“Sometimes I think about that bastard in jail, how he loves all the publicity. Went from being nobody to The Man Who Shot John Lennon. I think some pretty ugly thoughts about that.”
“It was a bad day,” Joe Winder agreed. He couldn’t tell if the man was about to sleep or explode.
Suddenly Skink sat up. With a blackened fingernail he tapped the radio collar on his neck. “See, it’s best to keep moving. If you don’t move every so often, a special signal goes out. Then they think the panther’s dead and they all come searching.”
“Who’s they?”
“Rangers,” Skink replied. “Game and Fish.”
“But the panther is dead.”
“You’re missing the whole damn point.”
As usual. Joe Winder wondered which way to take it, and decided he had nothing to lose. “What exactly are you doing out here?” he asked.
Skink grinned, a stunning, luminous movie-star grin.
“Waiting,” he said.
TWELVE
On the morning of July 21, a Saturday, Molly McNamara drove Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue to the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills for the purpose of burglarizing the office of Francis X. Kingsbury.
“All you want is files?” asked Bud Schwartz.
“As many as you can fit in the camera bag,” Molly said. “Anything to do with Falcon Trace.”
Danny Pogue, who was sitting in the back seat of the El Dorado, leaned forward and said, “Suppose there’s some other good stuff. A tape deck or a VCR, maybe some crystal. Is it okay we grab it?”
“No, it is not,” Molly replied. “Not on my time.”
She parked in the Cindy-the-Sun-Queen lot and left the engine running. The radio was tuned to the classical station, and Bud Schwartz asked if Molly could turn it down a notch or two. She went searching through her immense handbag and came out with a Polaroid camera. Without saying a word, she snapped a photograph of Bud Schwartz, turned halfway in the seat and snapped one of Danny Pogue. The flashbulb caused him to flinch and make a face. Molly plucked the moist negatives from the slot in the bottom of the camera and slipped them into the handbag.
“What’s that all about?” said Danny Pogue.
“In case you get the itch to run away,” Molly McNamara said, “I’d feel compelled to send your photographs to the authorities. They are still, I understand, quite actively investigating the theft of the mango voles.”
“Pictures,” said Bud Schwartz. “That’s cute.”
Molly smiled pleasantly and told both men to listen closely. “I rented you a blue Cutlass. It’s parked over by the tram station. Here are the keys.”
Bud Schwartz put them in his pocket. “Something tells me we won’t be cruising down to Key West.”
“Not if you know what’s good for you,” Molly said.
Danny Pogue began to whine again. “Ma’am, I don’t know nothin” about stealing files,” he said. “Now I’m a regular bear for tape decks and Camcorders and shit like that, but frankly I don’t do much in the way of, like, reading. It’s just not my area.”
Molly said, “You’ll do fine. Get in, grab what you can and get out.”
“And hope that nobody recognizes us from before.” Bud Schwartz arched his eyebrows. “What happens then? Or didn’t you think of that.”
Molly chuckled lightly. “Don’t be silly. No one will recognize you dressed the way you are.”
She had bought them complete golfing outfits, polyester down to the matching socks. Danny Pogue’s ensemble was raspberry red and Bud Schwartz’s was baby blue. The pants were thin and baggy; the shirts had short sleeves and loud horizontal stripes and a tiny fox stitched on the left breast.
Bud Schwartz said, “You realize we look like total dipshits.”
“No, you look like tourists.”
“It’s not that bad,” agreed Danny Pogue.
“Listen,” Molly said again. “When you’re done with the job, get in the Cutlass and come straight back to my place. The phone will ring at one sharp. If you’re not there, I’m going directly to the post office and mail these snapshots to the police, along with your names. Do you believe me?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Bud Schwartz.
She got out of the Cadillac and opened the doors for the burglars. “How is your hand?” she asked Bud Schwartz. “Better let your friend carry the camera bag.”