“They’re very colorful,” said the woman who called herself Rachel Lark.
“Ugly is out of the question,” Kingsbury stated firmly. “Ugly scares the kiddies.”
“Not all reptiles are ugly, Frankie. In fact, some are very beautiful.”
“All right,” he said. “See what you can do.”
The woman who called herself Rachel Lark hung up the phone and closed her eyes. When she awoke, the masseur was gone and the man from Singapore was knocking on the door. In one hand was a small bouquet of yellow roses, and in the other was a tan briefcase holding a large down payment for a shipment of rare albino scorpions. Real ones.
EIGHTEEN
On the morning of July 23, a semi-tractor truck leaving North Key Largo lost its brakes on the Card Sound Bridge. The truck plowed through the tollbooth, jack-knifed and overturned, blocking both lanes of traffic and effectively severing the northern arm of the island from the Florida mainland. The gelatinous contents of the container were strewn for ninety-five yards along the road, and within minutes the milky-blue sky filled with turkey buzzards—hundreds of them, wheeling counterclockwise lower and lower; only the noisy throng of gawkers kept the hungry scavengers from landing on the crash site. The first policeman to arrive was Highway Patrol Trooper Jim Tile, who nearly flipped his Crown Victoria cruiser when he tried to stop on the freshly slickened pavement. The trooper tugged the truck driver from the wreckage and, while splinting the man’s arm, demanded to know what godforsaken cargo he’d been hauling.
“A dead whale,” moaned the driver, “and that’s all I’m saying.”
Charles Chelsea was summoned to Francis X. Kingsbury’s office at the unholy hour of seven in the morning.
Kingsbury looked as if he hadn’t slept since Easter. He asked Chelsea how long it would take to get the TV stations out to the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills.
“Two hours,” Chelsea said confidently.
“Do it.” Kingsbury blew his nose. “On the horn, now.”
“What’s the occasion, if I might ask?”
Kingsbury held up five fingers. “Today’s the big day. Our five-millionth visitor. Arrange something, a fucking parade, I don’t care.”
Charles Chelsea felt his stomach yaw. “Five million visitors,” he said. “Sir, I didn’t realize we’d reached that milestone.”
“We haven’t.” Kingsbury hacked ferociously into a monogrammed handkerchief. “Damn my hay fever, I think it’s the mangroves. Every morning my whole head’s fulla snot.” He pushed a copy of the Wall Street Journal at Chelsea. A column on the front page announced that Walt Disney World was expanding its empire to build a mammoth retail shopping center, one of the largest in the Southeastern United States.
“See, we can’t just sit here,” Kingsbury said. “Got to come back strong. Big media counterpunch.”
Chelsea skimmed the Journal article and laid it on his lap. Tentatively he said, “It’s hard to compete with something like this. I mean, it goes so far beyond the realm of a family theme park—”
“Bullshit,” said Kingsbury. “The Miami-Lauderdale TV market is—what, three times the size of Orlando. Plus CNN, don’t they have a bureau down here?” Kingsbury spun his chair and gazed out the window. “Hell, that new dolphin I bought—can’t you work him into the piece? Say he rescued somebody who fell in the tank. A pregnant lady or maybe an orphan. Rescued them from drowning—that’s your story! ‘Miracle Dolphin Saves Drowning Orphan.’ ”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good plan,” said Chelsea, though inwardly he had to admit it would have been one helluva headline.
“This celebration, make it for noon,” Kingsbury said. “Whoever comes through the turnstiles, strike up the band. But make sure it’s a tourist, no goddamn locals. Number five million, okay? In giant letters.”
His gut tightening, Chelsea said, “Sir, it might be wiser to go with two million. It’s closer to the real number…just in case somebody makes an issue of it.”
“No, two is—chickenshit, really. Five’s better. And the parade, too, I’m serious.” Kingsbury stood up. He was dressed for golf. “A parade, that’s good video,” he said. “Plenty of time to get it for the six-o’clock news. That’s our best demographic, am I right? Fucking kids, they don’t watch the eleven.”