Carl Hiaasen – Native Tongue

“Wow,” Winder said. Obviously things were going gangbusters between Nina and the light-truck salesman.

“You really like it? Or are you patronizing me again?”

“Nina, you’re breaking new ground.”

“Guess what the moron at the phone syndicate wants. Limericks! Sex limericks, like they publish in Playboy. That’s his idea of erotic poetry!”

“Stick to your guns,” Winder said.

“You bet I will.”

“The reason I called was to say good-bye.”

“So tonight’s the night,” she said. “Will I be seeing you on the news?”

“I hope not.” He thought: What the hell. “I met a woman,” he said.

“I’m very happy for you.”

“Aw, Nina, don’t say that.”

“I am. I think it’s great.”

“Christ Almighty, aren’t you the least bit jealous?”

“Not really.”

God, she was a pisser. “Then lie to me,” Winder said. “Have mercy on my lunatic soul and lie to me. Tell me you’re mad with jealousy.”

“You win, Joe. You saw through my act.”

“Was that a giggle I heard?”

“No!” Nina said. The giggle burst into a full-blown laugh. “I’m dying here. I might just leap off the building, I’m so damn jealous. Who is she? Who is this tramp?”

Now Winder started laughing, too. “I’d better go,” he said, “before I say something sensible.”

“Call me, Joe. Whatever happens, I’d love to get a phone call.”

“I know the number by heart,” he said. “Me and every pervert on the Gold Coast.”

“You go to hell,” Nina teased. “And be careful, dammit.”

He said good-bye and placed the receiver on Charles Chelsea’s desk.

Skink mulched a cotton candy and said, “These are excellent seats.”

They ought to be.” Joe Winder assumed Francis X. Kingsbury would arrive at any moment; it was his private viewing box, after all—leather swivel chairs, air-conditioning, video monitors, a wet bar. Thirty rows up, overlooking the parade route.

“What will you do when he gets here?” Skink asked.

“I haven’t decided. Maybe he’d like to go swimming with Pedro’s new friend.”

The grandstand was packed, and Kingsbury Lane was lined five deep with eager spectators. As the history of Florida unfolded in song and skit, Joe Winder imagined that the Stations of the Cross could be similarly adapted and set to music, if the audience would only forgive a few minor revisions. Every float in the Summerfest pageant was greeted with the blind and witless glee displayed by people who have spent way too much money and are determined to have fun. They cheered at the sight of a bootless Ponce de Leon, an underaged maiden on each arm, wading bawdily into the Fountain of Youth; they roared as the pirate Black Caesar chased a concubine up the mizzenmast while his men plundered a captured galleon; they gasped as the Killer Hurricane of 1926 tore the roof off a settler’s cabin and the smock off his brave young wife.

Skink said, “I never realized cleavage played such an important role in Florida history.” Joe Winder told him to just wait for the break-dancing migrants.

Carrie Lanier gave a cassette of the new music to the driver, and took her place on the last float. The Talent Manager showed up and demanded to know why she wasn’t wearing the Indian costume.

“That wasn’t an Indian costume,” Carrie said, “unless the Seminoles had streetwalkers.”

The Talent Manager, a middle-aged woman with sweeping peroxide hair and ropes of gold jewelry, informed Carrie that a long gown was unsuitable for the Jubilee parade.

“It’s ideal for what I’m singing,” Carrie replied.

“And what would that be?”

“That would be none of your business.” She adjusted the microphone, which was clipped into the neck of her dress.

The Talent Manager became angry. “Paul Revere and the Raiders isn’t good enough for you?”

“Go away,” said Carrie.

“And where’s our lion?”

“The lion is taking the night off.”

“No, missy,” the Talent lady said, shaking a finger. “Thousands of people out there are waiting to see Princess Golden Sun ride a wild lion through the Everglades.”

“The lion has a furball. Now get lost.”

“At least put on the wig,” the Talent lady pleaded. “There’s no such thing as a blond Seminole. For the sake of authenticity, put on the damn wig!”

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