Skink shook his head. “Let’s try to be more imaginative.”
“All the building permits are in Kingsbury’s name,” Winder noted. “If he goes down, the project goes under.”
Carrie wondered what Joe meant by “goes down.”
“You mean, if he dies?”
“Or gets bankrupt,” Winder said.
“Or lost,” added Skink, glancing up from his mosquito census.
Danny Pogue elbowed Bud Schwartz, who kept his silence. He had spoken again to the butcher in Queens, who had relayed an offer from unnamed friends of the Zubonis: fifty thousand for the whereabouts of Frankie King. Naturally Bud Schwartz had agreed to the deal; now, sitting in the wilderness among these idealistic crusaders, he felt slightly guilty. Maybe he should’ve ratted on Kingsbury for free.
“Mr. X had a terrible run of luck the last few days,” Carrie was saying, “thanks to Joe.”
Skink got up to check the campfire. He said, “It’s time for a full-court press.”
“Each day is precious,” agreed Molly McNamara. She dabbed her forehead with a linen handkerchief. “I think we should move against Mr. Kingsbury as soon as possible.”
Bud Schwartz crumpled a soda can. “Why don’t we hold off a week or so?”
“No.” Skink offered him a shank of opossum on a long-handled fork. He said, “Every hour that passes, we lose more of the island.”
“Kingsbury’s got worse problems than all of us put together,” said Bud Schwartz. “If we can just lay back a few days.”
Joe Winder urged him to elaborate.
“Tell him, Bud, go on!” Danny Pogue was nearly bursting.
“I wisht I could.”
Skink fingered the silvery tendrils of his beard. Towering over the burglar, he said, “Son, I’m not fond of surprises.”
“This is serious shit.” Bud Schwartz was pleading. “You gotta understand—heavy people from up North.”
Wiping the condensation from her eyeglasses, Molly said, “Bud, what on earth are you talking about?”
Winder leaned toward Carrie and whispered: “This is getting interesting.”
“No damn surprises,” Skink repeated balefully. “We act in confluence, you understand?”
Reluctantly Bud Schwartz took a bite of fried opossum. He scowled as the warm juices dripped down his chin.
“Is that blood?” asked Danny Pogue.
Skink nodded and said, “Nature’s gravy.”
Suddenly he turned his face to the sky, peered toward the lemon sun and cursed vehemently. Then he was gone, running barefoot into the bright tangles of the hammock.
The others looked at one another in utter puzzlement.
Joe Winder was the first to stand. “When in Rome,” he said, reaching for Carrie’s hand.
Humanity’s encroachment had obliterated the Florida panther so thoroughly that numerals were assigned to each of the few surviving specimens. In a desperate attempt to save the species, the Game and Fresh Water Commission had embarked on a program of monitoring the far-roaming panthers and tracking their movements by radio telemetry. Over a period of years most of the cats were treed, tranquilized and fitted with durable plastic collars that emitted a regular electronic signal on a frequency of 150 megahertz. The signals could be followed by rangers on the ground or, when the animal was deep in the swamps, by air. Using this system, biologists were able to map the territories traveled by individual cats, chart their mating habits and even locate new litters of kittens. Because the battery-operated collars were activated by motion, it was also possible for rangers to know when a numbered panther was sick or even dead; if a radio collar was inert for more than a few hours, it automatically began sending a distress signal.
No such alarm was transmitted if an animal became abnormally active, but the rangers were expected to notice any strange behavior and react accordingly. For instance, a panther that was spending too much time near populated areas was usually captured and relocated for its own safety; the cats had a long and dismal record of careless prowling along busy highways.
Sergeant Mark Dyerson had retrieved too many dead panthers that had been struck by trucks and automobiles. Recently the ranger had become certain that if something wasn’t done soon, Panther 17 would end up the same way. The Game and Fish files indicated that the animal was a seven-year-old male whose original range stretched from Homestead south to Everglades National Park, and east all the way to Card Sound. Because this area was crisscrossed by high-speed roads, the rangers paid special attention to the travels of Number 17.
For months the cat had seemed content to hunker in the deep upland hammocks of North Key Largo, which made sense, considering the dicey crossing to the mainland. But Sergeant Dyerson had grown concerned when, two weeks earlier, radio readings on Number 17 began to show extraordinary, almost unbelievable movement. Intermittent flyovers had pinpointed the cat variously at Florida City, North Key Largo, Homestead, Naranja and South Miami—although Sergeant Dyerson believed the latter coordinates were a mistake, probably a malfunction of the radio tracking unit. South Miami was simply an impossible destination; not only was it well out of the panther’s range, but the animal would have had to travel at a speed of sixty-five miles an hour to be there when the telemetry said it was. Unlike the cheetah, panthers prefer loping to racing. The only way Number 17 could go that far, Sergeant Dyerson joked to his pilot, is if it took a bus.
Even omitting South Miami from the readings, the cat’s travels were inexplicably erratic. The rangers were concerned at the frequency with which Number 17 crossed Card Sound between Key Largo and the mainland. The only two possible routes—by water or the long bridge—were each fraught with hazards. It was Sergeant Dyerson’s hope that Number 17 chose to swim the bay rather than risk the run over the steep concrete span, where the animal stood an excellent chance of getting creamed by a speeding car.
On July 29, the ranger took up the twin Piper to search for the wandering panther. The homing signal didn’t come to life until the plane passed low over a trailer park on the outskirts of Homestead. It was not a safe place for humans, much less wild animals, and the panther’s presence worried Sergeant Dyerson. Though the tawny cats were seldom visible from the Piper, the ranger half-expected to see Number 17 limping down the center lane of U.S. Highway 1.
Later that afternoon, Sergeant Dyerson went up again; this time he marked the strongest signal in thick cover near Steamboat Creek, on North Key Largo. The ranger couldn’t believe it—twenty-nine miles in one day! This cat was either manic, or chained to the bumper of a Greyhound.
When Sergeant Dyerson landed in Naples, he asked an electrician to double-check the antenna and receiver of the telemetry unit. Every component tested perfectly.
That night, the ranger phoned his supervisor in Tallahassee and reviewed the recent radio data on Number 17. The supervisor agreed that he’d never heard of a panther moving such a great distance, so fast.
“Send me a capture team as soon as possible,” Sergeant Dyerson said. “I’m gonna dart this sonofabitch and find out what’s what.”
The twin Piper made three dives over the campsite. Joe Winder and Carrie Lanier watched from the bank of Steamboat Creek.
“Game and Fish,” Winder said, “just what we need.”
“What do we do?” Carrie asked.
“Follow the water.”
They didn’t get far. A tall uniformed man materialized at the edge of the tree line. He carried an odd small-bore rifle that looked like a toy. When he motioned to Joe and Carrie, they obediently followed him through the hammock out to the road. Molly McNamara and the two burglars already had been rounded up; another ranger, with a clipboard, was questioning them. There was no sign of Skink.
Sergeant Mark Dyerson introduced himself and asked to see some identification. Joe Winder and Carrie Lanier showed him their driver’s licenses. The ranger was copying down their names when a gaunt old cracker, pulled by three lean hounds, came out of the woods.
“Any luck?” Sergeant Dyerson asked.
“Nope,” said the tracker. “And I lost me a dog.”
“Maybe the panther got him.”
“They ain’t no panther out there.”
“Hell, Jackson, the radio don’t lie.” The ranger turned back to Joe Winder and Carrie Lanier. “And I suppose you’re birdwatchers, too. Just like Mrs. McNamara and her friends.”
Beautiful, thought Winder. We’re bird-watchers now.
Playing along, Carrie informed the ranger they were following a pair of nesting kestrels.
“No kidding?” Sergeant Dyerson said. “I’ve never met a birder who didn’t carry binoculars—and here I get five of ’em, all at one time.”
“We’re thinking of forming a club,” said Carrie. Joe Winder bit his lip and looked away. Molly’s Cadillac took off, eastbound—a crown of white hair behind the wheel, the burglars slouched in the back seat.
“I’ll give you this much,” the ranger said, “you sure don’t look like poachers.” A Florida Highway Patrol car pulled up and parked beside Sergeant Dyerson’s Jeep. A muscular black trooper got out and tipped his Stetson at the ranger.
“Whatcha know?” the trooper said affably.
“Tracking a panther. These folks got in the way.”
“A panther? You got to be kidding.” The trooper’s laughter boomed. “I’ve been driving this stretch for three years and never saw a bobcat, much less a panther.”
“They’re very secretive,” Sergeant Dyerson said. “You wouldn’t necessarily spot them.” He wasn’t in the mood for a nature lesson. He turned to the old tracker and told him to run the frigging dogs one more time.
“Ain’t no point.”
“Humor me,” said Sergeant Dyerson. “Come on, let’s go find your other hound.”
Once the wildlife officers were gone, the trooper’s easygoing smile dissolved. “You folks need a lift.”
“No thanks,” Joe Winder said.
“It wasn’t a question, friend.” The trooper opened the back door of the cruiser, and motioned them inside.
27
The trooper took them to lunch at the Ocean Reef Club. The clientele seemed ruffled by the sight of a tall black man with a sidearm.
“You’re making the folks nervous,” Joe Winder observed.
“Must be the uniform.”
Carrie popped a shrimp into her mouth. “Are we under arrest?”
“I’d be doing all three of us a favor,” Jim Tile said, “but no, unfortunately, you’re not under arrest.”
Winder was working on a grouper sandwich. Jim Tile had ordered the fried dolphin and conch fritters. The dining room was populated by rich Republican golfers with florid cheeks and candy-colored Izod shirts. The men shot anxious squinty-eyed glances toward the black trooper’s table.
Jim Tile motioned for iced tea. “I can’t imagine why I’ve never gotten a membership application. Maybe it got lost in the mail.”
“What’s the point of all this?” Winder asked.
“To have a friendly chat.”
“About what?”
Jim Tile shrugged. “Flaming bulldozers. Dead whales. One-eyed woodsmen. You pick the subject.”
“So we’ve got a mutual friend.”
“Yes, we do.” The trooper was enjoying the fish platter immensely; despite the stares, he seemed in no hurry to finish. He said, “The plane scared him off, right?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Winder said. “They’re not after him, they’re after a cat. Why does he run?”
Jim Tile put down the fork and wiped his mouth. “My own opinion—he feels a duty to hide because that’s what the panther would’ve done. He wears that damn collar like a sacred obligation.”
“To the extreme.”
“Yeah,” the trooper said. “I don’t expect they’ll find that missing dog. You understand?”
Carrie said, “He’s a very interesting person.”
“A man to be admired but not imitated.” Jim Tile paused. “I say that with no disrespect.”
Winder chose not to acknowledge the warning. “Where do you think he went?” he asked the trooper.
“I’m not sure, but it’s a matter of concern.”
The manager of the restaurant appeared at the table. He was a slender young man with bleached hair and pointy shoulders and brand-new teeth. In a chilly tone he asked Jim Tile if he were a member of the club, and the trooper said no, not yet. The manager started to say something else but changed his mind. Jim Tile requested a membership application, and the manager said he’d be back in a jiffy.
“That’s the last we’ll see of him,” the trooper predicted.
Joe Winder wanted to learn more about Skink. He decided it was safe to tell Jim Tile what the group had been doing in the hammock before the airplane came: “We were hatching quite a plot.”
“I figured as much,” the trooper said. “You know much about rock and roll?”
Carrie pointed at Winder and said, “Hard core.”
“Good,” said Jim Tile. “Maybe you can tell me what’s a Mojo? The other day he was talking about a Mojo flying.”
“Rising,” Winder said. “Mojo rising. It’s a line from The Doors—I believe it’s got phallic connotations.”
“No,” Carrie jumped in. “I think it’s about drugs.”
The trooper looked exasperated. “White people’s music, I swear to God. Sinatra’s all right, but you can keep the rest of it.”
“Shall we discuss rap?” Joe Winder said sharply. “Shall we examine the lyrical genius of, say, 2 Live Crew?” He could be very defensive when it came to rock. Carrie reached under the table and pinched his thigh. She told him to lighten up.
“Rikers Island,” Jim Tile said. “Is there a song about Rikers Island?”
Winder couldn’t think of one. “You sure it’s not Thunder Island?”
“No.” Jim Tile shook his head firmly. “Our friend said he’d be leaving Florida one day. Go up to Rikers Island and see to some business.”
“But that’s a prison,” Carrie said.
“Yeah. A prison in New York City.”
Joe Winder remembered something Skink had told him the first day at the campsite. If it was a clue, it foreshadowed a crime of undiluted madness.
Winder said, “Rikers is where they keep that idiot who shot John Lennon.” He cocked an eyebrow at Jim Tile. “You do know who John Lennon was?”
“Yes, I do.” The trooper’s shoulders sagged. “This could be trouble,” he added emptily.
“Our mutual friend never got over it,” Winder said. “The other night, he asked me about the Dakota.”
“Wait a minute.” Carrie Lanier made a time-out signal with her hands. “You guys aren’t serious.”
Gloomily Jim Tile stirred the ice in his tea. “The man gets his mind set on things. And these days, I’ve been noticing he doesn’t handle stress all that well.”
Joe Winder said, “Christ, it was only an airplane. It’s gone now, he’ll calm down.”
“Let’s hope.” The trooper called for the check.
Carrie looked sadly at Winder. “And here I thought you were bonkers,” she said.
Agent Billy Hawkins told Molly McNamara that the house was simply beautiful. Old-time Florida, you don’t see pine floors like this anymore. Dade County pine.
Molly said, “I’ve got carpenter ants in the attic. All this wet weather’s got ’em riled.”
“You’d better get that seen to, and soon. They can be murder on the beams.”
“Yes, I know. How about some more lemonade?”
“No, thank you,” said Agent Hawkins. “We really need to talk about this telephone call.”
Molly began to rock slowly. “I’m completely stumped. As I told you before, I don’t know a living soul in Queens.”
Hawkins held a notebook on his lap, a blue Flair pen in his right hand. He said, “Salvatore Delicato is an associate of the John Gotti crime family.”
“Goodness!”
Molly exclaimed.
“Prior arrests for racketeering, extortion and income-tax evasion. The phone call to his number was made from here. It lasted less than a minute.”
“There must be some mistake. Did you check with Southern Bell?”
“Miss McNamara,” Hawkins said, “can we please cut the crap.”
Molly’s grandmotherly expression turned glacial. “Watch your language, young man.”
Flushing slightly, the agent continued: “Have you ever met a Jimmy Nardoni, otherwise known as Jimmy Noodles? Or a man named Gino Ricci, otherwise known as Gino The Blade?”
“Such colorful names,” Molly remarked. “No, I’ve never heard of them. Do you have my telephone bugged, Agent Hawkins?”
He resisted the impulse to tell her that Sal Delicato’s telephone was tapped by a squadron of eavesdroppers—not only the FBI, but the New York State Police, the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration, the Tri-State Task Force on Organized Crime and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. The New York Telephone box on the utility pole behind The Salamander’s butcher shop sprouted so many extra wires, it looked like a pigeon’s nest.
“Let me give you a scenario,” Agent Hawkins said to Molly. “A man used your phone to call Sal Delicato for the purpose of revealing the whereabouts of a federally protected witness now living in Monroe County, Florida.”
“That’s outlandish,” Molly said. “Who is this federal witness?”
“I imagine you already know.” Hawkins jotted something in the notebook. “The man who made the phone call, we believe, was Buddy Michael Schwartz. I showed you his photograph the last time we visited. You said he looked familiar.”
“I vaguely remember.”
“He has other names,” Hawkins said. “As I told you before, Schwartz is wanted in connection with the animal theft from the Amazing Kingdom.”
“Wanted?”
“For questioning,” the agent said. “Anyway, we believe the events are connected.” The ominous wiretap conversation had elevated the vole investigation from zero-priority to high-priority. Billy Hawkins had been yanked off a bank-robbery case and ordered to find out why anyone would be setting up Francis X. Kingsbury, aka Frankie King. The Justice Department had pretty much forgotten about Frankie The Ferret until the phone call to Sal Delicato. The renewed interest in Washington was not a concern for Frankie’s well-being so much as fear of a potential publicity nightmare; the murder of a protected government informant would not enhance the reputation of the Witness Relocation Program. It could, in fact, have a profoundly discouraging effect on other snitches. Agent Hawkins was told to track down Buddy Michael Schwartz and then call for backup.