Carl Hiaasen – Native Tongue

“Shit,” said Jake Harp. He didn’t have the energy for a fistfight; he didn’t even have the energy to watch.

Francis X. Kingsbury put the wood in his bag, and sat down behind the steering wheel of the golf cart. The angry players were advancing in an infantry line that was the color of lollipops. Where Kingsbury came from, it would be hard to regard such men as dangerous.

“Aw, let’s go,” said Jake Harp.

Kingsbury nodded and turned the golf cart around. “Trying to make a point is all,” he said. “Etiquette, am I right? Have some fucking common courtesy for other players.”

Jake Harp said, “I think they got the message.” He could hear the golfers shouting and cursing as they drove away. He hoped none of them had recognized him.

On the drive back to the clubhouse, Francis Kingsbury asked Jake Harp for the name of the restaurant manager at Ocean Reef.

“I’ve got no idea,” Jake Harp said.

“But you’re a member here.”

“Frank, I’m a member of seventy-four country clubs all over the damn country. Some I’ve never even played.”

Kingsbury went on: “The reason I asked, I got a line on a big shipment of fish. Maybe they’d want to buy some.”

I’ll ask around. What kind of fish?”

“Tuna, I think. Maybe king mackerel.”

“You don’t know?”

“Hell, Jake, I’m a real-estate man, not a goddamn chef. It’s a trailer full of fish is all I know. Maybe six thousand pounds.”

Jake Harp said, “Holy Jesus.”

Francis Kingsbury wasn’t about to get into the whole messy story. He’d been having a devil of a time penetrating the Sudanese bureaucracy; UNICEF was no better. Yes, of course we’d welcome any famine relief, but first you’ll have to fill out some forms and answer some questions….Meanwhile, no one at the Amazing Kingdom seemed to know how long whale meat would stay fresh.

From the back of the golf cart came a high-pitched electronic beeping. Kingsbury quickly pulled off the path and parked in a stand of Australian pines. He unzipped his golf bag and removed a cellular telephone.

When he heard who was on the other end, he lowered his voice and turned away. Jake Harp took the hint; he slipped into the trees to get rid of the two Bloody Marys he’d had for breakfast. It was several seconds before he realized he was pissing all over somebody’s brand-new Titleist. He carefully wiped it dry with a handkerchief and dropped it in his pocket.

Francis X. Kingsbury was punching a new number into the phone when Jake Harp returned to the golf cart.

“Get me that dildo Chelsea,” he was saying. “No…who? I don’t care—where did you say he is? Twenty minutes, he’s not in my office and that’s it. And get that fucking Pedro, he’s in his car. Keep him on the line till—right—I get back.”

He touched a button and the cellular phone made a burp. Kingsbury put it away. He was steaming mad.

Jake Harp said, “More problems?”

“Yeah, a major goddamn problem,” said Kingsbury. “Only this one works for me.”

“So fire him.”

“Oh, I am,” Kingsbury said, “and that’s just for starters.”

FOURTEEN

Molly McNamara came out of the kitchen carrying a silver teapot on a silver tray.

“No thank you,” said Agent Billy Hawkins.

“It’s herbal,” Molly said, pouring a cup. “Now I want you to try this.”

Hawkins politely took a drink. It tasted like cider.

“There now,” said Molly. “Isn’t that good?”

Hiding behind the door of the guest bedroom, Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue strained to hear what was going on. They couldn’t believe she was serving tea to an FBI man.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Billy Hawkins was saying.

Molly cocked her head pleasantly. “Of course. Fire away.”

“Let’s begin with the Mothers of Wilderness. You’re the president?”

“And founder, yes. We’re just a small group of older folks who are deeply concerned about the future of the environment.” She held her teacup steady. “I’m sure you know all this.”

Agent Hawkins went on: “What about the Wildlife Rescue Corps? What can you tell me about it?”

Molly McNamara was impressed by the FBI man’s grammar; most people would have used “them” instead of “it.”