“The Vance model comes with a tiny cigar.”
“How much?” Winder asked.
“Eighteen ninety-five, plus tax. Mr. X ordered a shipment of three thousand.” Carrie stroked his arm. “Come on, I feel like cuddling.”
Wordlessly, Winder moved the toy mango vole off the bed. The tag said it was manufactured in the People’s Republic of China. What must they think of us on the assembly line? Winder wondered. Stuffed rats with cigars!
Carrie Lanier said, “I’ve got the jitters about singing in the parade. I don’t look much like a Seminole.”
Winder assured her she would do just fine. “Listen, I need to ask a favor. If you say no, I’ll understand.”
“Shoot.”
“I need you to steal something for me,” he said.
“Sure.”
“Just like that?”
Carrie said, “I trust you. I want to help.”
“Do you see the possibilities?”
“Surprise me,” she said.
“Don’t worry, it won’t be dangerous. A very modest effort, as larcenies go.”
“Sure. First thing tomorrow.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asked.
“Because it’s a fraud, the whole damn place. But mainly because an innocent man is dead. I liked Will Koocher.” She paused. “I like his wife, too.”
She didn’t have to add the last part, but Winder was glad she did. He said, “You might lose your job.”
Carrie smiled. “There’s always dinner theater.”
It seemed a good time to break the ice, so he tried—a brotherly peck on the cheek.
“Joe,” she murmured, “you kiss like a parakeet.”
“I’m slightly nervous myself.”
Slowly she levered him to the bed, pinning his arms. “Why,” she said, giggling, “why are you so nervous, little boy?”
“I really don’t know.” Her breasts pressed against his ribs, a truly wonderful sensation. Winder decided he could spend the remainder of his life in that position.
Carrie said, “Lesson Number One: How to smooch an Indian maiden.”
“Go ahead,” said Winder. “I’m all lips.”
“Now do as I say.”
“Anything,” he agreed. “Anything at all.”
As they kissed, an unrelated thought sprouted like a mushroom in the only dim crevice of Joe Winder’s brain that was not fogged with lust.
The thought was: If I play this right, we won’t need the gun after all.
TWENTY-TWO
Pedro Luz was in Francis Kingsbury’s den when the blackmailers called. He listened to Kingsbury’s half of the conversation, a series of impatient grunts, and said to Churrito, “Looks like we’re in business.”
Kingsbury put down the phone and said, “All set. Monkey Mountain at four sharp. In front of the baboons.”
Monkey Mountain was a small animal park off Krome Avenue, a cut-rate imitation of the venerable Monkey Jungle. To Pedro Luz, it didn’t sound like an ideal place to kill a couple of burglars.
With a snort, Kingsbury said, “These assholes, who knows where they get these cute ideas. Watching television, maybe.”
“What is this monkey place?” Churrito asked.
“For Christ’s sake, like the name says, it’s basically monkeys. Two thousand of the damn things running all over creation.” Kingsbury disliked monkeys and had summarily vetoed plans for a Primate Pavilion at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. He felt that apes had limited commercial appeal; Disney had steered clear of them, too, for what that was worth.
“For one thing, they bite. And, two, they shit like a sewer pipe.” Kingsbury put the issue to rest. “If they’re so damn smart, how come they don’t hold it. Like people.”
“They tasty good,” Churrito remarked, licking his lips. “Squirrel monkey is best, where I come from.”
Pedro Luz sucked noisily on the open end of the IV tube. He had purchased a dozen clear bags of five-percent dextrose solution from a wholesale medical shop in Perrine. The steroid pills he pulverized with the butt of his Colt, and funneled the powder into the bags. No one at the gym had ever heard of getting stoked by this method; Pedro Luz boasted that it was all his idea, he’d never even checked with a doctor. The only part that bothered him was using the needle—a problematic endeavor, since anabolic steroids were usually injected into muscle, not veins. Whenever Pedro Luz was having second thoughts, he’d yank out the tube and insert it directly in his mouth.