Carl Hiaasen – Native Tongue

The man from the medical examiner’s reached into the van and tugged at the woolen blanket, revealing the dead man’s features.

“I was right,” said the coroner, scribbling again. “Brown they are.”

Jim Tile stared at the rictus face and said, “Damn, I know that guy.” He wasn’t a fisherman.

“A name would be nice,” the coroner said. “He lost his wallet when he lost his pants.”

Angel, the trooper said. Angel Gaviria. “Don’t ask me how to spell it.”

“Where do you know him from?”

“He used to be a cop.” Jim Tile yanked the blanket up to cover the dead man’s face. “Before he got convicted.”

“Convicted of what?”

“Everything short of first-degree murder.”

“Jesus Christ. And here he is, out of the slammer already.”

“Yeah,” said Jim Tile. “Modeling neckwear.”

Bud Schwartz had been a two-bit burglar since he was seventeen years old. He was neither proud of it nor ashamed. It was what he did, period. It suited his talents. Whenever his mother gave him a hard time about getting an honest job, Bud Schwartz reminded her that he was the only one of her three children who was not in psychoanalysis. His sister was a lawyer and his brother was a stockbroker, and both of them were miserably fucked up. Bud Schwartz was a crook, sure, but at least he was at peace with himself.

He considered himself a competent burglar who was swift, thorough and usually cautious. The times he’d been caught—five in all—these were flukes. A Rottweiler that wasn’t in the yard the night before. A nosy neighbor, watering her begonias at three in the goddamn morning. A getaway car with bad plugs. That sort of thing. Occupational hazards, in Bud Schwartz’s opinion—plain old lousy luck.

Normally he was a conservative guy who played the odds and didn’t like unnecessary risks. Why he ever accepted the rat-napping job from Molly McNamara, he couldn’t figure. Broad daylight, thousands of people, the middle of a fucking theme park. Jesus! Maybe he did it just to break the monotony. Or maybe because ten grand was ten grand.

Definitely a score. In his entire professional burgling career, Bud Schwartz had never stolen anything worth ten thousand dollars. The one time he’d pinched a Rolex Oyster, it turned out to be fake. Another time he got three diamond rings from a hotel room on Key Biscayne—a big-time movie actress, too—and the fence informed him it was all zircon. Fucking paste. Or so said the fence.

Who could blame him for saying yes to Molly McNamara, or at least checking it out? So when he gets out of jail, he rounds up Danny Pogue—Danny, who’s really nothing but a pair of hands; somebody you drag along to help carry the shit to the car. But reliable, as far as that goes. Not really smart enough to pull anything.

So together they meet the old lady once, twice. Get directions, instructions. Go over the whole damn thing until they’re bored to tears, except for the part about what to do with the voles. Bud Schwartz had assumed the whole point was to free the damn things, the way Molly talked. “Liberate” was the word she’d used. Of course, if he’d known then what he knew now, he wouldn’t have chucked that one little rat into the red convertible. If he’d known there were only two of the damn things left on the whole entire planet, he wouldn’t ever have let Danny take a throw at the Winnebago.

Now the voles were gone, and Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue were nursing their respective gunshot wounds in the old lady’s apartment.

Watching a slide show about endangered species.

“This formidable fellow,” Molly McNamara was saying, “is the North American crocodile.”

Danny Pogue said, “Looks like a gator.”

“No, it’s a different animal entirely,” said Molly. “There’s only a few dozen left in the wild.”

“So what?” said Danny Pogue. “You got tons of gators. So many they went and opened a hunting season. I can’t see getting’ all worked up about crocodiles dyin” off, not when they got a season on gators. It don’t make sense.”

Molly said, “You’re missing the point.”

“He can’t help it,” said Bud Schwartz. “Just go on to the next slide.”