Native Tongue Part 18

"Pedro, you need some rest."

"The doctor wasn't murdered. He killed hisself."

"I don't think so."

"Man, I used to be a cop. I know the difference between murder and suicide."

Pedro Luz turned around to lock the laboratory door. Joe Winder thought it would be an excellent moment to s.n.a.t.c.h his briefcase from the security man and make a run for it. He figured Pedro Luz could never catch him as long as he was attached to the c.u.mbersome IV rig. Winder pondered the daring maneuver too long.

Pedro Luz glanced over his shoulder and caught him staring at the briefcase.

"Go ahead," the big man taunted. "Just go ahead and try."

Francis X. Kingsbury and Jake Harp had an early starting time at the Ocean Reef Club, up the road a few miles from the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. Kingsbury played golf two or three times a week at Ocean Reef, even though he was not a member and would never be a member. A most exclusive outfit, the Ocean Reef board had voted consistently to blackball Kingsbury because it could not verify several important details of his biography, beginning with his name. Infuriated by the rejection, Kingsbury made himself an unwelcome presence by wheedling regular golf invitations from all acquaintances who happened to be members, including the famous Jake Harp.

Reluctantly Jake Harp had agreed to play nine holes. He didn't like golf with rich duffers but it was part of the deal; playing with Francis X. Kingsbury, though, was a special form of torture. All he talked about was Disney this and Disney that. If the stock had dropped a point or two, Kingsbury was euphoric; if the stock was up, he was bellicose and depressed. He referred to the Disney mascot as Mickey Ratface, or sometimes simply The Rat. "The Rat's updating his pathetic excuse for a jungle cruise," Kingsbury would report with a sneer. "The fake hippos must be rusting out." Another time, while Jake Harp was lining up a long putt for an eagle, Kingsbury began to cackle. "The Rat's got a major problem at the Hall of the Presidents! Heard they had to yank the Nixon robot because his jowls were molting!"

Jake Harp, a lifelong Republican, had suppressed the urge to take a Ping putter and clobber Francis X. Kingsbury into a deep coma. Jake Harp had to remain civil because of the Falcon Trace gig. It was his second chance at designing a golf course and he didn't want to screw up again; over on Sanibel they were still searching for that mysterious fourteenth tee, the one Jake Harp's architects had mistakenly located in the middle of San Carlos Bay.

As for his t.i.tle of Falcon Trace "touring pro," it was spending money, that's alla"tape a couple of television spots, get your face on a billboard, play a couple of charity tournaments in the winter. h.e.l.l, no one seriously expected you to actually show up and give golf lessons. Not the great Jake Harp.

In the coffee shop Francis X. Kingsbury announced that he was in a hurry because he was leaving town later in the day. The sooner the better, thought Jake Harp.

Standing on the first tee, Kingsbury spotted two of the Ocean Reef board members waiting in a foursome behind them. The men smiled thinly and nodded at him. Kingsbury placidly flipped them the finger. Jake Harp grimaced and reached for his driver.

"Love it," said Kingsbury. "Think they're such hot snots."

Jake Harp knocked the ball two hundred and sixty yards down the left side of the fairway. Kingsbury hit it about half as far and shrugged as if he didn't care. Once he got in the golf cart, he drove like a maniac and cursed bitterly.

"Our club'll make this place look like a buffalo latrine." The cart jounced heedlessly along the asphalt path. "Like f.u.c.king Goony Golfa"I can't wait."

Jake Harp, who was badly hung over, said: "Let's take it easy, Frank."

"They're dying to know how I did it," Kingsbury went on, full tilt. "This island, it's practically a G.o.dd.a.m.n nature preserve. I mean, you can't mow your lawn without a permit from the f.u.c.king EPA."

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 gra.s.s.

"Keep your head down," advised Jake Harp.

Kingsbury hopped back in the cart and said: "Grand-fathering, 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 statea"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. "f.u.c.k 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 eyeb.a.l.l.s 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 f.u.c.king waya"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.

"Townhouses," Kingsbury repeated with a laugh. "And they were happy as clams. All I got to do, it's easy, is sit on the t.i.tles until Phase One is built. You know, keep it off the tax rolls for a few months. "Case some d.a.m.n 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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l is? We got her name, the old b.i.t.c.h." Kingsbury took out a wood and started whisking the air with violent practice swings. Jake Harp could scarcely stand to look.

"One of those d.a.m.n bunny huggers," Kingsbury was saying. "Anti this and anti that. Got some group, the Mothers of some f.u.c.king thing."

"It doesn't really matter," said Jake Harp.

"The h.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.+t'll stopa"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 a.s.sholes'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 rea.s.sembled in the middle of the fairway, shook their fists at Kingsbury and began a swift march back toward the tee.

"s.h.i.+t," said Jake Harp. He didn't have the energy for a fistfight; he didn't even 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 f.u.c.king 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 d.a.m.n country. Some I've never even played."

Kingsbury went on: "The reason I asked, I got a line on a big s.h.i.+pment 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?"

"h.e.l.l, Jake, I'm a real-estate man, not a G.o.dd.a.m.n 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 b.l.o.o.d.y Marys he'd had for breakfast. It was several seconds before he realized he was p.i.s.sing all over somebody's brand-new t.i.tleist. 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 d.i.l.d.o Chelsea," he was saying. "No...who? I don't carea"where did you say he is? Twenty minutes, he's not in my office and that's it. And get that f.u.c.king Pedro, he's in his car. Keep him on the line tilla"righta"I get back."

He touched a b.u.t.ton and the cellular phone made a burp. Kingsbury put it away. He was steaming mad.

Jake Harp said, "More problems?"

"Yeah, a major G.o.dd.a.m.n problem," said Kingsbury. "Only this one works for me."

"So fire him."

"Oh, I am," Kingsbury said, "and that's just for starters."

FOURTEEN.

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 c.o.c.ked 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 a.s.suming this is what gives you jurisdiction in this mattera"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 t.w.a.t was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g 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 Wildernessa""

"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 impa.s.sive 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 s.h.i.+ny pieces of paper. Xeroxes. "Last month the Mothers of Wilderness put out a press release. Do you remember?"