Chelsea did not reply. He was watching a string of brown drool make its way down Moe Strickland's snowy beard.

"I feel like suing the sonofabitch," Moe Strickland remarked.

Chelsea said, "Don't take it personally. It's got nothing to do with you."

"I never had hepatitis. Is it some kind of dick disease? Because if it is, we're definitely suing the bastard. The boys're as clean as a whistle down there and they can sure prove it."

"Moe," said Chelsea, "please settle down."

"Does this mean we can't march in the Jubilee?"

"Not as Uncle Ely and the Elves. We'll get you some other costumes – gunslingers, how about that?"

"Oh great, midget gunslingers. No thanks." On his way out the door, Moe Strickland spit something heavy into Charles Chelsea's wastebasket.

That night, Channel 7 devoted forty seconds to the hepatitis scare, closing the piece with a sound-bite from Charles Chelsea, cool in a crisp blue oxford shirt and tortoiseshell eyeglasses. The glasses were a new touch. Not bad, thought Joe Winder, if you like the George Will look.

He was watching the news with a notebook on his lap. He called toward the kitchen: "He got the number of victims down from five to four. Plus he's planted the idea that the disease was picked up in the Caribbean, not at the Amazing Kingdom. Pretty damn slick on short notice!"

Carrie Lanier was fixing popcorn. "So they're toughing it out," she said. "Looks that way."

She came out and placed the bowl on the sofa between them. "They've got to be worried."

"I hope so." Joe Winder thanked her again for stealing the letterhead paper from the stockroom in the Publicity Department. "And for renting the fax," he added. "I'll pay you back."

"Not necessary, sir. Hey, I heard somebody shot up some rental cars on Card Sound Road." "Yeah, it was on the news."

"Did they catch the guy?"

"No," he said, "and they won't." He wondered if Skink's sniper attack was the beginning of a major offensive.

Carrie pointed at the television. "Hey, look, it's Monkey Mountain!"

A blue body bag was being carried out of the amusement park. A florid middle-aged schoolteacher, a Miss Pedrosa, was being interviewed about what happened.

She said her students thought the man was merely sleeping, not dead. The news reporter said the victim was believed to be a recent immigrant, a Latin male in his mid-thirties. A police detective at the scene of the shooting said it appeared to be a suicide. The detective's voice was nearly drowned out by the jabbering of angry baboons in a tree behind him.

Carrie said, "Well, Mr. X ought to be happy. Finally, someplace else is getting bad press."

"Strange place for a suicide," observed Joe Winder.

Carrie Lanier stuffed a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "They gave me my new costume today. You're gonna die."

"Let's see."

It was a white fishnet tank suit. Carrie put it on and struck a Madonna pose. "Isn't it awful?" she said.

Joe Winder said she looked irresistibly slutty. "The Indians aren't going to like it, though."

"I've got a headband, too. And a black wig."

"The Seminoles didn't wear fishnets; they used them on bass. By the way, are those your nipples?"

"Who else's would they be?"

"What I mean is, isn't there supposed to be something underneath?"

"A tan body stocking," Carrie said. "I must've forgot to put it on."

Winder told her not to bother. Exuberantly she positioned herself on his lap and fastened her bare legs around his waist. "Before we make love," Carrie said, "you've got to hear the song."

It was a bastardized version of the famous production number in Evita. They both burst out laughing when she did the refrain. "I can't believe it," Joe Winder said.

Carrie kept singing, "Don't Cry for Me, Osceola!" Winder buried his face in her breasts. Unconsciously he began nibbling through the fishnet suit.

"Now stop." Carrie clutched the back of his head. "I've forgotten the rest of the words."

Still gnawing, Winder said, "I feel like a shark."

"You do indeed." She pulled him even closer. "I know a little boy who forgot to shave this morning, didn't he?"

"I was busy writing." A muffled voice rising out of her cleavage.

Carrie smiled. "I know you were writing, and I'm proud of you. What's the big news at the Kingdom tomorrow – typhoid? Trichinosis?"

He lifted his head. "No more diseases. From now on, it's the heavy artillery."

She kissed him on the nose. "You're a very sick man. Why do I like you so much?"

"Because I'm full of surprises."

"Oh, like this?" Carrie grabbed him and gave a little tug. "Is this for me?"

"If you're not careful."

"Hold still," she told him.

"Aren't you going to take off that outfit?"

"What for? Look at all these convenient holes. We've just got to get you lined up."

"It's a good thing," Joe Winder said, "it doesn't have gills."

He held his breath as Carrie Lanier worked on the delicate alignment. Then she adjusted the Naugahyde sofa cushion behind his head, and braced her hands on the windowsill. The lights from the highway skipped in her eyes, until she closed them. Slowly she started rocking and said, "Tonight we're shooting for four big ones."

"Excuse me?"

"I told you, Joe, I'm a very goal-oriented person."

"I think I'm tangled."

"You're doing fine," she said.

He was still hanging on, minutes later, when Carrie stopped moving.

"What is it?"

"Joe, did you go back to the apartment tonight?" She was whispering.

"Just for a minute. I needed some clothes."

"Oh boy."

"What's the matter?"

Carrie said, "Somebody's watching us. Somebody followed you here." She lowered herself until she was flat against him, so she couldn't be seen from the window. "It's a man," she said. "He's just standing out there."

"What's he look like?"

"Very large."

"Guess I'd better do something."

"Such as?"

"I'm not exactly sure," Joe Winder said. "I need to refocus here."

"In other words, you want me to climb off."

"Well, I think the mood has been broken."

"The thing is – "

"I know. We'll need scissors." His fingers, his chin, everything was tangled in the netting.

Outside the trailer, something moved. A shadow flickering across the windowpane. Footsteps crunching on the gravel. Then a hand on the doorknob, testing the lock.

Carrie's muscles tightened. She put her lips to his ear. "Joe, are we going to die like this?"

"There are worse ways," he said.

And then the door buckled.

TWENTY-FOUR

Skink said he was sorry, and turned away. Joe Winder and Carrie Lanier scrambled to disengage, tearing the fishnet suit to strings.

"I heard noises," said Skink. "Thought there might be trouble."

The adrenaline ebbed in a cold tingle from Winder's veins. Breathlessly he said, "How'd you know I was here?"

"Followed you from the apartment."

"In what – the bookmobile?"

"I've got friends," Skink said.

While Joe Winder fastened his trousers, Carrie Lanier dived into a University of Miami football jersey. Skink turned to face them, and Carrie gamely shook his hand. She said, "I didn't catch your name."

"Jim Morrison," said Skink. "The Jim Morrison."

"No, he's not," Winder said irritably.

Carrie smiled. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Morrison." Winder considered her cordiality amazing in view of Skink's menacing appearance.

Skink said, "I suppose he told you all about me."

"No," Carrie replied. "He didn't say a word."

Skink seemed impressed by Joe Winder's discretion. To Carrie he said: "Feel free to stare."

"I am staring, Mr. Morrison. Is that a snake you're eating?"

"A mud snake, yes. Medium-rare." He took a crackling bite and moved through the trailer, turning off the television and all the lights. "A precaution," he explained, peeking out a window.