Winder said nothing. Kingsbury began to knead his jowls in exasperation. “What the hell’s so wrong with that picture? Eighteen lousy holes, I just don’t see the crime. It’s what Disney did. It’s what everybody does with prime acreage. This is Florida, for Chrissakes.”
“Not the way it ought to be, Frankie.”
“Then you’re living in what they call a dreamworld. This ain’t Oz, son, and there’s no fairy wizard to make things right again. Down here the brick road’s not yellow, it’s green. Plain and simple. Case closed.”
But Joe Winder wasn’t changing his mind. “I hope the papers get your name right,” he said.
Bleakly Kingsbury thought of front-page headlines and multimillion-dollar lawsuits and minimum-security prisons with no driving range. “All right,” he said to Winder, “let’s talk.”
“You’ve got my offer. Read the press release, it’s all tied up with a pretty ribbon. You shut down Falcon Trace for the noblest of reasons and you’re a hero, Frankie. Isn’t that what you want?”
“I’d rather have my oceanfront lots.”
Then the door flew open and there, bug-eyed and seething, was Pedro Luz. He aimed a large blue handgun at Joe Winder and grunted something unintelligible.
“Nice of you to put in an appearance,” Kingsbury remarked. His eyes flooded with a mixture of rage and relief. “This asshole, get him out of my sight! For good this time.”
“Drop the gun,” Pedro Luz told Winder. “And put on your goddamn head.”
Winder did as he was told. Zipping himself in, he felt cumbersome and helpless and feverishly short of breath.
Kingsbury said, “He doesn’t leave the park alive, you understand?”
“No problem,” said Pedro Luz.
“No problem,” mimicked Kingsbury. “No problem, my ass. This is Mr. Crackerjack Bodyguard, right? Mr. Lightning Response Time.”
For a moment Pedro Luz felt an overwhelming urge to turn the pistol on Francis X. Kingsbury; something told him it would be every bit as satisfying as shooting Joe Winder. Maybe another time, he decided. After payday.
A muted voice inside the raccoon head said: “This is a big mistake, Frankie.”
Kingsbury laughed mordantly and blew his nose. “Pedro, it’s your last fucking chance. I hope you still got enough brain cells to do this one simple chore.”
“No problem.” With the crutch he roughly shoved Joe Winder toward the door.
“Hey, Pedro.”
“What, Mr. Kingsbury?”
“That’s a six-hundred-dollar animal costume. Try not to mess it up.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Carrie Lanier was practicing a song at the mirror as she dressed for the pageant. The door opened behind her, and she saw a flash of orange.
“Hey! We thought you were headed for New York.”
“I seriously considered it.” Skink shut the door with his foot.
“Your friend Officer Tile mentioned Orlando. Somebody shot up a tour bus, he figured it might be you.”
“Another pale imitation, that’s all. Where’s your boyfriend?”
Carrie described Winder’s plan to confront Francis Kingsbury. “Joe’s got all the bases covered.”
Skink shook his head. “It’ll never work.”
“Where have you been, anyway?”
“Down here in the underground, away from all radio beams. I needed a break from that damn plane.”
Carrie moved closer to the mirror and began to put on her makeup. “What’s with the gas cans?” she asked.
Skink carried one in each hand. “Let’s pretend you didn’t see these,” he said. “I just want to make sure you’ve got a way out of the park.”
“When?”
“Whenever.”
“What about Joe?”
“I expect he’s in some trouble,” Skink said. “I’ve got a chore to do, then I’ll check around.”
“Don’t worry, Pedro’s locked in the storage room.”
“How? With what?”
When Carrie told him, Skink frowned. “I guess I’d better get going.”
She said, “Can you zip me up? There’s a little hook at the top.”
Skink set down the gas cans and fastened the back of her gown. He wondered what had happened to the Indian theme.
“When do you go on?” he asked.
“Half an hour.”
“The dress is lovely,” he said, stepping back. “Half an hour it is.”
“Thanks. Wish me luck.”
“You’ll do fine.”
Carrie turned from the mirror. “Should I wait for Joe?”
“Of course,” said Skink, “but not too long.”
When they got to the security office, Pedro Luz ordered Joe Winder to remove the raccoon costume and hang it neatly in the uniform closet. Then Pedro Luz dragged Winder into the storage room, clubbed him to the floor and beat him seven or eight times with the crutch—Joe Winder lost count. Every time Pedro Luz struck a blow, he emitted a queer high-pitched peep that sounded like a baby sparrow. When he finally stopped to rest, he was panting heavily and his face shone with damp splotches. Spying from a fetal position on the floor, Joe Winder watched Pedro Luz swallow two handfuls of small orange tablets. Winder assumed these were not muscle relaxants.