Usually Skink kept to himself, except for the occasional public sighting when he dashed out of the pines to retrieve a fresh opossum or squirrel off the road. Once in a while, though, something triggered him in a tumultuous way and the results were highly visible. Standing on the crowded Fort Lauderdale beach, he’d once put four rounds into the belly of an inbound Eastern 727. Another time he’d crashed the Miss Florida pageant and tearfully heaved a dead baby manatee on stage to dramatize the results of waterfront development. It was fortunate, in such instances, that no one had recognized the hoary cyclopic madman as Clinton Tyree; it was even more fortunate that Jim Tile had been around to help the ex-governor slip away safely and collect what was left of his senses.
Now, sitting in the trooper’s patrol car, Skink polished his glass eye with a bandanna and apologized for causing his friend so much inconvenience. “If you’ve got to arrest me,” he said, I’ll understand.”
“Wouldn’t do a damn bit of good,” said Jim Tile. “But I tell you what—I’d appreciate if you’d let me know what’s going on down here.”
“The usual,” Skink said. “The bad guys are kicking our collective ass.”
“We got a dead body off the bridge, a guy named Angel Gaviria. You know about that, right?” The trooper didn’t wait for an answer. “The coroner is saying suicide or accident, but I was there and I don’t think it’s either one. The deceased was a well-known scum-bucket and they don’t usually have the decency to kill themselves. Usually someone else does the honor.”
“Jim, we live in troubled times.”
“The other day I pull over a blue Ford sedan doing eighty-six down the bridge. Turns out to be a Feeb.”
“FBI?” Skink perked up. “All the way down here?”
“Hawkins was his name. He badges me, we get to chatting. Turns out he’s working a case at the Amazing Kingdom. Something to do with militant bunny buggers and missing blue-tongued rats.” Jim Tile gave a lazy laugh. “Now this is the FBI, interviewing elves and cowboys and fairy princesses. I don’t suppose you can fill me in.”
Skink was pleased that the feds had taken notice of events in North Key Largo. He said, “All I know is bits and pieces.”
“Speaking of which, what can you tell me about killer whales? This morning a semi rolls over and I got stinking gobs of dead whale all over my nice clean blacktop. I’m talking tonnage.”
Skink said, “That would explain the buzzard shit on this state vehicle.” Secretly he wished he could have been there to witness the spectacle.
“You think it’s funny?”
“I think,” said Skink, “you should prepare for the worst.”
Jim Tile took off his Stetson and lowered his face in front of the dashboard vents; the cool air felt good on his cheeks. A gumdrop-shaped sports car blew by doing ninety-plus, and the trooper barely glanced up. He radioed the dispatcher in Miami and announced he was going off duty. “I’m tired,” he said to Skink.
“Me, too. You haven’t seen anybody from Game and Fish, have you?”
“The panther patrol? No, I haven’t.” Jim Tile sat up. “I haven’t seen the plane in at least a month.”
Skink said, “Must’ve broken down. Else they’re working the Fokahatchee.”
“Listen,” the trooper said, “I won’t ask about the dead guy on the bridge, and I won’t ask about the whale—”
“I had nothing whatsoever to do with the whale.”
“Fair enough,” said Jim Tile, “but what about torching those bulldozers up on 905? Were you in on that?”
Skink looked at him blankly. The trooper described what had happened that very afternoon at the Falcon Trace construction project. “They’re looking for a guy who used to work at the Kingdom. They say he’s gone nuts. They say he’s got a gun.”
“Is that right?” Skink tugged pensively at his beard.
“Do you know this person?”
“Possibly.”
“Then could you possibly get him a message to stop this shit before it gets out of hand?”
“It’s already out of hand,” Skink said. “The sons-of-bitches are beating up little old ladies.”
“Damn.” The trooper stared out the window of the car. A trio of mosquitoes bounced off the glass and circled his head. Skink reached over and snatched the insects out of the air. Then he opened the window and let them buzz away into the thick fragrant night.