And, on the wall, a message in coral lipstick. Pedro Luz groaned and backed the wheelchair so he could read it easier. A wild rage heaved through his chest and he began to snatch items from the storage shelves and hurl them against the cinder block: nightsticks, gas masks, flashlights, handcuffs, cans of Mace, pistol grips, boxes of bullets.

Only when there was nothing left to throw did Pedro Luz stop to read the words on the wall again. Written in a loopy flamboyant script, the message said:

Good morning, Dipshit!

Just wanted you to know I'm not dead.

Have a nice day, and don't forget your Wheaties!

It was signed, "Yours truly, J. Winder."

Pedro Luz emitted a feral cry and aimed himself toward the executive gym, where he spent the next two hours alone on the bench press, purging the demons and praying for his testicles to grow back.

THIRTY

Somehow Charles Chelsea summoned the creative energy necessary for fabrication:

Golf legend Jake Harp was accidentally shot Thursday during groundbreaking ceremonies for the new Falcon Trace Golf and Country Club Resort on North Key Largo.

The incident occurred as Mr. Harp was preparing to hit a ball off what will be the first tee of the 6,970-yard championship golf course, which Mr. Harp designed himself. The golfer apparently was struck by a stray bullet from an unidentified boater, who may have been shooting at nearby sea gulls.

Mr. Harp was listed in serious but stable condition after undergoing surgery at South Miami Hospital.

"This is a tragedy for the entire golfing world, professionals and amateurs alike," said Francis X. Kingsbury, the developer of Falcon Trace, and a close personal friend of Mr. Harp.

"We're all praying for Jake to pull through," added Kingsbury, who is also the founder and chairman of the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills, the popular family theme park adjacent to the sprawling Falcon Trace project.

By mid-afternoon Thursday, police had not yet arrested any suspects in the shooting. Charles Chelsea, vice president of publicity for Falcon Trace Ltd., disputed accounts by some reporters on the scene who claimed that Mr. Harp was the victim of a deliberate sniper attack.

"There's no reason to believe that this terrible event was anything but a freak accident," Chelsea said.

Kingsbury approved the press release with a disgusted flick of his hand. He drained a third martini and asked Chelsea if he had ever before witnessed a man being shot.

"Not that I can recall, sir."

"Close up, I mean," Kingsbury said. "Dead bodies are one thing – car wrecks, heart attacks – I'm not counting those. What I mean is, bang!"

Chelsea said, "It happened so damn fast."

"Well, you know who they were aiming at? Moi, that's who. How about that!" Kingsbury pursed his lips and drummed his knuckles.

"You?" Chelsea said. "Who would try to kill you?" He instantly thought of Joe Winder.

But Kingsbury smiled drunkenly and began to hum the theme from The Godfather.

Chelsea said, "There's something you're not telling me."

"Of course there's something I'm not telling you. There's tons of shit I'm not telling you. What, I look like a total moron?"

Watching Francis Kingsbury pour another martini, Chelsea felt like seizing the bottle and guzzling himself into a Tanqueray coma. The time had come to look for another job; the fun had leaked out of this one. A malevolent force, unseen and uncontrollable, had perverted Chelsea's role from cheery town crier to conniving propagandist. Reflecting on the past weeks, he realized he should've quit on the day the blue-tongued voles were stolen, the day innocence was lost.

We are all no longer children, Chelsea thought sadly. We are potential co-defendants.

"No offense," Kingsbury was saying, "but you're just a flack. I only tell you what I've absolutely got to tell you. Which is precious damned little."

"That's the way it should be," Chelsea said lifelessly.

"Right! Loose dicks sink ships. Or whatever." Kingsbury slurped at the gin like a thirsty mutt. "Anyhow, don't worry about me. I'm taking – well, let's just say, the necessary precautions. You can be goddamn sure."

"That's wise of you."

"Meanwhile, sharpen your pencil. I ordered us more animals." Kingsbury wistfully studied his drink. "Who's the guy in the Bible, the one with the ark. Was it Moses?"

"Noah," Chelsea said. Boy, was the old man smashed.

"Yeah, Noah, that's who I feel like. Me and these fucking critters. Anyhow, we're back in the endangered-species business, saving the animals. There oughta be some publicity when they get here. You see to it."

The woman named Rachel Lark had phoned all the way from New Zealand. She said she'd done her best on such short notice, and said Kingsbury would be pleased when he saw the new attractions for the Rare Animal Pavilion. I hope so, he'd told her, because we could damn sure use some good news.

Fearing the worst, Charles Chelsea said, "What kind of animals are we talking about?"

"Cute is what I ordered. Thirty-seven hundred dollars' worth of cute." Kingsbury snorted. "Could be anything. The point is, we've got to rebound, Charlie. We got a fucking void to fill."

"Right."

"Speaking of which, we also need another golfer. In case Jake croaks, God forbid."

Chelsea recoiled at the cold-bloodedness of the assignment. "It won't look good, sir, not with what happened this morning. It's best if we stick by Jake."

"Sympathy's all fine and dandy, Charlie, but we got more than golf at stake here. We got waterfront to sell. We got patio homes. We got club memberships. Can Jake Harp – don't get me wrong – but in his present situation can Jake do promotional appearances? TV commercials? Celebrity programs? We don't even know if Jake can still breathe, much less swing a fucking five-iron."

For once Francis Kingsbury expressed himself in nearly cogent syntax. It must be excellent gin, Chelsea thought.

"I want you to call Nicklaus," Kingsbury went on. "Tell him money is no problem."

"Jack Nicklaus," the publicity man repeated numbly.

"No, Irving Nicklaus. Who the hell do you think! And if you can't get the Bear, try Palmer. And if you can't get Annie, you try Trevino. And if you can't get the Mex, try the Shark. And so on. The bigger the better, but make it quick."

Knowing it would do no good, Chelsea reminded Kingsbury that he had tried to recruit the top golfing names when he was first planning Falcon Trace, and that they'd all said no. Only Jake Harp had the stomach to work for him.

"I don't care what they said before," Kingsbury growled, "you call 'em again. Money is no problem, all right?"

"Again, I'd just like to caution you about how this might appear to people – "

"I need a hotshot golfer, Charlie. The hell do you guys call it – a media personality?" Kingsbury raised one plump fist and let it fall heavily on the desk. "I can't sell a golf resort when my star golfer's on a goddamn respirator. Don't you understand? Don't you know a goddamn thing about Florida real estate?"

They rode to the airport in edgy silence. Danny Pogue was waiting for Lou to say something. Like it was all their fault. Like the people in Queens wanted their money back.

Earlier Bud Schwartz had pulled his partner aside and said, look, they want the dough, we give it back. This is the mob, he said, and we're not playing games with the mob. But it's damned important, Bud Schwartz had said, that Lou and his Mafia people know that we didn't tip off Kingsbury. How the hell he found out about the hit, it don't matter. It wasn't us and we gotta make that clear, okay? Danny Pogue agreed wholeheartedly. Like Bud Schwartz, he didn't want to go through the rest of life having somebody else start his car every morning. Or peeking around corners, watching out for inconspicuous fat guys like Lou.