Part 48 (1/2)

At first no one spoke up, but there was a good bit of whispering about the b.l.o.o.d.y purple knots on the security chief's forehead. Finally a man in the crowd pointed at the Rossiters and shouted, ”They cheated, that's what!”

Another male voice: ”He cut in line!”

Pedro Luz said, ”Jesus, I can't believe you people.”

He turned to the Rossiters. ”Is it true? Did you cut in line?”

”No, Officer,” Mr. Rossiter answered. ”We got here first, fair and square.”

Mrs. Rossiter popped her head from the car and said, ”They're just a bunch of sore losers.” Mrs. Rossiter's mother, a stubby woman wearing sandals and a Petey Possum T-s.h.i.+rt, said she'd never seen such rude people in all her life.

Pedro Luz didn't know what to do next; for one pleasantly deranged moment, he considered throwing the Rossiters off the stage and claiming the 300-Z for himself. Daring anyone to try to take it away from him. Then Charles Chelsea materialized and Pedro Luz gratefully surrendered the microphone. His ears buzzed and his head clanged and all he really wanted to do was limp to the gymnasium and pump some iron.

”Ladies and gentlemen,” Chelsea intoned, ”please settle down.” He looked smooth and confident in a crisp blue oxford s.h.i.+rt and a wine-colored tie. He looked as if he could talk his way out of practically anything.

”I've reviewed the tapes from our security cameras,” Chelsea told the crowd, ”and whether you like it or not, Mr. Rossiter and his family were clearly the first ones through the turnstiles this morninga””

”But he threatened me!” yelled a teenager in the crowd. ”I was here first but he said he'd kill me!”

A middle-aged woman in a straw Orky hat hollered: ”Me, too! And I was ahead of that kida””

The crowd surged toward the stage until Pedro Luz drew his revolver and aimed it toward the sky. Seeing the gun, the tourists grew quiet and rippled back a few steps.

”Thank you,” Chelsea said to Pedro Luz.

”I got an emergency.”

”You can go now. I'll be fine.”

”You need a gun?”

”No,” said Chelsea, ”but thanks just the same.”

”You got something against fun.”

Francis Kingsbury made it an indictment. ”What, you got something against little children? Little cutey pies having a good time?”

Joe Winder said: ”You can keep the park, Frankie. The park is already built. It's the golf resort that's eighty-sixed, as of today.”

”Oh, ho,” said Kingsbury. ”So you got something against golf?”

”That's the deal. Take it or leave it.”

”You think you can scare me? h.e.l.l, I got gangsters shooting at me. Professionals.” Kingsbury cut loose an enormous sneeze, and promptly plugged his nostrils with the handkerchief.

Winder said, ”I was hoping to appeal to the pragmatic side of your nature.”

”Listen, I know how to handle this situation from up North. The way to handle it is, I cut the wop b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in. The Zubonis, I'm talking about. I cut 'em in on Falcon Trace, you'd be surprised how fast they let bygones be bygones. You watch what good friends we are once I start using Zuboni roofers, Zuboni drywall, Zuboni plumbing.” Kingsbury looked positively triumphant. ”Blackmail, my a.s.s. The f.u.c.k are you going to blackmail me with now?”

”I believe you misunderstood the offer,” Joe Winder said. ”I'm not planning to go to the mob. I'm planning to go to the media.”

Defiantly Kingsbury s.n.a.t.c.hed the hanky from his nose. ”Jesus, you're p.i.s.sing me off.” He picked up the phone and commanded the operator to connect him with Security. Joe Winder took two steps toward the desk, raised his paw and shot the telephone console to pieces.

Impressed, Kingsbury probed at the tangle of wires and broken plastic. ”G.o.dd.a.m.n lunatic,” he said.

Winder sat down and tucked the gun into the furry folds of the costume. ”Think in terms of headlines,” he said. ”Imagine what'll happen when the newspapers find out the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills is run by a Mafia snitch. You'll be famous, Frankie. Wouldn't you love to be interviewed by Connie Chung?”

”Let me just say, f.u.c.k you.”

Winder frowned. ”Don't make me shoot up more office equipment. Stop and consider the facts. You obtained the bank notes and financing for Falcon Trace under false pretenses; to wit, using a false name and phony credit references. Ditto on your construction permits. Ditto on your performance bond. Once the money boys find out who you really are, once they read about it on the front page of the Wall Street Journal, not only is Falcon Trace dead, you can look forward to spending the rest of your natural life at the courthouse, getting your fat a.s.s sued off. Everybody'll want a piece, Frankie. We're talking cl.u.s.ter-f.u.c.k.”

He now had Francis X. Kingsbury's undivided attention. ”And last but not least,” Winder said, ”is the criminal situation. If I'm not mistaken, you're still on probation.”

”Yeah, so?”

”So the terms of probation strictly prohibit consorting with known felons and other unsavory dirtbags. However, a review of your Security Department indicates you're not only consorting with known criminals, you've surrounded yourself with them.”

”This isn't Orlando,” Kingsbury said. ”Down here it's not so. easy to get good help. If I was as strict as Disney, I'd have n.o.body working for me. What, maybe altar boys? Mormons and Brownie Scouts? This is Miami, for Chrissakes, I got a serious recruiting problem here.”

”Nonetheless,” Joe Winder said, ”you've gone out of your way to dredge up extremely primitive life-forms.”

”What's wrong with giving a guy a second chance?” Kingsbury paused for a second, then said, ”I'm the first to admit, h.e.l.l, Pedro was a bad choice. I didn't know about the d.a.m.n drugs.” Speaking of Pedro, he thought, where the h.e.l.l is he?

”What's done is done,” Winder said. He fanned himself with his spare paw, it was wretchedly hot inside the costume. ”Frankie, this is a matter for you and the probation bureau. Between us boys, I wouldn't be surprised if they packed you off to Eglin for six or eight months. You do play tennis, don't you?”

The haughtiness ebbed from Kingsbury's face. Pensively he traced a pudgy finger along the lines of his infamous rodent tattoo. ”Winder, what exactly is your problem?”

”The problem is you're mutilating a fine chunk of island so a bunch of rich people have a warm place to park their b.u.t.ts in the winter. You couldn't have picked a worse location, Frankie, the last green patch of the Keys. You're bulldozing next door to a national wildlife refuge. And offsh.o.r.e, in that magnificent ocean, is the only living coral reef in North America. I believe that's where you intended to flush your toiletsa””

”No!” Kingsbury snapped. ”We'll have deep-well sewage injection. High-tech facilitiesa”no runoff, no outfall.”

”Imagine,” Winder mused, ”the s.h.i.+t of millionaires dappling our azure waters.”

Kingsbury reddened and clenched his fists. ”If I go along with this deal, what, it's some major victory for the environment? You think the ghost of Henry f.u.c.king Th.o.r.eau is gonna pin a medal or some such G.o.dd.a.m.n thing on your chest?”

Joe Winder smiled at the thought. ”I've got no illusions,” he said. ”One less golf course is one less golf course. I'll settle for that.”

”The lots, Jesus, they're worth millions. That's what this G.o.dd.a.m.n piece of paper'll cost me.”

”I'll settle for that, too.”

Kingsbury was still stymied. He glared furiously at Charles Chelsea's final publicity release.

”You'll never understand,” Winder said, ”because you weren't born here. Compared to where you came from, this is always going to look like paradise. h.e.l.l, you could wipe out every last bird and b.u.t.terfly, and it's still better than Toledo in the dead of winter.”

With a dark chuckle, Kingsbury said, ”No kidding.”