Native Tongue (49 page)

Joe Winder tried to wave, but it hurt too much to raise his arms. Carrie didn’t see him. She folded her hands across her midriff and began to sing:

Winder was dazed, and he was not alone; a restless murmuring swept through the stands and rippled along the promenade.

“Magnificent!” Skink said. His good eye ablaze, he clutched Winder’s shoulder: “Isn’t she something!”

“What is that? What’s she singing?”

Skink shook him with fierce exuberance. “My God, man, it’s Puccini. It’s
Tosca!”

“I see.” It was a new wrinkle: opera.

And Carrie sang beautifully; what her voice lacked in strength it made up in a flawless liquid clarity. The aria washed sorrowfully across the Amazing Kingdom and, like a chilly rain, changed the mood of the evening.

Skink put his mouth to Winder’s ear and whispered: “This takes place in the second act, where Tosca has just seen her lover tortured by the ruthless police chief and sentenced to death by a firing squad. In her failed effort to save him, Tosca herself becomes a murderess. Her song is a lamentation on life’s tragic ironies.”

“I’d never have guessed,” Winder said.

As the float passed the Magic Mansion, Carrie sang:

Skink closed his eyes and swayed. “Ah, why, dear Lord,” he said. “Ah, why do you reward your servant so?”

Winder said the audience seemed fidgety and disturbed.

“Disturbed?” Skink was indignant. “They ought to be distraught. Mournful. They ought to be
weeping.”

“They’re only tourists,” Joe Winder said. “They’ve been waiting all afternoon to see the lion.”

“Cretins.”

“Oh, she knew,” Winder said fondly. “She knew they wouldn’t like it one bit.”

Skink grinned. “Bless her heart.” He began to applaud rambunctiously, “Bravo! Bravo!” His clapping and shouting caught the attention of spectators in the lower rows, who looked up toward the VIP box with curious annoyance. Carrie spotted both of them in Kingsbury’s booth, and waved anxiously. Then she gathered herself and, with a deep breath, began the first verse again.

“What a trouper.” Joe Winder was very proud.

Skink straightened his rain cap and said, “Go get her.”

“Now?”

“Right now. It’s time.” Skink reached out to shake Winder’s hand. “You’ve got about an hour,” he said.

Winder told him to be careful. “There’s lots of kids out there.”

“Don’t you worry.”

“What about Kingsbury?”

Skink said, “Without the park, he’s finished.”

“I intended to make him famous. You should’ve heard my plan.”

“Some other time,” Skink said. “Now go. And tell her how great she was. Tell her it was absolutely wonderful. Giacomo would’ve been proud.”

“Arrivederci!”
said Joe Winder.

*         *         *

From his third-floor office above Sally’s Cimarron Saloon, Francis X. Kingsbury heard the parade go by. Only Princess Golden Sun’s dolorous aria brought him to the window, where he parted the blinds to see what in the name of Jesus H. Christ had gone wrong. The disposition of the crowd had changed from festive to impatient. Unfuckingbelievable, thought Kingsbury. It’s death, this music. And what’s with the evening gown, the Kitty Carlisle number. Where’s the buckskin bikini? Where’s the tits and ass? The tourists looked ready to bolt.

Carrie hit the final note and held it—held it forever, it seemed to Kingsbury. The girl had great pipes, he had to admit, but it wasn’t the time or place for Italian caterwauling. And God, this song, when would it end?

As the float trundled by, Kingsbury was surprised to see that Princess Golden Sun wasn’t singing anymore; in fact, she was drinking from a can of root beer. Yet her final melancholy note still hung in the air!

Or was it something else now?

The fire alarm, for instance.

Kingsbury thought: Please, don’t let it be. He tried to call Security but no one answered—that fucking Pedro, he should’ve been back from his errand hours ago.

Outside, the alarm had tripped a prerecorded message on the public-address system, urging everyone to depart the Amazing Kingdom in a calm and orderly fashion. When Kingsbury peeked out the window again, he saw customers streaming like ants for the exits; the performers and concessionaires ran, as well. Baldy the Eagle ripped off his wings and sprinted from the park at Olympic speed; the animal trainers fled together in a hijacked Cushman, but not before springing the hinge on the lion’s cage and shooing the wobbly, tranquilized beast toward the woods.

Kingsbury ran, too. He ran in search of Pedro Luz, the only man who knew how to turn off the fire alarm. Golf spikes clacking
on the concrete, Kingsbury jogged from the security office to King Arthur’s Food Court to The Catacombs, where he found Spence Mooher limping in mopey addled circles, like a dog who’d been grazed by a speeding bus.

But there was no trace of Pedro, and despair clawed at Kingsbury’s gut. People now were pouring out of the park, and taking their money with them. Even if they had wished to stop and purchase one last overpriced souvenir, no one was available to sell it to them.

Chickenshits! Kingsbury raged inwardly. All this panic, and no fire.
Can’t you idiots see it’s a false alarm?

Then came the screams.

Kingsbury’s throat tightened. He ducked into a photo kiosk and removed the laminated ID card from his belt. Why risk it if the crowd turned surly?

The screaming continued. In a prickly sweat, Kingsbury tracked the disturbance to the whale tank, where something had caught the attention of several families on their way out of the park. They lined the walkway, and excitedly pointed to the water. Assuming the pose of a fellow tourist, Kingsbury nonchalantly joined the others on the rail. He overheard one man tell his wife that there wasn’t enough light to use the video camera; she encouraged him to try anyway. A young girl cried and clutched at her mother’s leg; her older brother told her to shut up, it’s just a plastic dummy.

It wasn’t a dummy. It was the partially clothed body of Pedro Luz, facedown in the Orky tank. His muscular buttocks mooned the masses, and indeed it was this sight—not the fact he was dead—that had shocked customers into shrieking.

Francis X. Kingsbury glared spitefully at the corpse. Pedro’s bobbing bare ass seemed to mock him—a hairy faceless smile, taunting as it floated by. So this is how it goes, thought Kingsbury. Give a man a second chance, this is how he pays you back.

Suddenly, and without warning, Dickie the Dolphin rocketed twenty feet out of the water and performed a perfect triple-reverse somersault.

The tourists, out of pure dumb reflex, broke into applause.

The Amazing Kingdom of Thrills emptied in forty minutes. Two hook-and-ladder rigs arrived from Homestead, followed by a small pumper truck from the main fire station in lower Key Largo. The fire fighters unrolled the hoses and wandered around the park, but found no sign of a fire. They were preparing to leave when three green Jeeps with flashing lights raced into the empty parking lot. The fire fighters weren’t sure what to make of the Game and Fish officers; an amusement park seemed an unlikely hideout for gator poachers. Sergeant Mark Dyerson flagged down one of the departing fire trucks and asked the captain if it was safe to take dogs into the area. The captain said sure, be my guest. Almost immediately the hounds struck a scent, and the old tracker turned them loose. The wildlife officers loaded up the dart guns and followed.

Francis Kingsbury happened to be staring out the window when he spotted the lion loping erratically down Kingsbury Lane; a pack of dogs trailed closely, snapping at its tail. The doped-up cat attempted to climb one of the phony palm trees, but fell when its claws pulled loose from the Styrofoam bark. Swatting at the hounds, the cat rose and continued its disoriented escape.

Lunacy, thought Kingsbury.

Someone knocked twice on the office door and came in—a short round man with thin brown hair and small black eyes. A hideous polyester-blend shirt identified him as a valued customer. Pinned diagonally across the man’s chest was a wrinkled streamer that said
“OUR FIVE-MILLIONTH SPECIAL GUEST!”
In the crook of
each arm sat a stuffed toy animal with reddish fur, pipestem whiskers and a merry turquoise tongue.

Vance and Violet Vole.

“For my nieces,” the man explained. “I got so much free stuff I can hardly fit it in the car.”

Kingsbury smiled stiffly. “The big winner, right? That’s you.”

“Yeah, my wife can’t fuckin’ believe it.”

“Didn’t you hear it, the fire alarm? Everybody else, I mean, off they went.”

“But I didn’t see no fire,” the man said. “No smoke, neither.” He arranged the stuffed animals side by side on Kingsbury’s sofa.

The guy’s a total yutz, Kingsbury thought. Does he want my autograph or what? Maybe a snapshot with the big cheese.

“What’s that you got there?” the man asked. “By the way, the name’s Rossiter.” He nodded toward a plaid travel bag that lay open on Kingsbury’s desk. The bag was full of cash, mostly twenties and fifties.

The man said, “Looks like I wasn’t the only one had a lucky day.”

Kingsbury snapped the bag closed. “I’m very busy, Mr. Rossiter. What’s the problem—something with the new car, right? The color doesn’t match your wife’s eyes or whatever.”

“No, the car’s great. I got no complaints about the car.”

“Then what?” Kingsbury said. “The parade, I bet. That last song, I swear to Christ, I don’t know where that shit came from—”

“You kiddin’ me? It was beautiful. It was Puccini.”

Kingsbury threw up his hands. “Whatever. Not to be rude, but what the fuck do you want?”

The man said, “I got a confession to make. I cheated a little this morning.” He shrugged sheepishly. “I cut in line so we could be the first ones through the gate. That’s how I won the car.”

It figures, thought Kingsbury. Your basic South Florida clientele.

The man said, “I felt kinda lousy, but what the hell. Opportunity knocks, right? I mean, since I had to be here anyway—”

“Mr. Rossiter, do I look like a priest? All this stuff, I don’t need to hear it—”

“Hey, call me Lou,” the man said, “and I’ll call
you
Frankie.” From his Sansibelt slacks he withdrew a .38-caliber pistol with a silencer.

Francis Kingsbury’s cheeks went from pink to gray. “Don’t tell me,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Lou, “can you believe it?”

Francis X. Kingsbury asked the hit man not to shoot.

“Save your breath,” said Lou.

“But, look, a fantastic new world I built here. A place for little tykes, you saw for yourself—roller coasters and clowns and talking animals. Petey Possum and so forth. I did all this myself.”

“What a guy,” said Lou.

Kingsbury was unaccustomed to such bald sarcasm. “Maybe I make a little dough off the operation, so what? Look at all the fucking happiness I bring people!”

“I enjoyed myself,” Lou admitted. “My wife, she’s crazy about the Twirling Teacups. She and her mother both. I almost spit up on the damn thing, to be honest, but my wife’s got one a them cast-iron stomachs.”

Kingsbury brightened. “The Twirling Teacups, I designed those myself. The entire ride from scratch.”

“No shit?”

The hit man seemed to soften, and Kingsbury sensed an opening. “Look, I got an idea about paying back the Zubonis. It’s a big construction deal, we’re talking millions. They’d be nuts to pass it up—can you make a phone call? Tell ’em it’s once in a lifetime.”

Lou said, “Naw, I don’t think so.”

“Florida waterfront—that’s all you gotta say. Florida fucking waterfront, and they’ll be on the next plane from Newark, I promise.”

“You’re a good salesman,” said the hit man, “but I got a contract.”

Kingsbury nudged the plaid travel bag across the desk. “My old lady, she wanted me to go on a trip—Europe, the whole nine yards. I was thinking why not, just for a couple months. She’s never been there.”

Lou nodded. “Now’s a good time to go. The crowds aren’t so bad.”

“Anyhow, I emptied the cash registers after the parade.” Kingsbury patted the travel bag. “This is just from ticket sales, not concessions, and still you’re talking three hundred and forty thousand. Cash-ola.”

“Yeah? That’s some vacation, three hundred forty grand.”

“And it’s all yours if you forget about the contract.”

“Hell,” said Lou, “it’s mine if I don’t.”

Outside there was a bang, followed by a hot crackling roar. When Kingsbury spun his chair toward the window, his face was bathed in flickering yellow light.

“Lord,” he said.

The Wet Willy was on fire—hundreds of feet of billowed latex, squirming and thrashing like an eel on a griddle. White sparks and flaming bits of rubber hissed into the tropical sky, and came
down as incendiary rain upon the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. Smaller fires began to break out everywhere.

Francis Kingsbury shivered under his hairpiece.

Lou went to the window and watched the Wet Willy burn. “You know what it looks like?”

“Yes,” Kingsbury said.

“A giant Trojan.”

“I know.”

“It ain’t up to code, that’s for sure. You must’ve greased some county inspectors.”

“Another good guess,” Kingsbury said. Why did the alarm cut off? he wondered. Where did all the firemen go?

Lou farted placidly as he walked back to the desk. “Well, I better get a move on.”

Kingsbury tried to hand him the telephone. “Please,” he begged, “call the Zuboni brothers.”

“A deal’s a deal,” Lou said, checking the fit of the silencer.

“But you saw for yourself!” Kingsbury cried. “Another five years, goddamn, I’ll be bigger than Disney.”

Lou looked doubtful. “I wasn’t gonna say anything, but what the hell. The car and the prizes are great, don’t get me wrong, but the park’s got a long ways to go.”