"You need to go see this guy I fired," Kingsbury was saying. "Find out some things."

Pedro Luz asked what kind of things.

Kingsbury moved his lips around, like a camel getting ready to spit. Eventually he said, "The problem we had before? This is worse, okay. The guy I mentioned, we're talking major pain in the rectum."

"Okay."

"As long as he worked for us, we had some control. On the outside, hell, he's a major pain. I just got a feeling."

Pedro Luz gave him a thumbs-up. "Don't worry."

"Carefully," Kingsbury added. "Same as before would be excellent. Except no dead whales this time."

God, thought Pedro Luz, what a fuckup that was.

"Do I know him?" he asked Kingsbury.

"From Publicity. Joe Winder's his name."

"Oh." Pedro Luz perked up. Winder was the smartass who'd been hassling him about Dr. Koocher. The same guy he'd sent Angel and Big Paulie to teach a lesson, only something went sour and Angel ended up dead and Paulie must've took off. Next thing Pedro knows, here's this smartass Winder snooping around the animal lab in the middle of the night.

Mr. X was right about the guy. Now that he was fired, he might go hog-wild. Start talking crazy shit all over the place.

"You look inspired," Kingsbury said.

Pedro Luz smiled crookedly. "Let's just say I got some ideas."

When Molly McNamara opened her eyes, she was surprised to see Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue at her bedside.

"I thought you boys would be long gone."

"No way," said Danny Pogue. His eyes were large and intent, like a retriever's. His chin was in his hands, and he was sitting very close to the bed. He patted Molly's brow with a damp washcloth.

"Thank you," she said. "I'm very thirsty."

Danny Pogue bolted to the kitchen to get her a glass of ginger ale. Bud Schwartz took a step closer. He said, "What happened? Can you remember anything?"

"My glasses," she said, pointing to the nightstand.

"They got busted," said Bud Schwartz. "I used some Scotch tape on the nose part."

Molly McNamara put them on, and said, "Two men. Only one did the hitting."

"Why? What'd they want – money?"

Molly shook her head slowly. Danny Pogue came back with the ginger ale, and she took two small sips. "Thank you," she said. "No, they didn't want money."

Danny Pogue said, "Who?"

"The men who came. They said it was a warning."

"Oh Christ."

"It's none of your concern," said Molly.

Grimly Bud Schwartz said, "They were after the files."

"No. They never mentioned that."

Bud Schwartz was relieved; he had worried that Francis X. Kingsbury had somehow identified them, connected them to Molly and sent goons to avenge the burglary. It was an irrational fear, he knew, because even the powerful Kingsbury couldn't have done it so quickly after their blackmail visit.

Still, it was discouraging to see how they had battered Molly McNamara. These were extremely bad men, and Bud Schwartz doubted they would have allowed him and Danny Pogue to survive the encounter.

"I think we ought to get out of here," he said to Molly. "Take you back to the big house."

"That's a sensible plan," Molly agreed, "but you boys don't have to stay."

"Like hell," Danny Pogue declared. "Look at you, all busted up. You'll be needing some help."

"You got some bad bruises," agreed Bud Schwartz. "Your right knee's twisted, too, but I don't think it's broke. Plus they knocked out a couple teeth."

Molly ran her tongue around her gums and said, "I was the only one in this building who still had their own."

Danny Pogue paced with a limp. "I wanted to call an ambulance or somebody, only Bud decided we better not."

Molly said that was a smart decision, considering what the three of them had been up to lately. She removed the damp cloth from her forehead and folded it on the nightstand.

Danny Pogue wanted to know all about the attackers – how big they were, what they looked like. "I bet they was niggers," he said.

Molly raised herself off the pillow, cocked her arm and slapped him across the face. Incredulous, Danny Pogue rubbed his cheek.

She said, "Don't you ever again use that word in my presence."

"Christ, I didn't mean nothin"."

"Well, it just so happens these men were white. White Hispanic males. The one who beat me up was very large and muscular."

"My question," said Bud Schwartz, "is how they slipped past that crack security guard. What's his name, Andrews, the ace with the flashlight."

Molly said: "You won't believe it. The big one had a badge. A police badge, City of Miami."

"Wonderful," Bud Schwartz said.

"I saw it myself," Molly said. "Why do you think I even opened the door? He said they were plainclothes detectives. Once they had me down, I couldn't get to my purse."

Danny Pogue looked at his partner with the usual mix of confusion and concern. Bud Schwartz said, "It sounds like some serious shitkickers. You say they were Cubans?"

"Hispanics," Molly said.

"Did they speak American?" asked Danny Pogue.

"The big one did all the talking, and his English was quite competent. Especially his use of four-letter slang."

Danny Pogue rocked on his good leg, and slammed a fist against the wall. "I'll murder the sumbitch!"

"Sure you will," said his partner. "You're a killer and I'm the next quarterback for the Dolphins."

"I mean it, Bud. Look what he done to her."

"I see, believe me." Bud Schwartz gave Molly McNamara two Percodans and said it would help her sleep. She swallowed the pills in one gulp and thanked the burglars once again. "It's very kind of you to look after me," she said.

"Only till you're feeling better," said Bud Schwartz. "We got some business that requires our full attention."

"Of course, I understand."

"We made five grand tonight!" said Danny Pogue. Quickly he withered under his partner's glare.

"Five thousand is very good," Molly said. "Add the money I still owe you, and that's quite a handsome nest egg." She slid deeper into the sheets, and pulled the blanket to her chin.

"Get some rest," Bud Schwartz said. "We'll take you to the house in the morning."

"Yeah, get some sleep." Danny Pogue gazed at her dolorously. Bud Schwartz wondered if he was about to cry.

"Bud?" Molly spoke in a fog.

"Yeah."

"Did you boys happen to find a piece of finger on the floor?"

"No," said Bud Schwartz. "Why?"

"Would you check in the kitchen, please?"

"No problem." He wondered how the pills could mess her up so quickly. "You mean, like a human finger?" But Molly's eyes were already closed.

NINETEEN

Charles Chelsea worked feverishly all morning. By half past eleven the parade was organized. The gateway to the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills was festooned with multicolored streamers and hundreds of Mylar balloons. Cheerleaders practiced cartwheels over the turnstiles while the Tavernier High School band rehearsed the theme from Exodus. Several of the most popular animal characters – Robbie Raccoon, Petey Possum and Barney the Bison – were summoned from desultory lunch breaks in The Catacombs to greet and be photographed with the big winner. Above a hastily constructed stage, a billowy hand-painted banner welcomed "OUR FIVE-MILLIONTH SPECIAL GUEST!!!"

And there, parked in the courtyard, was a newly restored 1966 Chevrolet Corvair, one of Detroit's most venerated deathtraps. Charles Chelsea had been unable to locate a mint-condition Falcon, and the vintage Mustangs were beyond Francis Kingsbury's budget. The Corvair was Chelsea's next choice as the giveaway car because it was a genuine curiosity, and because it was cheap. The one purchased by Chelsea had been rear-ended by a dairy tanker in 1972, and the resulting explosion had wiped out a quartet of home-appliance salesmen. The rebuilt Corvair was seven inches shorter from bumper to bumper than the day it had rolled off the assembly line, but Charles Chelsea was certain no one would notice. Two extra coats of cherry paint and the Corvair shouted classic. It was exactly the sort of campy junk-mobile that some dumb Yuppie would love.