“Skip?” Keyes whispered.
“Shhhh!”
Tommy cupped his hands to his mouth and barked in a deep gravelly voice: “Aaaarkk! Aaaarkk!” He slapped the water at his feet.
Skip Wiley extended the lantern and peered into the marsh. “Here, boy!” he sang out.
“Oh God,” said Brian Keyes.
A massive shadow cut a clean V in the silky water and made no noise as it swam. Its eyes shone ruby-red, and the snaking of its prehistoric tail cast a roiling wake.
Now Brian Keyes knew what had happened to Sparky Harper.
“His name is Pavlov,” Wiley said. “He is a North American crocodile, one of only about thirty left in the entire world. He’s a shade over seventeen feet and weighs about the same as a Porsche 915. All that tonnage with a brain no bigger than a tangerine. Isn’t nature wonderful, Brian? Who said God doesn’t have a sense of humor?”
Keyes was awestruck. He watched Tommy Tigertail lean over to stroke the giant reptile’s armored snout. From where he stood Keyes could hear its breath hissing.
“Is it … tame?”
Wiley laughed. “Lord, no! He knows Tommy brings the food but there’s no loyalty there, Brian. See, crocodiles are different from alligators. Tommy grew up around gators and he could tell you better than I.”
Without taking his eyes off the beast, Tommy said, “Crocs are meaner, more aggressive. Gators get fat and lazy.”
Wiley said, “You won’t ever see a Seminole wrestle a crocodile, will you, Tommy?”
“Never,” Tommy agreed. “Have to be crazy.”
Keyes was afraid that anything he said might hasten the ceremony, so he said nothing. If only Wiley would keep jabbering, maybe the damn crocodile would get bored and swim away. Meanwhile Ida Kimmelman was sobbing and Jesus Bernal hovered watchfully, in case she tried to get up and run. Keyes wondered if Ida had figured out the plan by now.
“This is not murder,” Wiley declared, “it’s social Darwinism. Two endangered species, Pavlov there and Mrs. Kimmelman, locked in mortal combat. To the victor goes the turf. That’s how it ought to be, Brian.”
“It’s not fair, Skip.”
“Fair? There are nine million Mrs. Kimmelmans between here and Tallahassee, and thirty fucking crocodiles. Is that fair? Who has the legitimate right to be here? Who does this place really belong to?”
Wiley was hitting warp speed. Keyes backed off and tried another strategy.
“Mr. Wilson,” he said, “please don’t let this happen.”
Viceroy Wilson just wanted the whole thing to be over so he could go back to the campfire and sleep off a couple joints. It wasn’t his idea to do it quite this way; this was something cooked up by Wiley and the Indian. Viceroy Wilson went along to expedite the revolutionary process and also to avoid irritating the Indian, who, after all, was very generous with his Cadillac.
So Viceroy Wilson said to Keyes: “You don’t like it, close your goddamn eyes.” Which was exactly what Viceroy Wilson planned to do.
As for Pavlov, he seemed to drift leisurely in the pond not far from Tom Tigertail’s ankles. The leviathan’s eyes, two burning barbecue coals, gave nothing away. Keyes imagined he saw bemusement there—as if the carnivorous dinosaur were just playing along with Skip Wiley’s schemes.
At Wiley’s instruction, Jesus Bernal tore the hurricane tape from Ida Kimmelman’s mouth and cut the ropes on her wrists. Immediately she began bellowing so loudly that the crocodile was drawn closer to shore.
“Please be quiet!” Wiley commanded.
“Who do you think you are—”
“Shut up, Mrs. Kimmelman! This is going to be a fair contest, despite what Mr. Keyes says. You and Pavlov are going for a swim. If you survive, you can go home.”
“But what’s the meaning of this?” Ida cried.
Wiley clenched his jaw and rubbed at his temples. “It is a contest, pure and simple. You and Pavlov have laid claim to the same territory”—he waved his hand at the Glades—”and always such disputes must be settled by battle. Two primitive animals fighting for elemental needs. It’s the natural order. How’s that for meaning?”
“But I can’t swim!” Ida Kimmelman said.
“So what? Pavlov can’t play bridge. Sounds like you’re even to me.” Wiley snapped his fingers. “Viceroy!”