

Perfect
. Can’t breathe. Can’t see. Can’t talk.

The big goon let go, and Winder fell limp across the hood of the truck.

The man named Angel said, “Hey, what the fug.” There was something new in his voice; he sounded very confused. Even in a fog, Joe Winder could tell that the little creep wasn’t talking to him—or to Spearmint Breath, either.

Suddenly a great turmoil erupted around the truck, and the man named Angel gave out a scream that didn’t sound anything like a little dog. The scream made Joe Winder raise his head off the fender and open what was left of his eyelids.

Through misty slits he saw the husky no-neck goon running toward the bridge. Running away as fast as he could.

Where was Angel?

Something lifted Joe Winder off the truck and laid him on the gravel. He struggled to focus on the face. Face? Naw, had to be a mask. A silvery beard of biblical proportions. Mismatched eyes: one as green as mountain pines, the other brown and dead. Above that, a halo of pink flowers. Weird. The mask leaned closer and whispered in Joe Winder’s ear.

The words tumbled around like dice in his brainpan. Made no damn sense. The stranger bent down and said it again.

“I’ll get the other one later.”

Joe Winder tried to speak but all that came out was a gulping noise. He heard a car coming down the old road and turned his head to see. Soon he became mesmerized by the twin beams of yellow light, growing larger and larger; lasers shooting out of the mangroves. Or was it a spaceship?

When Winder turned back, he was alone. The man who had saved his life was gone.

The car went by in a rush of noise. Joe Winder watched the
taillights vanish over the crest of the bridge. It was an hour before he could get to his feet, another twenty minutes before he could make them move in any sensible way.

As he staggered along the pavement, he counted the cars to keep his mind off the pain. Seven sped past without stopping to help. Winder was thinking, Maybe I feel worse than I look. Maybe the blood doesn’t show up so well in the dark. Two or three drivers actually touched the brakes. One honked and hurled a Heineken bottle at him.

The eighth car went by doing seventy at least, heading eastbound to the island. Joe Winder saw the brake lights wink and heard the tires squeal. Slowly the car backed up. The door on the passenger side swung open.

A voice said: “My God, are you all right?”

“Not really,” said Joe Winder. Half-blind, he was trying to fit himself into the car when he encountered something large and fuzzy on the upholstery.

It was an animal head. He hoped it was not real.

Carrie Lanier picked it up by the snout and tossed it into the back seat. She took Joe Winder’s elbow and helped him sit down. Reaching across his lap, she slammed the car door and locked it. “I can’t believe this,” she said, and stepped on the accelerator.

To Joe Winder it felt as if they were going five hundred miles an hour, straight for the ocean.

Carrie Lanier kept glancing over at him, probably to make sure he was still breathing. After a while she said, “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“Joe. Joe Winder.”

“Joe, I can’t believe they did this to you.”

Winder raised his head. “Who?” he said. “Who did this to me?”

Carrie Lanier pulled off Joe Winder’s shoes and said, “You want me to call your girlfriend?”

Winder said no, don’t bother. “She’ll be home in a couple hours.”

“What does she do? What kind of work?”

“She talks dirty,” said Joe Winder, “on the phone.”

Carrie sat on the edge of the bed. She put a hand on his forehead and felt for fever.

He said, “Thanks for cleaning me up.”

“It’s all right. You want more ginger ale?”

“No, but there’s some Darvocets in the medicine cabinet.”

“I think Advils will do just fine.”

Winder grunted unhappily. “Look at me. You ever see a face like this on an Advil commercial?”

She brought him one lousy Darvocet and he swallowed it dry. He felt worse than he could remember ever feeling, and it wasn’t only the pain. It was anger, too.

“So who beat me up?” he said.

“I don’t know,” said Carrie Lanier. “I imagine it was somebody from the park. I imagine you stuck your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“I didn’t,” Joe Winder said, “not yet.”

He felt her rise from the bed, and soon heard her moving
around the apartment. He called her name and she came back to the bedroom, sitting in the same indentation on the mattress.

“I was looking for something to bandage those ribs.”

“That’s okay,” said Winder. “It only hurts when I breathe.”

Carrie said, “Maybe I don’t need to tell you this, but the Amazing Kingdom is not what it seems. It’s not fun and games, there’s a ton of money at stake.”

“You mean it’s a scam?”

“Hey, everything’s a scam when you get down to it.” Her voice softened. “All I’m saying is, stick to your job. I know it’s boring as hell, but stick to it anyway. You shouldn’t go poking around.”

Joe Winder said, “My poking days are over.”

“Then what were you doing out there tonight?”

“Meeting someone at the bridge. What about you?”

“I had a free-lance gig,” Carrie said. “A birthday party up in South Miami. Mummy and Daddy wanted Junior to meet Robbie Raccoon in person. What the heck, it was an easy five hundred. And you should’ve seen the house. Or should I say mansion.”

Floating, Joe Winder said: “What do you have to do at these parties?”

“Dance with the kiddies. Waggle my coon tail. Juggle marshmallows, whatever. And pose for pictures, of course. Everybody wants a picture.”

She touched his brow again. “You’re still hot. Maybe I ought to call your girlfriend at work.”

“Don’t do that,” said Joe Winder, “please.” He didn’t want Carrie to hook up with Miriam by accident. Miriam and her hot-tub “blow-yobs.”

“This is important,” he said. “Did you see anyone else on the road out there? Like maybe a circus-type person.”

“You’re not well,” said Carrie Lanier.

“No, I mean it. Big guy with a beard. Flowers on his head.” It sounded so ridiculous, maybe he’d hallucinated the whole thing.

“That’s not a circus person you’re describing. That’s Jesus. Or maybe Jerry García.”

“Whatever,” Joe Winder said. “Did you see anybody on the road? That’s all I’m asking.”

“Nope,” Carrie said. “I really ought to be on my way. What’d you decide about calling the cops?”

“Not a good idea,” said Winder. “Especially with Dr. Koocher still missing. Maybe the bad guys’ll call back.”

“The creeps who did this to you?” Carrie sounded incredulous. “I don’t think so, Joe.”

She didn’t say anything for several moments. Joe Winder tried to read her expression but she had turned away.

“How much does she make, your girlfriend, talking sexy on the phone?”

“Not much. Two hundred a week, sometimes two fifty. They get a bonus for selling videos. And panties, too. Twenty bucks a pair. They buy ’em wholesale from Zayre’s.”

“Two fifty, that stinks,” said Carrie Lanier. “But, hey, I’ve been there. You do what you have to.”

“Nina’s got no complaints,” said Joe Winder. “She says there’s a creative component to every job; the trick is finding it.”

Carrie turned around, glowing. “She’s absolutely right, your girlfriend is. You know what I did before I got my SAG card? I worked in a cough-drop factory. Wrapping the lozenges in foil, one at a time. The only way I kept from going crazy—each cough drop, I’d made a point to wrap it differently from the others. One I’d do in squares, the next I’d do in a triangle, the one after that I’d fold into a rhombus or something. Believe me, it got to be a challenge, especially at thirty lozenges per minute. That was our quota, or else we got docked.”

Joe Winder said the first dumb thing that popped into his brain. “I wonder if Nina has a quota.”

“She sounds like she’s doing just fine,” Carrie said. “Listen, Joe, I think you ought to know. There’s a rumor going around about the rat doctor. Supposedly they found a note.”

“Yeah?”

“You know what kind of note I mean. The bad kind. Goodbye, cruel world, and all that. Supposedly they found it in his desk at the lab.”

Joe Winder said, “What exactly did it say, this supposed note?”

“I don’t know all the details.” Carrie Lanier stood up to go. “Get some rest. It’s just a rumor.”

“Give me another pill, and sit down for a second.”

“Nope, I can’t.”

“Get me another goddamn pill!”

“Go to sleep, Joe.”

By eight the next morning, a crowd had gathered beneath the Card Sound Bridge to see the dead man hanging from the center span. From a distance it looked like a wax dummy with an elongated neck. Up close it looked much different.

The crowd was made up mostly of tourist families on their way down to the Florida Keys. They parked haphazardly on the shoulder of the road and clambered down to where the police cars and marine patrols were positioned, blue lights flashing in that insistent syncopation of emergency. A few of the tourist husbands took out portable video cameras to record the excitement, but the best vantage was from the decks of the yachts and sleek sailboats that had dropped anchor in the channel near the bridge. The mast of one of the sloops had snagged on the hanging dead man and torn off his trousers as the vessel had passed through the
bridge at dawn. By now everyone had noticed that the corpse wore no underwear.

A man from the Dade County Medical Examiner’s Office stood on the jetty and looked up at the dead body swinging in the breeze, forty feet over the water. Standing next to the man from the medical examiner’s was FBI Agent Billy Hawkins, who was asking lots of questions that the man from the medical examiner’s didn’t answer. He was keenly aware that the FBI held absolutely no authority in this matter.

“I was on my way to the park,” Agent Hawkins was saying, “and I couldn’t help but notice.”

With cool politeness, the man from the medical examiner’s office said: “Not much we can tell you at the moment. Except he’s definitely dead, that much is obvious.” The coroner knew that most FBI agents went their whole careers without ever setting eyes on an actual corpse. The way Billy Hawkins was staring, he hadn’t seen many.

“The poor bastard has no pants,” the agent observed. “What do you make of that?”

“Sunburned testicles is what I make of that. If we don’t haul him down soon.”

Agent Hawkins nodded seriously. He gave the coroner a card. The feds, they loved to hand out cards.

The man from the medical examiner’s played along. “I’ll call if anything turns up,” he lied. The FBI man said thanks and headed back toward his car; he was easy to track—a blocky gray suit moving through a bright sea of Hawaiian prints and Day-Glo surfer shorts. A dog in a flower bed.

The amused coroner soon was joined by an equally amused trooper from the Florida Highway Patrol.

“Nice day for a hangin’,” drawled the trooper. His name was Jim Tile. He wore the standard mirrored sunglasses with gold wire frames.

“I don’t see a rope,” said the coroner, gesturing at the dead man high above them. “What the hell’s he hanging with?”

“That would be fishing line,” Jim Tile said.

The coroner thought about it for several moments. Then he said, “All right, Jim, what do you think?”

“I think it’s a pretty poor excuse for a suicide,” said the trooper.

A tanned young man in a crisp blue shirt and a red necktie worked his way out of the crowd. The man walked up to the coroner and somberly extended his right hand. He wore some kind of plastic ID badge clipped to his belt. The coroner knew that the tanned young man wasn’t a cop, because his ID badge was in the shape of an animal head, possibly a raccoon or a small bear.

Charles Chelsea gestured toward the dead man without looking. In a voice dripping with disgust, he said, “Can’t you guys do something about that?”

“We’re working on it,” replied the coroner.

“Well, work a little faster.”

The man from the medical examiner’s looked down at Charles Chelsea’s animal-head ID and smiled. “These things can’t be hurried,” he said.