Carl Hiaasen – Native Tongue

“Oh my,” Kukor said, pointing. The elves ran away frantically, their huge curly-toed shoes slapping noisily on the blood-slickened asphalt.

“What?” barked Francis X. Kingsbury. “What is it?”

“I don’t believe this,” said the veterinarian.

Kingsbury stepped forward to see for himself and Joe Winder followed, though he was sorry he did.

“Call somebody,” wheezed Dr. Kukor.

“Looks like a human,” Kingsbury remarked. He turned to stare at Winder because Winder was clinging to his arm. “Don’t puke on me or you’re fired,” said Kingsbury.

Joe Winder was trying not to pass out. The corpse wasn’t in perfect condition, but you could tell who it was.

A wan and shaky Dr. Kukor stepped out of Orky’s excavated carcass. “Asphyxiation,” he declared numbly. “The whale choked to death.”

“Well, damn,” said Francis X. Kingsbury.

Joe Winder thought: Choked to death on Will Koocher. Koocher, in a mint-green golf shirt.

“Somebody call somebody,” Kukor said. “This is way out of my field.”

Winder reeled away from the scene. In a croaky voice he said, “That’s the worst thing I ever saw.”

“You?” Kingsbury laughed harshly. Three fucking tons of whale meat, talk about a nightmare.”

“Yes,” Joe Winder said, gasping for fresh air.

“I’m thinking South Korea or maybe the Sudan,” Kingsbury was saying. “Stamp it ‘Tuna,’ who the hell would ever know? Those little fuckers are starving.”

“What?” said Winder. “What did you say?”

“Providing I can get some goddamn ice, pronto.”

ELEVEN

Charles Chelsea decreed that there should be no mention of Dr. Will Koocher in the press release. “Stick to Orky,” he advised Joe Winder. “Three hundred words max.”

“You’re asking me to lie.”

“No, I’m asking you to omit a few superfluous details. The whale died suddenly overnight, scientists are investigating, blah, blah, blah. Oh, and be sure to include a line that Mr. Francis X. Kingsbury is shocked and saddened.” Chelsea paused, put a finger to his chin. “Scratch the ‘shocked,’ he said. ” ‘Saddened’ is plenty. “Shocked” makes it sound like something, I don’t know, something—”

“Out of the ordinary?” said Joe Winder.

“Right. Exactly.”

“Charlie, you are one sorry bucket of puss.”

Chelsea steepled his hands on his chest. Then he unfolded them. Then he folded them once more and said, “Joe, this is a question of privacy, not censorship. Until Dr. Koocher’s wife is officially notified, the least we can do is spare her the agony of hearing about it on the evening news.”

For a moment, Winder saw two Charles Chelseas instead of one. Somewhere in the cacophonous gearbox of his brain, he heard the hiss of a petcock, blowing off steam. “Charlie,” he said blankly, “the man was eaten by a fucking thirty-foot leviathan. This isn’t going to remain our little secret very long.”

Chelsea’s brow wrinkled. “Eventually, yes, I suppose we’ll have to make some sort of public statement. Seeing as it was our whale.”

Joe Winder leaned forward on one elbow. “Charlie, I’m going to be honest.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Very soon I intend to kick the living shit out of you.”

Chelsea stiffened. He shifted in his chair. “I don’t know what to make of a remark like that.”

Joe Winder imagined his eyeballs pulsating in the sockets, as if jolted by a hot wire.

Charles Chelsea said, “You mean, punch me? Actually punch me?”

“Repeatedly,” said Winder, “until you are no longer conscious.”

The publicity man’s voice was plaintive, but it held no fear. “Do you know what kind of day I’ve had? I’ve dealt with two dead bodies—first the man on the bridge, and now the vole doctor. Plus I’ve been up to my knees in whale guts. I’m drained, Joe, physically and emotionally drained. But if it makes you feel better to beat me up, go ahead.”

Joe Winder said he was a reasonable man. He said he would reconsider the beating if Charles Chelsea would show him the suicide note allegedly written by Dr. Will Koocher.

Chelsea unlocked a file drawer and took out a sheet of paper with block printing on it. “It’s only a Xerox,” he said, handing it to Winder, “but still it breaks your heart.”

It was one of the lamest suicide notes that Joe Winder had ever seen. In large letters it said:

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168

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