Carl Hiaasen – Native Tongue

“You did the right thing,” Joe Winder said. “No sense chancing it.” He stood up and rewrapped himself in the quilt. “You’ll have to stay like this a while,” he told the agent. “It’s the only way.”

“I don’t get it. What’s your connection to these crackpots?”

“Long story.”

“Winder, don’t be a jackass. This isn’t a game.” Hawkins spoke sternly for a man in his ridiculous predicament. “Somebody could get killed. That’s not what you want, is it?”

“Depends. Tell me the name of this precious witness.”

“Frankie King.”

Joe Winder shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

“Moved down from New York after he snitched on some of Gotti’s crowd. This was a few years back.”

“Swift move. What’s he calling himself these days?”

“That I can’t possibly tell you.”

“Then you’re on your own, Billy. Think about it. Your word against Grandma Moses. Picture the headlines: ‘Sharpshooter Widow Gunned Me Down, Nude G-Man Claims.’ ”

Hawkins sagged dispiritedly. He said, The flip’s name is Francis Kingsbury. You happy now?”

“Kingsbury?” Joe Winder raised his eyes to the heavens and cackled raucously. “The Mafia is coming down here to whack Mr. X!”

“Hey,” Billy Hawkins said, “it’s not funny.”

But it was very funny to Joe Winder. “Francis X. Kingsbury. Millionaire theme-park developer and real-estate mogul, darling of the Chamber of Commerce, 1988 Rotarian Citizen of the Year. And you’re telling me he’s really a two-bit jizzbag on the run from the mob?”

Ecstatically, Joe Winder hopped from foot to foot, spinning in a circle and twirling Molly’s quilt like a calico cape.

“Oh, Billy boy,” he sang, “isn’t this a great country!”

They were thirty minutes late to the airport because Danny Pogue insisted on watching the end of a National Geographic television documentary about rhinoceros poachers in Africa.

In the car he couldn’t stop talking about the program. “The only reason they kill ’em, see, what they’re after is the horns. Just the horns!” He put his fist on his nose to simulate a rhinoceros snout. “In some places they use ’em for sex potions.”

“Get off it,” said Bud Schwartz.

“No shit. They grind the horns into powder and put it in their tea.”

“Does it work?”

“I don’t know,” Danny Pogue said. The TV didn’t say.”

“Like, it gives you a super big boner or what?”

“I don’t know, Bud, the TV didn’t say. They just talked about how much the powder goes for in Hong Kong, stuff like that. Thousands of bucks.”

Bud Schwartz said, “You ask me, they left out the most important part of the show. Does it work or not?”

He drove into one of the airport garages and snatched a ticket from the machine. He parked on Level M, as always. “M” for Mother; it was the only way Bud Schwartz could remember how to find his car. He was annoyed that his partner wasn’t sharing in the excitement of the moment: they were about to be rich.

“After today, you can retire,” Bud Schwartz said. “No more b-and-e’s. Man, we should throw us a party tonight.”

Danny Pogue said, “I ain’t in the mood.”

They stepped onto the moving sidewalk and rode in silence to the Delta Airlines concourse. The plane had arrived on time, so the visitor already was waiting outside the gate. As promised, he was carrying a blue umbrella; otherwise Bud Schwartz would never have known that he was the hit man. He stood barely five feet tall and weighed at least two hundred pounds. He had thinning brown hair, small black eyes and skin that was the color of day-old lard. Under a herringbone sport coat he wore a striped polyester shirt, open at the neck, with a braided gold chain. The hit man seemed fond of gold; a bracelet rattled on his wrist when he shook Bud Schwartz’s hand.

“Hello,” said the burglar.

“You call me Lou.” The hit man spoke in a granite baritone that didn’t match the soft roly-polyness of his figure.

“Hi, Lou,” said Danny Pogue. “I’m Bud’s partner.”

“How nice for you. Where’s the car?” He pointed to a Macy’s shopping bag near his feet. “That’s yours. Now, where’s the car?”

On the drive south, Danny Pogue peeked in the Macy’s bag and saw that it was full of cash. Lou was up in the front seat next to Bud Schwartz.

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