Which was baloney. The true reason for returning the files was to ensure that no one would come searching for them later. Like the police or the FBI.
“I suppose you want, what, a great big thank-you or some such goddamn thing.” Francis X. Kingsbury tugged the boxer shorts high on his gelatinous waist.
The indignity of the moment finally had sunk in. “Get out or I’m calling Security!”
“You’ve got no Security,” Winder informed him.
“Charlie?”
“I’m afraid that’s right, sir. I’ll explain later.”
Bud Schwartz said to his partner, “This is pathetic. Let’s go.”
“Wait.” Danny Pogue stepped up to Kingsbury and said: “Beating up an old lady, what’s the matter with you?”
“What the hell do you care.” By now Kingsbury had more or less focused on Joe Winder’s gun, so he spoke to Danny Pogue without looking at him. “That fucking Pedro, he gets carried away. Not a damn thing I can do.”
“She’s a sick old woman, for Chrissake.”
“What’s your point, Jethro?”
“My point is this,” said Danny Pogue, and ferociously punched Francis Kingsbury on the chin. Kingsbury’s golf cleats snagged on the carpet as he toppled.
Surveying the messy scene, Charles Chelsea felt refreshingly detached. He truly didn’t care anymore. Outside, a roar of thousands swept the Amazing Kingdom, followed by gay cheers and applause. Chelsea went to the window and parted the blinds. “What do you know,” he said. “Our five-millionth customer just walked through the gate.”
With gray hands Kingsbury clutched the corner of the desk and pulled himself to his feet. In this fashion he was also able to depress a concealed alarm button that rang in the Security Office.
But Schwartz said, “We’ll be saying good-bye now.”
“You’re welcome to stay,” offered Joe Winder.
“No thanks.” Danny Pogue examined his knuckles for bruises and abrasions. He said, “Molly’s having surgery this afternoon. We promised to be at the hospital.”
“I understand,” Winder said. “You guys want to take anything?” He motioned with his gun paw around the lavish office. “The VCR? Some tapes? How about a cellular phone for the car?”
“The phone might be good,” said Danny Pogue. “What’d you think, Bud? You could call your little boy from the road, wouldn’t that be cool?”
“Let’s roll,” Bud Schwartz said.
Later they were driving on Card Sound Road, halfway back to the mainland, when Bud Schwartz motioned with a thumb and said: “Right about here’s where it all started, Danny. Me throwin” that damn rat in the convertible.”
“It was a vole,” said Danny Pogue. “A blue-tongued mango vole. Microtus mango. That’s the Latin name.”
Bud Schwartz laughed. “Whatever you say.” There was no denying he was impressed. How many burglars knew Latin?
A few more miles down the road, Danny Pogue again brought up the topic of portable phones. “If we had us one right now, we could call the hospital and see how she’s doin’.”
“You know the problem with cellulars,” said Bud Schwartz.
“The reception?”
“Besides the reception,” Bud Schwartz said. “The problem with cellulars is, people always steal the damn things.”
“Yeah,” said his partner. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
The emergency buzzer awakens Pedro Luz in the storage room. He sits up and blinks. Blinks at the bare light bulb. Blinks at the pitted walls. Blinks at the empty intravenous bags on the hangers. He thinks, What the hell was it this time? Stanozolol, yeah. He’d pilfered a half-dozen tabs from Spence Mooher’s locker. Ground them up with the toe of a boot, stirred it in the bag with the dextrose.
Feeling good. Feeling just fine. The beer sure helped.
Then comes Kingsbury’s alarm and it sounds like a dental drill. Better get up now. Better get moving.
Pedro Luz pulls the tubes from his arms and tries to stand. Whoa, hoss! He forgot all about his foot, the fact that it was missing.
He grabs a wooden crutch and steadies himself. Facing the mirror, Pedro notices he’s buck naked from the waist down. The image shocks him; his legs are as thick as oaks, but his penis is no larger than a peanut. Hastily he scrambles into the trousers of his guard uniform, the gun belt, one sock, one shoe.