Part 50 (1/2)
”So tonight's the night,” she said. ”Will I be seeing you on the news?”
”I hope not.” He thought: What the h.e.l.l. ”I met a woman,” he said.
”I'm very happy for you.”
”Aw, Nina, don't say that.”
”I am. I think it's great.”
”Christ Almighty, aren't you the least bit jealous?”
”Not really.”
G.o.d, she was a p.i.s.ser. ”Then lie to me,” Winder said. ”Have mercy on my lunatic soul and lie to me. Tell me you're mad with jealousy.”
”You win, Joe. You saw through my act.”
”Was that a giggle I heard?”
”No!” Nina said. The giggle burst into a full-blown laugh. ”I'm dying here. I might just leap off the building, I'm so d.a.m.n jealous. Who is she? Who is this tramp?”
Now Winder started laughing, too. ”I'd better go,” he said, ”before I say something sensible.”
”Call me, Joe. Whatever happens, I'd love to get a phone call.”
”I know the number by heart,” he said. ”Me and every pervert on the Gold Coast.”
”You go to h.e.l.l,” Nina teased. ”And be careful, dammit.”
He said good-bye and placed the receiver on Charles Chelsea's desk.
Skink mulched a cotton candy and said, ”These are excellent seats.”
They ought to be.” Joe Winder a.s.sumed Francis X. Kingsbury would arrive at any moment; it was his private viewing box, after alla”leather swivel chairs, air-conditioning, video monitors, a wet bar. Thirty rows up, overlooking the parade route.
”What will you do when he gets here?” Skink asked.
”I haven't decided. Maybe he'd like to go swimming with Pedro's new friend.”
The grandstand was packed, and Kingsbury Lane was lined five deep with eager spectators. As the history of Florida unfolded in song and skit, Joe Winder imagined that the Stations of the Cross could be similarly adapted and set to music, if the audience would only forgive a few minor revisions. Every float in the Summerfest pageant was greeted with the blind and witless glee displayed by people who have spent way too much money and are determined to have fun. They cheered at the sight of a bootless Ponce de Leon, an underaged maiden on each arm, wading bawdily into the Fountain of Youth; they roared as the pirate Black Caesar chased a concubine up the mizzenmast while his men plundered a captured galleon; they gasped as the Killer Hurricane of 1926 tore the roof off a settler's cabin and the smock off his brave young wife.
Skink said, ”I never realized cleavage played such an important role in Florida history.” Joe Winder told him to just wait for the break-dancing migrants.
Carrie Lanier gave a ca.s.sette of the new music to the driver, and took her place on the last float. The Talent Manager showed up and demanded to know why she wasn't wearing the Indian costume.
”That wasn't an Indian costume,” Carrie said, ”unless the Seminoles had streetwalkers.”
The Talent Manager, a middle-aged woman with sweeping peroxide hair and ropes of gold jewelry, informed Carrie that a long gown was unsuitable for the Jubilee parade.
”It's ideal for what I'm singing,” Carrie replied.
”And what would that be?”
”That would be none of your business.” She adjusted the microphone, which was clipped into the neck of her dress.
The Talent Manager became angry. ”Paul Revere and the Raiders isn't good enough for you?”
”Go away,” said Carrie.
”And where's our lion?”
”The lion is taking the night off.”
”No, missy,” the Talent lady said, shaking a finger. ”Thousands of people out there are waiting to see Princess Golden Sun ride a wild lion through the Everglades.”
”The lion has a furball. Now get lost.”
”At least put on the wig,” the Talent lady pleaded. ”There's no such thing as a blond Seminole. For the sake of authenticity, put on the d.a.m.n wig!”
”Toodle-loo,” said Carrie. And the float began to roll.
At first, Sergeant Mark Dyerson thought the telemetry was on the fritz again. How could the panther get back on the island? No signal had been received for days, then suddenly there it was, beep-beep-beep. Number 17. The sneaky b.a.s.t.a.r.d was at it again!
Sergeant Dyerson asked the pilot to keep circling beneath the clouds until he got a more precise fix on the transmitter. The greenish darkness of the hammocks and the ocean suddenly was splayed by a vast sparkling corridor of lightsa”the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. The plane banked high over a confetti of humanity.
”d.a.m.n,” said the ranger. Sharply he tapped the top of the radio receiver. ”This can't be right. Fly me over again.”
But the telemetry signals were identical on the second pa.s.s, and the third and the fourth. Sergeant Dyerson peered out the window of the Piper and thought, He's down there. He's inside the G.o.dd.a.m.n park!
The ranger told the pilot to call Naples. ”I need some backup,” he said, ”and I need the guy with the dogs.”
”Should I say which cat we're after?”
”No, don't,” Sergeant Dyerson said. The top bra.s.s of the Game and Fish Department was tired of hearing about Number 17. ”Tell them we've got a panther in trouble,” said Sergeant Dyerson, ”that's all you need to say.”
The pilot reached for the radio. ”What the h.e.l.l's it doing in the middle of an amus.e.m.e.nt park?”
”Going crazy,” said the ranger. ”That's all I can figure.”
The break-dancing migrant workers were a sensation with the crowd. Skink covered his face during most of the performance; it was one of the most tasteless spectacles he had ever seen. He asked Joe Winder if he wished to help with the gasoline.
”No, I'm waiting for Kingsbury.”
”What for?”
”To resolve our differences as gentlemen. And possibly pound him into dog chow.”
”Forget Kingsbury,” Skink advised. ”There's your girl.”
Carrie's float appeared at the end of the promenade; a spotlight found her in a black sequined evening gown, posed among ersatz palms and synthetic cypress. She was perfectly dazzling, although the crowd reacted with confused and hesitant applausea”they'd been expecting a scantily clad Indian princess astride a snarling wildcat.