Winder grabbed him by the collar. “You fucker, did you know all along?”
“Get out, or I’m calling Security.”
“That’s why Will Koocher was killed. He’d figured out everything. He was going to rat, so to speak, on the upstanding Mr. Kingsbury.”
Chelsea’s upper lip was a constellation of tiny droplets. He tried to pull away. “Let me go, Joe. If you know what’s good for you.”
“They painted their tongues, Charlie. Think of it. They took these itty-bitty animals and dyed their tongues blue, all in the name of tourism.”
Straining against Winder’s grasp, Chelsea said, “You’re talking crazy.”
Joe Winder licked him across the face.
“Stop it!”
Winder slurped him again. “It’s your color, Charlie. Very snappy.”
His tongue waggled in mockery; Chelsea eyed the fat blue thing as if it were a poisonous slug.
“You can fire me,” Winder announced, “but I won’t go away.”
He climbed off the desk, careful not to drop the bottle of food coloring. Chelsea swiftly began plucking tissues from a silver box and wiping his face, examining each crumpled remnant for traces of the dye. His fingers were shaking.
“I should have you arrested,” he hissed.
“But you won’t,” Winder said. “Think of the headlines.”
He was halfway to the door when Chelsea said, “Wait a minute, Joey. What is it you want?”
Winder kept walking, and began to laugh. He laughed all the way down the hall, a creepy melodic warble that made Charles Chelsea shudder and curse.
SIXTEEN
As a reward for the successful theft of Francis X. Kingsbury’s files, Molly McNamara allowed Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue to keep the rented Cutlass for a few days.
On the evening of July 22, they drove down Old Cutler Road, where many of Miami’s wealthiest citizens lived. The homes were large and comfortable-looking, and set back impressively from the tree-shaded road. Danny Pogue couldn’t get over the size of the yards, the tall old pines and colorful tropical shrubbery; it was beautiful, yet intimidating.
“They got those Spanish bayonets under the windows,” he reported. “God, I hate them things.” Wicked needles on the end of every stalk—absolute murder, even with gloves.
Bud Schwartz said, “Don’t sweat it, we’ll find us a back door.”
“For sure they got alarms.”
“Yeah.”
“And a goddamn dog, too.”
“Probably so,” said Bud Schwartz, thinking: Already the guy’s a nervous wreck.
“You ever done a house like this?”
“Sure.” Bud Schwartz was lying. Mansions, that’s what these were, just like the ones on “Miami Vice.” The bandage on his bad hand was damp with perspiration. Hunched over the steering wheel, he thought: Thank God for the rental—at least we got a car that’ll move.
To cut the tension, he said: “Ten bucks it’s a Dobie.”
“No way,” said Danny Pogue. “I say Rottweiler, that’s the dog nowadays.”
“For the Yuppies, sure, but not this guy. I’m betting on a Dobie.”
Danny Pogue fingered a pimple on his neck. “Okay, but give me ten on the side.”
“For what?”
“Give me ten on the color.” Danny Pogue slugged him softly on the shoulder. “Black or brown?”
Bud Schwartz said, “I’ll give you ten if it’s brown.”
“Deal.”
“You’re a sucker. Nobody in this neighborhood’s got a brown Doberman.”
“We’ll see,” said Danny Pogue. He pointed as they passed a crimson Porsche convertible parked on a cobbler drive. A beautiful dark-haired girl, all of seventeen, was washing the sports car under a quartet of halogen spotlights. The girl wore a dazzling green bikini and round reflector sunglasses. The sun had been down for two hours.
Danny Pogue clapped his hands. “Jesus, you see that?”
“Yeah, hosing down her Targa. And here we are in the middle of a drought.” Bud Schwartz braked softly to peer at the name on a cypress mailbox. “Danny, what’s that house number? I can’t see it from here.”
“Four-oh-seven.”
“Good. We’re almost there.”
“I was wondering,” said Danny Pogue.
“Yeah, what else is new.”
“Do I get twenty bucks if it’s a brown Rottweiler?”
“They don’t come in brown,” said Bud Schwartz. “I thought you knew.”
It wasn’t a Doberman pinscher or a Rottweiler.
“Maybe some type of weasel,” whispered Danny Pogue. “Except it’s got a collar on it.”