Authors: Carl Hiaasen
On the path to the Cimarron Saloon, Charles Chelsea and the burglars heard howling behind them; a rollicking if muffled cry that emanated from deep inside the globular raccoon head.
“Aaaahhh-oooooooooo,” Joe Winder sang. “We’re the werewolves of Florida! Aaaahhh-oooooooooo!”
The smoke from Moe Strickland’s cigar hung like a purple shroud in The Catacombs. Uncle Ely’s Elves had voted unanimously
to boycott the Jubilee, and Uncle Ely would honor their decision.
“The cowboy getups look stupid,” he agreed.
The actor who played the elf Jeremiah, and sometimes Dumpling, lit a joint to counteract the stogie fumes. He declared, “We’re not clowns, we’re actors. So fuck Kingsbury.”
“That’s right,” said another elf. “Fuck Mr. X.”
Morale in the troupe had been frightfully low since the newspapers had picked up the phony story about a hepatitis outbreak. Several of the actor-elves had advocated changing the name of the act to escape the stigma. Others wanted to hire a Miami attorney and file a lawsuit.
Moe Strickland said, “I heard they’re auditioning up at Six Flags.”
“Fuck Six Flags,” said Jeremiah-Dumpling elf. “Probably another damn midget routine.”
“Our options are somewhat limited,” Moe Strickland said, trying to put it as delicately as possible.
“So fuck our options.”
The mood began to simmer after they’d passed the joint around about four times. Moe Strickland eventually stubbed out the cigar and began to enjoy himself. On the street above, a high-school marching band practiced the theme from
2001: A Space Odyssey
. Filtered through six feet of stone, it didn’t sound half bad.
One of the actor-elves said, “Did I mention there’s a guy living in our dumpster?”
“You’re kidding,” said Moe Strickland.
“No, Uncle Ely, it’s true. We met him yesterday.”
“In the Dumpster?”
“He fixed it up nice like you wouldn’t believe. We gave him a beer.”
Moe Strickland wondered how a homeless person could’ve
found a way into The Catacombs, or why he’d want to stay where it was so musty and humid and bleak.
“A nice guy,” said the actor-elf. “A real gentleman.”
“We played poker,” added Jeremiah-Dumpling. “Cleaned his fucking clock.”
“But he was a sport about it. A gentleman, like I said.”
Again Moe Strickland raised the subject of Six Flags. “Atlanta’s a great town,” he said. “Lots of pretty women.”
“We’ll need some new songs.”
“That’s okay,” said Moe Strickland. “Some new songs would be good. We’ll have the whole bus ride to work on the arrangements. Luther can bring his guitar.”
“Why not?” said Jeremiah-Dumpling. “Fuck Kingsbury anyhow.”
“That’s the spirit,” Moe Strickland said.
From the end of the tunnel came the sound of boots on brick. A man bellowed furiously.
“Damn,” said one of the actor-elves. He dropped the nub of the joint and ground it to ash under a long, curly-toed, foam-rubber foot.
The boots and the bellowing belonged to a jittery Spence Mooher, who was Pedro Luz’s right-hand man. Mooher was agitated because none of the other security guards had shown up for work on this, the busiest day of the summer. Mooher had been up all night patrolling the Amazing Kingdom, and now it looked as if he’d be up all day.
“I smell weed,” he said to Moe Strickland.
In this field Mooher could honestly boast of expertise; he had served six years with the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration until he was involuntarily relieved of duty. There had been vague accusations of unprofessional conduct in Puerto Rico—something about a missing flash roll, twenty or thirty thousand dollars.
As Spence Mooher was quick to point out, no charges were ever filed.
He shared his new boss’s affinity for anabolic steroids, but he strongly disapproved of recreational drugs. Steroids hardened the body, but pot and cocaine softened the mind.
“Who’s got the weed?” he demanded of Uncle Ely’s Elves.
“Lighten up, Spence,” sighed Moe Strickland.
“Why aren’t you shitheads up top in rehearsal? Everybody’s supposed to be there.”
“Because we’re boycotting,” said Jeremiah-Dumpling. “We’re not going to be in the damn show.”
Mooher’s mouth twisted. “Yes, you are,” he said. “This is the Summerfest Jubilee!”
“I don’t care if it’s the second coming of Christ,” said Jeremiah-Dumpling. “We’re not performing.”
Moe Strickland added. “It’s a labor action, Spence. Nothing you can do.”
“No?” With one hand Mooher grabbed the veteran character actor by the throat and slammed him against a row of tall lockers. The actor-elves could only cry out helplessly as the muscular security officer banged Uncle Ely’s head again and again, until blood began to trickle from his ears. The racket of bone against metal was harrowing, amplified in the bare tunnel.
Finally Spence Mooher stopped. He held Moe Strickland at arm’s length, three feet off the ground; the actor kicked spasmodically.
“Have you reconsidered?” Mooher asked. Moe Strickland’s eyelids drooped, but he managed a nod.
A deep voice down the passageway said, “Let him go.”
Spence Mooher released Uncle Ely and wheeled to face … a bum. An extremely tall bum, but a bum nonetheless. It took the security guard a few moments to make a complete appraisal: the damp silver beard, braided on one cheek only; the flowered plastic
rain hat pulled taut over the scalp; the broad tan chest wrapped in heavy copper-stained bandages; a red plastic collar around the neck; one dead eye steamed with condensation, the other alive and dark with anger; the mouthful of shiny white teeth.
Here, thought Spence Mooher, was a bum to be reckoned with. He reached this conclusion approximately one second too late, for the man had already seized Mooher’s testicles and twisted with such forcefulness that all strength emptied from Mooher’s powerful limbs; quivering, he felt a rush of heat down his legs as he soiled himself. When he tried to talk, a weak croaking noise came out of his mouth.
“Time to go night-night,” said the bum, twisting harder. Spence Mooher fell down unconscious.
With a slapping of many oversized feet, the actor-elves scurried toward the slack figure of Moe Strickland, who was awake but in considerable pain. Jeremiah-Dumpling lifted Moe’s bloody head and said, “This is the guy we told you about. The one in the Dumpster.”
Skink bent down and said, “Pleased to meet you, Uncle Ely. I think your buddies better get you to the vet.”
Charles Chelsea tested the door to Francis X. Kingsbury’s office and found it locked. He tapped lightly but received no reply.
“I know he’s in there,” Chelsea said.
Danny Pogue said, “Allow us.” He produced a small screwdriver and easily popped the doorjamb.
“Like ridin’ a bicycle,” said Bud Schwartz.
From inside the raccoon costume came a hollow command. The others stood back while Joe Winder opened the door. Upon viewing the scene, he clapped his paws and said: “Perfect.”
Francis X. Kingsbury was energetically fondling himself in
front of a television set. On the screen, a dark young man in a torn soccer jersey was copulating with a wild-haired brunette woman, who was moaning encouragement in Spanish. Other video cassettes were fanned out like a poker hand on the desk.
Kingsbury halted mid-pump and wheeled to confront the intruders. The boxer shorts around his ankles greatly diminished his ability to menace. Today’s hairpiece was a silver Kenny Rogers model.
“Get out,” Kingsbury snarled. He fumbled for the remote control and turned off the VCR. He seemed unaware that the Amazing Kingdom’s stalwart mascot, Robbie Raccoon, was pointing a loaded semiautomatic at him. Joe Winder tucked the gun under one arm while he unzipped his head and removed it.
“So you’re alive,” Kingsbury hissed. “I had a feeling, goddammit.”
Bud Schwartz laughed and pointed at Kingsbury, who shielded his receding genitals. The burglar said, “The asshole’s wearing golf shoes!”
“For traction,” Joe Winder theorized.
Charles Chelsea looked disgusted. Danny Pogue tossed a package on the desk. “Here,” he said to Kingsbury, “even though you tried to kill us.”
“What’s this?”
“The files we swiped. Ramex, Gotti, it’s all there.”
Kingsbury was confused. Why would they return the files now? Bud Schwartz read his expression and said, “You were right. It was out of our league.”
Which was baloney. The true reason for returning the files was to ensure that no one would come searching for them later. Like the police or the FBI.
“I suppose you want, what, a great big thank-you or some such goddamn thing.” Francis X. Kingsbury tugged the boxer shorts
high on his gelatinous waist. The indignity of the moment finally had sunk in. “Get out or I’m calling Security!”
“You’ve got no Security,” Winder informed him.
“Charlie?”
“I’m afraid that’s right, sir. I’ll explain later.”
Bud Schwartz said to his partner, “This is pathetic. Let’s go.”
“Wait.” Danny Pogue stepped up to Kingsbury and said: “Beating up an old lady, what’s the matter with you?”
“What the hell do you care.” By now Kingsbury had more or less focused on Joe Winder’s gun, so he spoke to Danny Pogue without looking at him. “That fucking Pedro, he gets carried away. Not a damn thing I can do.”
“She’s a sick old woman, for Chrissake.”
“What’s your point, Jethro?”
“My point is this,” said Danny Pogue, and ferociously punched Francis Kingsbury on the chin. Kingsbury’s golf cleats snagged on the carpet as he toppled.
Surveying the messy scene, Charles Chelsea felt refreshingly detached. He truly didn’t care anymore. Outside, a roar of thousands swept the Amazing Kingdom, followed by gay cheers and applause. Chelsea went to the window and parted the blinds. “What do you know,” he said. “Our five-millionth customer just walked through the gate.”
With gray hands Kingsbury clutched the corner of the desk and pulled himself to his feet. In this fashion he was also able to depress a concealed alarm button that rang in the Security Office.
Bud Schwartz said, “We’ll be saying good-bye now.”
“You’re welcome to stay,” offered Joe Winder.
“No thanks.” Danny Pogue examined his knuckles for bruises and abrasions. He said, “Molly’s having surgery this afternoon. We promised to be at the hospital.”
“I understand,” Winder said. “You guys want to take anything?”
He motioned with his gun paw around the lavish office. “The VCR? Some tapes? How about a cellular phone for the car?”
“The phone might be good,” said Danny Pogue. “What’d you think, Bud? You could call your little boy from the road, wouldn’t that be cool?”
“Let’s roll,” Bud Schwartz said.
Later they were driving on Card Sound Road, halfway back to the mainland, when Bud Schwartz motioned with a thumb and said: “Right about here’s where it all started, Danny. Me throwin’ that damn rat in the convertible.”
“It was a vole,” said Danny Pogue. “A blue-tongued mango vole.
Microtus mango
. That’s the Latin name.”
Bud Schwartz laughed. “Whatever you say.” There was no denying he was impressed. How many burglars knew Latin?
A few more miles down the road, Danny Pogue again brought up the topic of portable phones. “If we had us one right now, we could call the hospital and see how she’s doin.”
“You know the problem with cellulars,” said Bud Schwartz.
“The reception?”
“Besides the reception,” Bud Schwartz said. “The problem with cellulars is, people always steal the damn things.”
“Yeah,” said his partner. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
The emergency buzzer awakens Pedro Luz in the storage room. He sits up and blinks. Blinks at the bare light bulb. Blinks at the pitted walls. Blinks at the empty intravenous bags on the hangers. He thinks, What the hell was it this time? Stanozolol, yeah. He’d pilfered a half-dozen tabs from Spence Mooher’s locker. Ground them up with the toe of a boot, stirred it in the bag with the dextrose.
Feeling good. Feeling just fine. The beer sure helped.
Then comes Kingsbury’s alarm and it sounds like a dental drill. Better get up now. Better get moving.
Pedro Luz pulls the tubes from his arms and tries to stand. Whoa, hoss! He forgot all about his foot, the fact that it was missing.
He grabs a wooden crutch and steadies himself. Facing the mirror, Pedro notices he’s buck naked from the waist down. The image shocks him; his legs are as thick as oaks, but his penis is no larger than a peanut. Hastily he scrambles into the trousers of his guard uniform, the gun belt, one sock, one shoe.
Time to go to work. It’s the Summerfest Jubilee and Mr. Kingsbury’s in some kind of trouble.
And the damn door won’t open.
Pedro can’t fucking believe it. Okay, now somebody’s either locked the damn thing from the outside, which don’t make sense, or maybe welded it shut, which is even crazier. Pedro lowers one shoulder and hits the door like a tackle dummy.
Nada
. Now he’s getting pissed. Through the steel he yells for Cano or Spence or Diamond J. Love, and gets no answer. “Where the hell
is
everybody?” hollers Pedro Luz.
Next logical step is using his skull as a battering ram. Wedging the crutch against the baseboard, he uses it to vault himself headfirst at the door. Amazing thing is, it don’t hurt after a while. Tense the neck muscles just before impact and it acts like a spring. Boom, boom, boom. Boing, boing, boing.
No more door! Flattened.
What a fine feeling, to be free again.
The Security Office is empty, which is a mystery. Pedro checks the time cards and sees that none of the other guards have clocked in; something’s going on here. Outside, the morning sun burns through a milky August haze, and the park is crawling with customers. There’s a middle-aged lady at the security window complaining how somebody swiped her pocketbook off the tram.
Behind her is some guy from Wisconsin, red hair and freckles, says he locked his keys in the rental car. And behind him is some bony old man with a shnoz that could cut glass. Claims one of the animals is walking around the park with a gun. Which one? Pedro asks. The possum? The raccoon? We got bunches of animals, says Pedro Luz. And the old guy scratches his big nose and says he don’t know the difference from animals. Was Wally Wolverine for all he knows, but it damn sure was a gun in its paw. Sure, says Pedro, whatever you say. Here’s a form to fill out. I’ll be back in a few minutes.