He said, “It’s okay if you killed that guy. I mean, it was definitely self-defense. No jury in the world would send you up on that one.”
Great, Bud Schwartz thought, now he’s Perry Mason. “Danny, I’m gonna tell you one more time: it wasn’t me, it was a damn baboon.”
Here was something Danny Pogue admired about his partner; most dirtbags would have lied about what happened so they could take credit for the shooting. Not Bud—even if a monkey was involved. That was Danny Pogue’s idea of class.
“I got a feeling they meant to kill us,” Bud Schwartz said. He had replayed the scene a hundred times in his head, and it always added up to a murderous rip-off. It made him furious to think that Francis Kingsbury would try it…so furious that he’d tracked down his old cellmate Mario, who steered him to Jimmy Noodles, who gave him the number of the butcher shop in Queens.
Nothing but revenge was on Bud Schwartz’s mind. “I want them to know,” he said to Danny Pogue, “that they can’t screw with us just ’cause we’re burglars.”
The screen door squeaked open and Molly McNamara joined the men on the porch. Her eyes looked puffy and tired. She asked Danny Pogue to fix her a glass of lemonade, and he dashed to the kitchen. She adjusted her new dentures and said, “The meeting went poorly. There’s not much support for my ideas.”
One hand moved to her chest, and she took a raspy, labored breath.
Bud Schwartz said, “You ain’t feeling so good, huh?”
“Not tonight, no.” She placed a tiny pill under her tongue and closed her eyes. A flash of distant lightning announced a thunderstorm sweeping in from the Everglades. Bud Schwartz spotted a mosquito on Molly’s cheek, and he brushed it away.
She blinked her eyes and said, “You boys have been up to something, I can tell.”
“It’s going to be a surprise.”
“I’m too old for surprises,” said Molly.
“This one you’ll like.”
“Be careful, please.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “For Danny’s sake, be careful. He’s not as sharp as you are.”
Bud Schwartz said, “We look out for each other.” Unless there’s trouble, then the little dork runs for the hills.
“There’s a reason I can’t spill everything,” Bud Schwartz said to Molly, “but don’t you worry.” She was in a mood, all right. He’d never seen her so worn out and gloomy.
Danny Pogue returned with a pitcher of lemonade. Molly thanked him and held her glass with both hands as she drank. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to count on the Mothers of Wilderness,” she said. “I sensed an alarming lack of resolve in the meeting tonight.”
“You mean, they wimped out.”
“Oh, they offered to picket Falcon Trace. And sign a petition, of course. They’re very big on petitions.” Molly sighed and tilted her head. The oncoming thunder made the pine planks rumble beneath their feet.
“Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just a batty old woman.”
Danny Pogue said, “No, you’re not!”
Yes, she is, thought Bud Schwartz. But that was all right. She was entitled.
Molly gripped the arms of the chair and pulled herself up. “We’ll probably get a visitor soon,” she said. “The tall fellow with the collar on his neck.”
“Swell,” Bud Schwartz muttered. His ribs still throbbed from last time.
“He’s not to be feared,” Molly McNamara said. “We should hear what he has to say.”
This ought to be good, thought Bud Schwartz. This ought to be priceless.
TWENTY-FIVE
Early on the morning of July 29, a Sunday, the fax machine in the wire room of the Miami Herald received the following transmission:
REPTILE SCARE CLOSES THEME PARK; HIGH WATER BLAMED
The Amazing Kingdom of Thrills will be closed Sunday, July 29, due to an infestation of poisonous snakes caused by heavy summer rains and flooding. Cottonmouth moccasins numbering “in the low hundreds” swarmed the popular South Florida theme park over the weekend, according to Charles Chelsea, vice president of publicity.
Several workers and visitors were bitten Saturday, but no deaths were reported. “Our medical-emergency personnel responded to the crisis with heroic efficiency,” Chelsea stated.