Native Tongue (34 page)

“Obviously we’ve struck a nerve with Kingsbury,” Molly was saying. “Finally he considers us a serious threat.”

One of the Mothers asked why Molly had not called the police.

“Because I couldn’t prove he was behind it,” she replied. “They’d think I was daffy.”

The members seemed unsatisfied by this explanation. They clucked and whispered among themselves until Molly cut in and asked for order. The lawyer, Spacci, stood up and said it was a mistake not to notify the authorities.

“You’re talking about a felony,” he said. “Aggravated assault, possibly even attempted murder.”

One of the Mothers piped up: “It’s not worth dying for, Molly. They’re already clearing the land.”

Molly’s gray eyes flashed angrily. “It is not too late!” She wheeled on Spacci. “Did you file in federal court?”

“These things take time.”

“Can you get an injunction?”

“No,” said the lawyer. “You mean, to stop construction? No, I can’t.”

Molly drummed her fingers on the portable podium. Spacci was preparing to sit down when she jolted him back to attention: “Give us a report on the blind trust.”

“Yes, well, I talked to a fellow over in Dallas. He tells me the paperwork comes back to a company called Ramex Global, which is really Francis Kingsbury—”

“We
know.”

“—but the bulk of the money isn’t his. It’s from some S & L types. Former S & L types, I should say. Apparently they were in a hurry to invest.”

“I’ll bet,” said one of the Mothers in the front row.

“They moved the funds through Nassau,” Spacci said. “Not very original, but effective.”

Molly folded her arms. “Perfect,” she said. “Falcon Trace is being built with stolen savings accounts. And you people are ready to give up!”

“Our options,” the lawyer noted, “are extremely limited.”

“No, they’re not. We’re going to kill this project.”

A worried murmuring swept through the Mothers. “How?” one asked. “How can we stop it now?”

“Sabotage,” Molly McNamara answered. “Don’t you people have any imagination?”

Immediately Spacci began waving his arms and whining about the ramifications of criminal misconduct.

Molly said: “If it makes you feel better, Mr. Spacci, get yourself a plate of the chicken Stroganoff and go out on the patio. And take your precious ethics with you.”

Once the lawyer was gone, Molly asked if anyone else was having doubts about the Falcon Trace campaign. One board member, a devout Quaker, fluttered his hand and said yes, he was afraid of more bloodshed. Then he made a motion (quickly seconded) that the Mothers telephone the police to report the two men who had attacked Molly.

“We don’t need the police,” she said. “In fact, I’ve already retained the services of two experienced security men.” With both hands she motioned to the back of the room, where Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue stood near an open door. Danny Pogue flushed at the introduction and puffed his chest, trying to look like a
tough customer. Bud Schwartz focused sullenly on an invisible tarantula, dangling directly over Molly McNamara’s hair.

Eventually the Mothers of Wilderness quit staring at the burglars-turned-bodyguards, and Molly resumed her pep talk. Danny Pogue picked up a spoon and sidled over to the cheese ball. Bud Schwartz slipped out the door.

In a butcher shop near Howard Beach, Queens, a man known as The Salamander picked up the telephone and said: “Talk.”

“Jimmy gave me the number. Jimmy Noodles.”

“I’m listening,” said The Salamander, whose real name was Salvatore Delicato.

“I got Jimmy’s number from Gino Ricci’s brother.”

The Salamander said, “Fine. Didn’t I already say I was listening? So talk.”

“In case you wanna check it out—I’m calling from Florida. I did time with Gino’s brother.”

“How thrilling for you. Now I’m hangin’ up, asshole.”

“Wait,” said the voice. “You been lookin’ for a certain rat. I know where he is. The man who did the Zubonis.”

The Salamander slammed down his cleaver. “Gimme a number I can call you back,” he said. “Don’t say another word, just tell me a number.”

The caller from Florida repeated it twice. Sal Delicato used a finger to write the numerals in pig blood on a butcher block. Then he untied his apron, washed his hands, combed his hair, snatched a roll of quarters from the cash register and walked three blocks to a pay phone.

“All right, smart guy,” he said when the man answered in Florida. “First off, I don’t know any Zuboni brothers.”

“I never said they was brothers.”

“You didn’t?” Shit, thought The Salamander. I gotta pay closer
attention. “Look, never mind. Just hurry up and tell me what’s so important.”

“There’s this creep in the Witness Relocation Program, you know who I’m talking about. He testified against the Zuboni brothers, the ones you never heard of. Anyway, they gave this creep a new name, new Social Security, the whole nine yards. He’s doing real nice for himself. In fact, he’s worth a couple million bucks is what I hear.”

Sal Delicato said, “You’re a dreamer.”

“Well, maybe I got the wrong man. Maybe I got some bad information. I was under the impression you people were looking for Frankie King, am I wrong?”

“I don’t know no Frankie King.”

“Fine. Nice talkin’ with you—”

“Hold on,” said The Salamander. “I probably know somebody who might be interested. What’d you say your name was?”

“Schwartz. Buddy Schwartz. I was with Gino’s brother at Lake Butler, Florida. You can check it out.”

“I will.”

“In the meantime, you oughta talk to Mr. Gotti.”

“I don’t know no Gotti,” said The Salamander. “I definitely don’t know no fucking Gotti.”

“Whatever.”

Over the phone Bud Schwartz heard the din of automobile horns and hydraulic bus brakes and jackhammers and police sirens. He felt glad he was in Miami instead of on a street corner in Queens. At the other end, Sal Delicato cleared his throat with a series of porcine grunts. “You said they gave him a new name, right? This Frankie King.”

“Yep,” said Bud Schwartz.

“Well, what name does he got at the moment?”

“See, this is what I wanna talk about.”

“Sounds like you’re playin’ games, huh?”

Bud Schwartz said, “No, sir. This ain’t no game.”

“All right, all right. Tell you what to do: First off, you might already got some problems. The phone lines to my shop aren’t so clean, understand?”

Bud Schwartz said, “I’ll be gone from here in a few days.”

“Be that as it may,” said The Salamander, “next time you call me at the shop, do it from a pay booth—they got pay booths in Florida, right? And don’t say shit, either. Just say you want five dozen lamb chops, all right. That’s how I know it’s you—five dozen lamb chops.”

“No problem,” said Bud Schwartz.

“Thirdly, it don’t matter what phones we’re on, don’t ever mention that fucking name.”

“Frankie King?”

“No, the other one. The one starts with ‘G.’”

“The one you never heard of?”

“Right,” said Salvatore (The Salamander) Delicato. “That’s the one.”

Later, drinking a beer on the porch, Danny Pogue said, “I can’t believe you done that.”

“Why not?” said Bud Schwartz. “The asshole double-crossed us. Tried to rip us off.”

“Plus what he done to Molly.”

“Yeah, there’s that.”

Danny Pogue said, “Do you think they’ll kill him?”

“Something like that. Maybe worse.”

“Jesus, Bud, I wouldn’t know how to call up the Mafia, my life depended on it. The Mafia!”

“It wasn’t easy finding the right people. They’re not in the Yellow Pages, that’s for sure.”

Danny Pogue laughed uproariously, exposing cheese-spackled teeth. “You’re a piece of work,” he said.

“Yeah, well.” Bud Schwartz had surprised himself with the phone call. He had remained cool and composed even with a surly mob heavyweight on the other end of the line. Bud Schwartz felt he had braved a higher and more serious realm of criminality; what’s more, he had single-handedly set in motion a major event.

Danny Pogue said, “How much’ll they give us for turning the bastard in?”

“Don’t know,” said Bud Schwartz. “The man’s checking it out.”

Danny Pogue drained his beer and stared at his dirty tennis shoes. In a small voice he said, “Bud, I’m really sorry I ran away at the monkey place.”

“Yeah, what a surprise. You taking off and leaving me alone to get my brains knocked out. Imagine that.”

“I got scared is all.”

“Obviously.” What the hell could he expect? Like all thieves, Danny Pogue was low on valor and high on self-preservation.

He said, “It’s okay if you killed that guy. I mean, it was definitely self-defense. No jury in the world would send you up on that one.”

Great, Bud Schwartz thought, now he’s Perry Mason. “Danny, I’m gonna tell you one more time: it wasn’t me, it was a damn baboon.”

Here was something Danny Pogue admired about his partner; most dirtbags would have lied about what happened so they could take credit for the shooting. Not Bud—even if a monkey was involved. That was Danny Pogue’s idea of class.

“I got a feeling they meant to kill us,” Bud Schwartz said. He had replayed the scene a hundred times in his head, and it always added up to a murderous rip-off. It made him furious to think that
Francis Kingsbury would try it … so furious that he’d tracked down his old cellmate Mario, who steered him to Jimmy Noodles, who gave him the number of the butcher shop in Queens.

Noting but revenge was on Bud Schwartz’s mind. “I want them to know,” he said to Danny Pogue, “that they can’t screw with us just ’cause we’re burglars.”

The screen door squeaked open and Molly McNamara joined the men on the porch. Her eyes looked puffy and tired. She asked Danny Pogue to fix her a glass of lemonade, and he dashed to the kitchen. She adjusted her new dentures and said, “The meeting went poorly. There’s not much support for my ideas.”

One hand moved to her chest, and she took a raspy, labored breath.

Bud Schwartz said, “You ain’t feeling so good, huh?”

“Not tonight, no.” She placed a tiny pill under her tongue and closed her eyes. A flash of distant lightning announced a thunderstorm sweeping in from the Everglades. Bud Schwartz spotted a mosquito on Molly’s cheek, and he brushed it away.

She blinked her eyes and said, “You boys have been up to something, I can tell.”

“It’s going to be a surprise.”

“I’m too old for surprises,” said Molly.

“This one you’ll like.”

“Be careful, please.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “For Danny’s sake, be careful. He’s not as sharp as you are.”

Bud Schwartz said, “We look out for each other.” Unless there’s trouble, then the little dork runs for the hills.

“There’s a reason I can’t spill everything,” Bud Schwartz said to Molly, “but don’t you worry.” She was in a mood, all right. He’d never seen her so worn out and gloomy.

Danny Pogue returned with a pitcher of lemonade. Molly thanked him and held her glass with both hands as she drank. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to count on the Mothers of Wilderness,”
she said. “I sensed an alarming lack of resolve in the meeting tonight.”

“You mean, they wimped out.”

“Oh, they offered to picket Falcon Trace. And sign a petition, of course. They’re very big on petitions.” Molly sighed and tilted her head. The oncoming thunder made the pine planks rumble beneath their feet.

“Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just a batty old woman.”

Danny Pogue said, “No, you’re not!”

Yes, she is, thought Bud Schwartz. But that was all right. She was entitled.

Molly gripped the arms of the chair and pulled herself up. “We’ll probably get a visitor soon,” she said. “The tall fellow with the collar on his neck.”

“Swell,” Bud Schwartz muttered. His ribs still throbbed from last time.

“He’s not to be feared,” Molly McNamara said. “We should hear what he has to say.”

This ought to be good, thought Bud Schwartz. This ought to be priceless.

Early on the morning of July 29, a Sunday, the fax machine in the wire room of the
Miami Herald
received the following transmission:

The Amazing Kingdom of Thrills will be closed Sunday, July 29, due to an infestation of poisonous snakes caused by heavy summer rains and flooding. Cottonmouth moccasins numbering “in the low hundreds” swarmed the popular South Florida theme park over the weekend, according to Charles Chelsea, vice president of publicity.

Several workers and visitors were bitten Saturday, but no deaths were reported. “Our medical-emergency personnel responded to the crisis with heroic efficiency,” Chelsea stated.

Reptile experts say snakes become more active in times of heavy rainfall, and travel great distances to seek higher ground. Even the so-called water moccasin, which thrives in canals and brackish lagoons, becomes uncommonly restless and aggressive during flood-type conditions.

The cottonmouth is a pit viper known for its large curved fangs and whitish mouth. While extremely painful, the bite of the snake is seldom fatal if medical treatment is administered quickly. However, permanent damage to muscle and soft tissue often occurs.

The moccasin is prevalent throughout South Florida, although it is rare to find more than two or three snakes together at a time. Cluster migrations are a rarity in nature. “They appeared to be hunting for toads,” Chelsea explained.

Officials ordered the theme park to be closed temporarily while teams of armed hunters captured and removed the wild reptiles, some of which were nearly six feet in length.

Chelsea said that the Amazing Kingdom will reopen Tuesday morning with a full schedule of events. He added: “While we are confident that the grounds will be perfectly safe and secure, we are also suggesting, as a precaution, that our visitors
wear heavy rubber boots. These will be available in all sizes, for a nominal rental fee.”

   Reporters began calling before eight o’clock. Charles Chelsea was summoned from home; he arrived bleary-eyed and tieless. Clutching a Styrofoam cup of black coffee, he hunched over the desk to examine Joe Winder’s newest atrocity.