Authors: Carl Hiaasen
“You’re cracking up,” Chelsea said thinly.
Winder grabbed him by the collar. “You fucker, did you know all along?”
“Get out, I’m calling Security.”
“That’s why Will Koocher was killed. He’d figured out everything. He was going to rat, so to speak, on the upstanding Mr. Kingsbury.”
Chelsea’s upper lip was a constellation of tiny droplets. He tried to pull away. “Let me go, Joe. If you know what’s good for you.”
“They painted their tongues, Charlie. Think of it. They took these itty-bitty animals and dyed their tongues blue, all in the name of tourism.”
Straining against Winder’s grasp, Chelsea said, “You’re talking crazy.”
Joe Winder licked him across the face.
“Stop it!”
Winder slurped him again. “It’s your color, Charlie. Very snappy.”
His tongue waggled in mockery; Chelsea eyed the fat blue thing as if it were a poisonous slug.
“You can fire me,” Winder announced, “but I won’t go away.”
He climbed off the desk, careful not to drop the bottle of food coloring. Chelsea swiftly began plucking tissues from a silver box
and wiping his face, examining each crumpled remnant for traces of the dye. His fingers were shaking.
“I should have you arrested,” he hissed.
“But you won’t,” Winder said. “Think of the headlines.”
He was halfway to the door when Chelsea said, “Wait a minute, Joey. What is it you want?”
Winder kept walking, and began to laugh. He laughed all the way down the hall, a creepy melodic warble that made Charles Chelsea shudder and curse.
As a reward for the successful theft of Francis X. Kingsbury’s files, Molly McNamara allowed Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue to keep the rented Cutlass for a few days.
On the evening of July 22, they drove down Old Cutler Road, where many of Miami’s wealthiest citizens lived. The homes were large and comfortable-looking, and set back impressively from the tree-shaded street. Danny Pogue couldn’t get over the size of the yards, the tall old pines and colorful tropical shrubbery; it was beautiful, yet intimidating.
“They got those Spanish bayonets under the windows,” he reported. “God, I hate them things.” Wicked needles on the end of every stalk—absolute murder, even with gloves.
Bud Schwartz said, “Don’t sweat it, we’ll find us a back door.”
“For sure they got alarms.”
“Yeah.”
“And a goddamn dog, too.”
“Probably so,” said Bud Schwartz, thinking: Already the guy’s a nervous wreck.
“You ever done a house like this?”
“Sure.” Bud Schwartz was lying. Mansions, that’s what these were, just like the ones on “Miami Vice.” The bandage on his bad hand was damp with perspiration. Hunched over the steering wheel, he thought: Thank God for the rental—at least we got a car that’ll move.
To cut the tension, he said: “Ten bucks it’s a Dobie.”
“No way,” said Danny Pogue. “I say Rottweiler, that’s the dog nowadays.”
“For the Yuppies, sure, but not this guy. I’m betting on a Dobie.”
Danny Pogue fingered a pimple on his neck. “Okay, but give me ten on the side.”
“For what?”
“Give me ten on the color.” Danny Pogue slugged him softly on the shoulder. “Black or brown?”
Bud Schwartz said, “I’ll give you ten if it’s brown.”
“Deal.”
“You’re a sucker. Nobody in this neighborhood’s got a brown Doberman.”
“We’ll see,” said Danny Pogue. He pointed as they passed a crimson Porsche convertible parked on a cobbler drive. A beautiful dark-haired girl, all of seventeen, was washing the sports car under a quartet of halogen spotlights. The girl wore a dazzling green bikini and round reflector sunglasses. The sun had been down for two hours.
Danny Pogue clapped his hands. “Jesus, you see that?”
“Yeah, hosing down her Targa. And here we are in the middle of a drought.” Bud Schwartz braked softly to peer at the name on
a cypress mailbox. “Danny, what’s that house number? I can’t see it from here.”
“Four-oh-seven.”
“Good. We’re almost there.”
“I was wondering,” said Danny Pogue.
“Yeah, what else is new.”
“Do I get twenty bucks if it’s a brown Rottweiler?”
“They don’t come in brown,” said Bud Schwartz. “I thought you knew.”
It wasn’t a Doberman pinscher or a Rottweiler.
“Maybe some type of weasel,” whispered Danny Pogue. “Except it’s got a collar on it.”
They were kneeling in the shelter of a sea-grape tree. “One of them beady-eyed dogs from Asia,” said Bud Schwartz, “or maybe it’s Africa.” Dozing under the electric bug lamp, the animal showed no reaction to the sizzle and zap of dying moths.
Carefully Bud Schwartz inserted four Tylenol No. 3 tablets into a ten-ounce patty of prime ground sirloin. With his good hand he lobbed the meat over the fence. It landed with a wet slap on the patio near the pool. The weasel-dog lifted its head, barked once sharply and got up.
Danny Pogue said, “That’s the ugliest goddamn thing I ever saw.”
“Like you’re Mel Gibson, right?”
“No, but just look.”
The dog found the hamburger and gulped it in two bites. When its front legs began to wobble, Danny Pogue said, “Jesus, what’d you use?”
“About a hundred milligrams of codeine.”
Soon the animal lay down, snuffling into a stupor. Bud Schwartz hopped the fence and helped his crutchless partner
across. The two burglars crab-walked along a low cherry hedge until they reached the house. Through a glass door they saw that all the kitchen lights were on; in fact, lamps glowed in every window. Bud Schwartz heard himself take a short breath; he was acting against every instinct, every fundamental rule of the trade. Never
ever
break into an occupied dwelling—especially an occupied dwelling protected by four thousand dollars’ worth of electronic burglar alarm.
Bud Schwartz knew the screens would be wired, so busting the windows was out of the question. He knew he couldn’t jimmy the sliding door because that would trip the contact, also setting off the alarm. The best hope was cutting the glass door in such a way that it wouldn’t trigger the noise detectors; he could see one of the matchbook-sized boxes mounted on a roof beam in the kitchen. Its tiny blue eye winked insidiously at him.
“What’s the plan?” asked Danny Pogue.
Bud Schwartz took the glass cutter out of his pocket and showed it to his partner, who hadn’t the faintest idea what it was. Bud Schwartz got to his knees. “I’m going to cut a square,” he said, “big enough to crawl through.”
“Like hell.” Danny Pogue was quite certain they would be arrested any moment.
Bud Schwartz dug the blades of the glass cutter into the door and pressed with the full strength of his good arm. The door began to slide on its rollers. “Damn,” said Bud Schwartz. Cold air rushed from the house and put goose bumps on his arms.
Danny Pogue said: “Must not be locked.”
The door coasted open. No bells or sirens went off. The only sound came from a television, probably upstairs.
They slipped into the house. Bud Schwartz’s sneakers squeaked on the kitchen tile; hopping on one leg, Danny Pogue followed his partner through the living room, which was decorated hideously in black and red. The furniture was leather, the carpeting
a deep stringy shag. On a phony brick wall over the fireplace hung a painting that was, by Bud Schwartz’s astonished calculation, larger than life-sized. The subject of the painting was a nude blond with a Pepsodent smile and breasts the size of soccer balls. She wore a yellow visored cap, and held a flagstick over her shoulder. A small brass plate announced the title of the work: “My Nineteenth Hole.”
It was unspeakably crude, even to two men who had spent most of their adult lives in redneck bars and minimum-security prisons. Bud Schwartz gazed at the painting and said: “I’ll bet it’s the wife.”
“No way,” said Danny Pogue. He couldn’t imagine being married to someone who would do such a thing.
As they moved cautiously through the house, Bud Schwartz couldn’t help but notice there wasn’t much worth stealing, even if they’d wanted to. Oh, the stuff was expensive enough, but tacky as hell. A Waterford armadillo—how could millionaires have such lousy taste?
The burglars followed the sound of the television down a hallway toward a bedroom. Bud Schwartz had never been so jittery.
What if the asshole has a gun?
This had been Danny Pogue’s question, and for once Bud Schwartz couldn’t answer. The asshole probably
did
have a gun; it was Miami, after all. Probably something in a semiautomatic, a Mini-14 or a MAC-11. Christ, there’s a pleasant thought. Ten, fifteen rounds a second. Hardly time to piss in your pants.
Danny Pogue’s whiny breathing seemed to fill the hallway. Bud Schwartz glared, held a finger to his lips. The door to the bedroom was wide open; somebody was switching the channels on the television. Momentously, Bud Schwartz smoothed his hair; Danny Pogue did the same. Bud Schwartz nodded and motioned with an index finger; Danny Pogue gave a constipated nod in return.
When they stepped into the room, they saw the blond woman from the golf painting. She was lying naked on the bed. Two peach-colored pillows were tucked under her head, and the remote control was propped on her golden belly. At the sight of the burglars, the woman covered her chest. Excitedly she tried to speak—no sounds emerged, though her jaws moved vigorously, as if she were chewing a wad of bubble gum.
Inanely, Bud Schwartz said, “Don’t be afraid.”
The woman forced out a low guttural cry that lasted several seconds. She sounded like a wildcat in labor.
“Enough a that,” said Danny Pogue tensely.
Suddenly a door opened and a porky man in powder-blue boxer shorts stepped out of the bathroom. He was short and jowly, with skin like yellow lard. Tattooed on his left forearm was a striking tableau: Minnie Mouse performing oral sex on Mickey Mouse. At least that’s what it looked like to Danny Pogue and Bud Schwartz, who couldn’t help but stare. Mickey was wearing his sorcerer’s hat from
Fantasia
, and appeared to be whistling a happy tune.
Danny Pogue said, “That’d make a great T-shirt.”
With fierce reddish eyes, the man in the boxer shorts studied the two intruders.
“Honey!” cried the woman on the bed.
The man scowled impatiently. “Well, shit, get it over with. Take, you know, whatever the hell.”
Bud Schwartz said, “We didn’t mean to scare you, Mr. Kingsbury.”
“Don’t fucking flatter yourself. And, Penny, watch it with that goddamn thing!”
Still recumbent, the naked Mrs. Kingsbury now was aiming a small chrome-plated pistol at Danny Pogue’s midsection.
“I knew it,” muttered Bud Schwartz. He hated the thought of getting shot twice in the same week, especially by women. This
one must’ve had it under the damn pillows, or maybe in the sheets.
Danny Pogue’s lips were quivering, as if he were about to cry. He held out his arms beseechingly.
Quickly Bud Schwartz said: “We’re not here to rob you. We’re here to talk business.”
Kingsbury hooked his nubby thumbs into the elastic waistband of his underpants. “Make me laugh,” he said. “Break into my house like a couple of putzes.”
“We’re pros,” said Bud Schwartz.
Kingsbury cackled, snapping the elastic. “Two hands, babe,” he reminded his wife.
Danny Pogue said, “Bud, make her drop it!”
“It’s only a .25,” said Kingsbury. “She’s been out to the range—what?—a half-dozen times. Got the nerves for it, apparently.”
Bud Schwartz tried to keep his voice level and calm. He said to Kingsbury: “Your office got hit yesterday, right?”
“As a matter of fact, yeah.”
“You’re missing some files.”
The naked Mrs. Kingsbury said, “Frankie, you didn’t tell me.” Her arms were impressively steady with the gun.
Kingsbury took his hands out of his underwear and folded them in a superior way across his breasts, which were larger than those of a few women whom Danny Pogue had known.
“Not exactly the Brink’s job,” Kingsbury remarked.
“Well, we got your damn files,” said Bud Schwartz.
“That was you? Bullshit.”
“Maybe you need some proof. Maybe you need to see some credit-card slips.”
Kingsbury hesitated. “Selling them back, is that the idea?”
Some genius businessman, thought Bud Schwartz. The guy was a bum, a con. You could tell right away.
“Tell your wife to drop the piece.”
“Penny, you heard the man.”
“And tell her to go lock herself in the john.”
“What?”
The wife said, “Frankie, I don’t like this.” Carefully she placed the gun on the nightstand next to a bottle of Lavoris mouthwash. A tremor of relief passed through Danny Pogue, starting at the shoulders. He hopped across the room and sat down on the corner of the bed.
“It’s better if she’s in the john,” Bud Schwartz said to Francis X. Kingsbury. “Or maybe you don’t care.”
Kingsbury gnawed his upper lip. He was thinking about the files, and what was in them.
His wife wrapped herself in a sheet. “Frank?”
“Do what he said,” Kingsbury told her. “Take a magazine or something. A book if you can find one.”
“Fuck you,” said Penny Kingsbury. On her way to the bathroom, she waved a copy of
GQ
in his face.
“At Doral is where I met her. Selling golf shoes.”
“How nice,” said Bud Schwartz.
“Fuzzy Zoeller, Tom Kite, I’m not kidding. Penny’s customers.” Kingsbury had put on a red bathrobe and turned up the television, in case his wife was at the door trying to eavesdrop. Bud Schwartz lifted the handgun from the nightstand and slipped it into his pocket; the cold weight of the thing in his pants, so close to his privates, made him shudder. God, how he hated guns.
Kingsbury said, “The painting in the big room—you guys get a look at it?”
“Yeah, boy,” answered Danny Pogue.
“We did that up on the Biltmore. Number seven or ten, I can’t remember. Some par three. Anyway, I had to lease the whole fucking course for a day, that’s how long it took. Must’ve been two
hundred guys standing around, staring at her boobs. Penny didn’t mind, she’s proud of ’em.”