Authors: Carl Hiaasen
He stomped the brake, got out and lined up his second shot. Jake Harp asked: “You gonna use the driver again?”
Kingsbury swung like a canecutter, topping the ball noisily. It skidded maybe eighty yards, cutting a bluish vector through the dew-covered grass.
“Keep your head down,” advised Jake Harp.
Kingsbury hopped back in the cart and said: “Grandfathering, that’s how I did it. The guy I bought from, he’d had his permits since ’74. I’m talking Army Corps, Fish and Wildlife, even Interior. The state—well, yeah, that was a problem. For that I had to spread a little here and there. And Monroe County, forget it.”
He shut up long enough to get out and hit again. This time he switched to a four-wood, which he skied into a liver-shaped bunker. “Fuck me,” muttered Francis Kingsbury. He remained silent as Jake Harp casually knocked his second shot thirty feet from the pin.
“What was that, a five-iron? A six?”
“A six,” replied Jake Harp, pinching the bridge of his nose. He figured if he could just cut off circulation, it would starve the pain behind his eyeballs and make his hangover go away.
Kingsbury punched the accelerator and they were off again. “You know how I got the county boys? The ones giving me a bad
time, I promised ’em units. Not raw lots, no fucking way—town houses is all, the one-bedrooms with no garage.”
“Oh,” said Jake Harp, feeling privileged. He’d been given a double lot, oceanfront, plus first option on one of the spec homes.
“Town houses,” Kingsbury repeated with a laugh. “And they were happy as clams. All I got to do, it’s easy, is sit on the titles until Phase One is built. You know, keep it off the tax rolls for a few months. ’Case some damn reporter shows up at the courthouse and starts looking up names.”
Jake Harp didn’t understand the nuances of Francis Kingsbury’s scheme. The man was proud of himself, that much was obvious.
When they pulled up to the sand trap, they saw that Kingsbury’s golf ball was practically buried under the lip. It appeared to have landed at the approximate speed and trajectory of a mortar round.
Kingsbury stood over the ball for a long time, as if waiting for it to make a move. Finally he said to Jake Harp: “You’re the pro. What the hell now, a wedge? A nine, maybe?”
“Your only prayer,” said Jake Harp, forcing a rheumy chuckle, “is a stick of dynamite.” Miraculously, Kingsbury needed only three swings to blast out of the bunker, and two putts to get down.
While waiting on the next tee, Jake Harp said he thought it would be better if he didn’t do any more speaking engagements on behalf of Falcon Trace.
Kingsbury scowled. “Yeah, I heard what happened, some broad.”
“I’m not comfortable in those situations, Frank.”
“Well, who the hell is? We got her name, the old bitch.” Kingsbury took out a wood and started whisking the air with violent practice swings. Jake Harp could scarcely stand to look.
“One of those damn bunny huggers,” Kingsbury was saying.
“Anti this and anti that. Got some group, the Mothers of some fucking thing.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” said Jake Harp.
“The hell it doesn’t.” Francis X. Kingsbury stopped swinging and pointed the polished head of the driver at Jake Harp’s chest. “Now that we know who she is, don’t you worry. This shit’ll stop—it’s been taken care of. You’ll be fine from now on.”
“I’m a golfer is all. I don’t do speeches.”
Kingsbury wasn’t listening. “Maybe these assholes’ll let us play through.” He hollered down the fairway toward the other golfers, but they seemed not to hear. Kingsbury teed up a ball. He said, “Fine, they want to be snots.”
“Don’t,” pleaded Jake Harp. The slow-playing foursome was well within the limited range of Kingsbury’s driver. “Frank, what’s the hurry?”
Kingsbury had already coiled into his backswing. “Yuppie snots,” he said, following through with a ferocious grunt. The ball took off like a missile, low and true.
Terrific, thought Jake Harp. The one time he keeps his left arm straight.
The other golfers scattered and watched the ball streak past. They reassembled in the middle of the fairway, shook their fists at Kingsbury and began a swift march back toward the tee.
“Shit,” said Jake Harp. He didn’t have the energy for a fistfight; he didn’t have the energy to watch.
Francis X. Kingsbury put the wood in his bag, and sat down behind the steering wheel of the golf cart. The angry players were advancing in an infantry line that was the color of lollipops. Where Kingsbury came from, it would be hard to regard such men as dangerous.
“Aw, let’s go,” said Jake Harp.
Kingsbury nodded and turned the golf cart around. “Trying to
make a point is all,” he said. “Etiquette, am I right? Have some fucking common courtesy for other players.”
Jake Harp said, “I think they got the message.” He could hear the golfers shouting and cursing as they drove away. He hoped none of them had recognized him.
On the drive back to the clubhouse, Francis Kingsbury asked Jake Harp for the name of the restaurant manager at Ocean Reef.
“I’ve got no idea,” Jake Harp said.
“But you’re a member here.”
“Frank, I’m a member of seventy-four country clubs all over the damn country. Some I’ve never even played.”
Kingsbury went on: “The reason I asked, I got a line on a big shipment of fish. Maybe they’d want to buy some.”
“I’ll ask around. What kind of fish?”
“Tuna, I think. Maybe king mackerel.”
“You don’t know?”
“Hell, Jake, I’m a real-estate man, not a goddamn chef. It’s a trailer full of fish is all I know. Maybe six thousand pounds.”
Jake Harp said, “Holy Jesus.”
Francis Kingsbury wasn’t about to get into the whole messy story. He’d been having a devil of a time penetrating the Sudanese bureaucracy; UNICEF was no better.
Yes, of course we’d welcome any famine relief, but first you’ll have to fill out some forms and answer some questions
. … Meanwhile, no one at the Amazing Kingdom seemed to know how long whale meat would stay fresh.
From the back of the golf cart came a high-pitched electronic beeping. Kingsbury quickly pulled off the path and parked in a stand of Australian pines. He unzipped his golf bag and removed a cellular telephone.
When he heard who was on the other end, he lowered his voice and turned away. Jake Harp took the hint; he slipped into the trees to get rid of the two Bloody Marys he’d had for breakfast. It was several seconds before he realized he was pissing all over somebody’s
brand-new Titleist. He carefully wiped it dry with a handkerchief, and dropped it in his pocket.
Francis X. Kingsbury was punching a new number into the phone when Jake Harp returned to the golf cart.
“Get me that dildo Chelsea,” he was saying. “No … who? I don’t care—where did you say he is? Twenty minutes, he’s not in my office and that’s it. And get that fucking Pedro, he’s in his car. Keep him on the line till—right—I get back.”
He touched a button and the cellular phone made a burp. Kingsbury put it away. He was steaming mad.
Jake Harp said, “More problems?”
“Yeah, a major goddamn problem,” said Kingsbury. “Only this one works for me.”
“So fire him.”
“Oh, I am,” Kingsbury said, “and that’s just for starters.”
Molly McNamara came out of the kitchen carrying a silver teapot on a silver tray.
“No thank you,” said Agent Billy Hawkins.
“It’s herbal,” Molly said, pouring a cup. “Now I want you to try this.”
Hawkins politely took a drink. It tasted like cider.
“There now,” said Molly. “Isn’t that good?”
Hiding behind the door of the guest bedroom, Bud Schwartz
and Danny Pogue strained to hear what was going on. They couldn’t believe she was serving tea to an FBI man.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Billy Hawkins was saying.
Molly cocked her head pleasantly. “Of course. Fire away.”
“Let’s begin with the Mothers of Wilderness. You’re the president?”
“And founder, yes. We’re just a small group of older folks who are deeply concerned about the future of the environment.” She held her teacup steady. “I’m sure you know all this.”
Agent Hawkins went on: “What about the Wildlife Rescue Corps? What can you tell me about it?”
Molly McNamara was impressed by the FBI man’s grammar; most people would have used “them” instead of “it.”
“Just what I’ve read in the papers,” she said, sipping. “That’s the organization that is taking credit for freeing the mango voles, is that correct?”
“Right.”
“I’m assuming this is what gives you jurisdiction in this matter—the fact that the voles are a federally protected endangered species.”
“Right again,” said Hawkins. She was a sharp one.
Behind the bedroom door, Bud Schwartz was ready to yank his hair out. The crazy old twat was screwing with the FBI, and enjoying it!
Danny Pogue looked as confused as ever. He leaned close and whispered: “I thought sure he was after you and me.”
“Shut up,” Bud Schwartz said. He was having a hard enough time hearing the conversation in the living room.
The FBI man was saying: “We have reason to suspect a connection between the Wildlife Rescue Corps and the Mothers of Wilderness—”
“That’s outlandish,” said Molly McNamara.
Agent Hawkins let the idea hang. He just sat there with his
square shoulders and his square haircut, looking impassive and not the least bit accusatory.
Molly asked: “What evidence do you have?”
“No evidence, just indications.”
“I see.” Her tone was one of pleasant curiosity.
Billy Hawkins opened his briefcase and took out two shiny pieces of paper. Xeroxes. “Last month the Mothers of Wilderness put out a press release. Do you remember?”
“Certainly,” said Molly. “I wrote it myself. We were calling for an investigation of zoning irregularities at Falcon Trace. We thought the grand jury should call a few witnesses.”
The FBI agent handed her the papers. “That one’s a copy of your press release. The other is a note delivered to the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills soon after the theft of the blue-tongued mango voles.”
Molly held both documents in her lap. “It looks like they were done on the same typewriter,” she remarked.
In the bedroom, Bud Schwartz slumped to his knees when he heard what Molly said. He thought: She’s insane. She’s crazy as a goddamn bedbug.
Were all going to jail!
Back in the living room, Molly was saying: “I’m no expert, but the typing looks very similar.”
If Agent Billy Hawkins was caught off guard, he masked it well.
“You’re right,” he said without expression. “Both of these papers were typed on a Smith-Corona model XD 5500 electronic. We don’t know yet if they came out of the same machine, but they were definitely done on the same model.”
Molly cheerfully took the half-empty teapot back to the kitchen. Hawkins heard a faucet running, the sound of silverware clanking in the sink. In the bedroom, Danny Pogue put his mouth to Bud Schwartz’s ear and said: “What if she shoots him?”
Bud Schwartz hadn’t thought of that. Christ, she couldn’t be
that loony, to kill an FBI man in her own apartment! Unless she planned to pin it on a couple of dirtbag burglars in the bedroom. …
When Molly came bustling out again, Billy Hawkins said: “We’ve sent the originals to Washington. Hopefully they’ll be able to say conclusively if it was the same typewriter.”
Molly sat down. “It’s quite difficult to tell, isn’t it? With these new electronic typewriters, I mean. The key strokes are not as distinct. I read that someplace.”
The FBI man smiled confidently. “Our lab is very, very good. Probably the best in the world.”
Molly McNamara took out a pale blue tissue and began to clean her eyeglasses: neat, circular swipes. “I suppose it’s possible,” she said, “that somebody in our little group has gotten carried away.”
“It’s an emotional issue,” agreed Billy Hawkins, “this animal-rights thing.”
“Still I cannot believe any of the Mothers would commit a crime. I simply cannot believe they would steal those creatures.”
“Perhaps they hired somebody to do it.”
Hawkins went into the briefcase again and came out with a standard police mug shot. He handed it to Molly and said; “Buddy Michael Schwartz, a convicted felon. His pickup truck was seen leaving the Amazing Kingdom shortly after the theft. Two white males inside.”
Behind the bedroom door, Bud Schwartz steadied himself. His gut churned, his throat turned to chalk. Danny Pogue looked frozen and glassy-eyed, like a rabbit trapped in the diamond lane of 1-95. “Bud,” he said. “Oh shit.” Bud Schwartz clapped a hand over his partner’s mouth.
They could hear Molly saying, “He looks familiar, but I just can’t be sure.”
The hair prickled on Bud Schwartz’s arms. The old witch was going to drop the dime. Unbelievable.
Agent Hawkins was saying, “Do you know him personally?”
There was a pause that seemed to last five minutes. Molly nudged her eyeglasses up the bridge of her nose. She held the photograph near a lamp, and examined it from several angles.
“No,” she said finally. “He looks vaguely familiar, but I really can’t place the face.”
“Do me a favor. Think about it.”
“Certainly,” she said. “May I keep the picture?”
“Sure. And think about the Wildlife Rescue Corps, too.”
Molly liked the way this fellow conducted an interview. He knew precisely how much to say without giving away the good stuff—and he certainly knew how to listen. He was a pro.
“Talk to your friends,” said Billy Hawkins. “See if they have any ideas.”
“You’re putting me in a difficult position. These are fine people.”
“I’m sure they are.” The FBI man stood up, straight as a flagpole. He said, “It would be helpful if I could borrow that Smith-Corona—the one that was used for your press announcements. And the ribbon cartridge as well.”
Molly said, “Oh dear.”
“I can get a warrant, Mrs. McNamara.”
“That’s not it,” she said. “You see, the typewriter’s been stolen.”
Billy Hawkins didn’t say anything.
“Out of my car.”