Consequently Charles Chelsea stood in eery solitude on the makeshift stage, the cheery banner flapping over his head as he stared at the empty parking lot and wondered how in the hell he would break the news to Francis X. Kingsbury. Today there would be no celebration, no parade, no five-millionth visitor. There were no visitors at all.
Joe Winder felt like a damn redneck—he hadn’t been to a firing range in ten or twelve years, and that was to shoot his father’s revolver, an old Smith. The gun Skink had given him was a thin foreign-made semi-automatic. It didn’t have much weight, but Skink promised it would do the job, whatever job needed doing. Winder had decided to keep it for ornamental purposes. It lay under the front seat as he drove south on County Road 905.
He stopped at a pay phone, dialed the sex-talk number and billed it to his home. Miriam answered and started in with a new routine, something about riding bareback on a pony. When Winder broke in and asked for Nina, Miriam told him she wasn’t there.
“Tell her to call me, please.”
“Hokay, Joe.”
“On second thought, never mind.”
“Whatever chew say. You like the horsey business?”
“Yes, Miriam, it’s very good.”
“Nina wrote it. Want me do the end?”
“No thank you.”
“Is hot stuff, Joe. Cheese got some mansionation.”
“She sure does.”
Joe Winder drove until he reached the Falcon Trace construction site. He parked on the side of the road and watched a pair of mustard-colored bulldozers plow a fresh section of hammock, creating a tangled knoll of uprooted tamarinds, buttonwoods, pigeon plums and rouge-berry. Each day a few more acres were being destroyed in the name of championship golf.
A team of surveyors worked the distant end of the property, near Winder’s fishing spot. He assumed they were marking off the lots where the most expensive homes would be built—the more ocean frontage, the higher the price. This was how Francis X. Kingsbury would make his money—the golf course itself was never meant to profit; it was a real-estate tease, plain and simple. The links would be pieced together in the middle of the development on whatever parcels couldn’t be peddled as residential waterfront. Soon, Winder knew, they’d start blasting with dynamite to dig fairway lakes in the ancient reef rock.
He saw that both bulldozers had stopped, and that the drivers had gotten down from the cabs to look at something in the trees. Joe Winder stepped out of the car and started running. He remembered what Skink had told him about the baby eagles. He shouted at the men and saw them turn. One folded his arms and slouched against his dozer.
Winder covered the two hundred yards in a minute. When he reached the men, he was panting too hard to speak.
One of them said: “What’s your problem?”
Winder flashed his Amazing Kingdom identification badge, which he had purposely neglected to turn in upon termination of employment. The lazy bulldozer driver, the one leaning against his machine, studied the badge and began to laugh. “What the hell is this?”
When Joe Winder caught his breath, he said: “I work for Mr. Kingsbury. He owns this land.”
“Ain’t the name on the permit. The permit says Ramex Global.”
The other driver spoke up: “Anyway, who gives a shit about some goddamn wolves?”
“Yeah,” the first driver said. “Bury ’em.”
“No,” said Joe Winder. They weren’t wolves, they were gray foxes—six of them, no larger than kittens. The bulldozers had uprooted the den tree. Half-blind, the little ones were crawling all over each other, squeaking and yapping in toothless panic.
Winder said, “If we leave them alone, the mother will probably come back.”
“What is this, ‘Wild Kingdom’?”
“At least help me move them out of the way.”
“Forget it,” the smartass driver said. “I ain’t in the mood for rabies. Come on, Bobby, let’s roll it.”
The men climbed back in the dozers and seized the gear sticks. Instinctively Joe Winder positioned himself between the large machines and the baby foxes. The drivers began to holler and curse. The smartass lowered the blade of his bulldozer and inched forward, pushing a ridge of moist dirt over the tops of Joe Winder’s shoes. The driver grinned and whooped at his own cleverness until he noticed the gun pointed up at his head.