Charles Chelsea gasped.
“I know, I know,” Winder said, “Think about what’s going to happen we dangle a million bucks out there. Think of the freaks and sadists and degenerates stampeding this place.”
“Holy Christ,” said Chelsea.
“Now,” said Joe Winder, “think of the headlines.”
“I’ll talk to Kingsbury.”
“Good.”
“Maybe I’ll bring you along.”
“No thank you.”
“You owe me,” said Chelsea. “Please. I’ve been good to you, Joe. Remember who hired you in the first place.”
Thanks for reminding me, Winder thought, for the two-thousandth time. “I’m not the right man to deal with Mr. X,” he said. “I make a lousy first impression.”
“You’re right,” said Chelsea, rethinking his plan. “Tell me one thing—that sicko with the bunny rabbits…what happened?”
“Don’t worry,” said Winder. “We paid him to go away.”
“How much? Not the whole ten grand?”
“No, not ten grand.” Winder sighed. “Try fifty bucks. And he was delighted, Charlie. Positively thrilled.”
“Thank God for that.” There was a brittle pause on Chelsea’s end. “Joe?”
“What?”
“This is turning into something real bad, isn’t it?”
Late in the afternoon, Joe Winder decided to drive down to the Rare Animal Pavilion and find out more about the voles. He needed someone to take his mind off the rabbit episode, which made him heartsick. He should’ve seen it coming—naturally some greedy psychopath would mutilate helpless bunny rabbits for ten lousy thousand fucking dollars. It’s South Florida, isn’t it? Winter should’ve anticipated the worst. That’s why Chelsea had hired him, for his native instinct.
The door to the vole lab was locked but the lights were on. Winder knocked twice and got no answer. He could hear a telephone ringing on the other side of the door. It stopped briefly, then began ringing again. He used his car keys to rap sharply on the glass, but there was no sign of Koocher. Winder figured the doctor was taking a late lunch.
He strolled out to the pavilion, where he found a group of tourists milling around the empty mango-vole exhibit. A tarpaulin had been hung to cover the mess, but somebody had lifted a corner to peek inside the enclosure, which was littered with glass and smudged with fingerprint dust. A yellow police ribbon lay crumpled like a dead snake on the porch of the vole hutch. Some of the tourists were snapping pictures of the scene of the crime.
A voice behind Joe Winder said, “You work here?”
It was an old woman wearing a floppy pink Easter hat and a purse the size of a saddlebag. She eyed Joe Winder’s ID badge, which was clipped to his belt.
“You a security man?” the woman asked.
Winder tried to remember what Chelsea had told him about speaking to park visitors; some gooey greeting that all employees were supposed to say. Welcome to the Amazing Kingdom. How can I help you? Or was it: How may I help you? No, that wasn’t it. How can we help you?
Eventually Joe Winder said, “I work in Publicity. Is something wrong?”
The old lady made a clucking noise and foraged in her enormous purse. “I’ve got a little something for you.”
In a helpful tone Winder said, “The Lost and Found is down by the killer-whale tank.”
“This isn’t lost and it isn’t found.” The old lady produced an envelope. “Here,” she said, pressing it into Joe Winder’s midsection. “And don’t try to follow me.”
She turned and scuttled off, one hand atop her head, holding the Easter hat in place. Winder stuffed the envelope into his pocket and started after her. “Hey! Wait a second.”
He had taken only three steps when a fist came out of somewhere and smashed him behind the right ear. He pitched forward on the walkway, skidding briefly on his face. When he awoke, Joe Winder was staring at shoes: Reeboks, loafers, sandals, Keds, orthopedics, Hush Puppies, flip-flops. The tourists had gathered in a murmuring semicircle around him. A young man knelt at his side, asking questions in German.
Winder sat up. “Did anybody see who hit me?” His cheek stung, and he tasted Hood on his lower lip.
“Beeg orange!” sputtered a woman wearing two cameras around her neck. “Beeg orange man!”