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 assumed Francis X. Kingsbury would arrive at any moment; it was his private viewing box, after all – 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 cassette 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 damn 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 bastard 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 lights – the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. The plane banked high over a confetti of humanity.

"Damn," 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 pass, 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 goddamn 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 brass 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 hell's it doing in the middle of an amusement 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 applause – they'd been expecting a scantily clad Indian princess astride a snarling wildcat.

Joe Winder tried to wave, but it hurt too much to raise his arms. Carrie didn't see him. She folded her hands across her midriff and began to sing:

"Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore

Non fed nin male ad animal viva!

Con man furtiva

Quante miserie conobbi, aiutai...."

Winder was dazed, and he was not alone; a restless murmuring swept through the stands and rippled along the promenade.

"Magnificent!" Skink said. His good eye ablaze, he clutched Winder's shoulder: "Isn't she something!"

"What is that? What's she singing?"

Skink shook him with fierce exuberance. "My God, man, it's Puccini. It's Tosca!"

"I see." It was a new wrinkle: opera.

And Carrie sang beautifully; what her voice lacked in strength it made up in a flawless liquid clarity. The aria washed sorrowfully across the Amazing Kingdom and, like a chilly rain, changed the mood of the evening.

Skink put his mouth to Winder's ear and whispered: "This takes place in the second act, where Tosca has just seen her lover tortured by the ruthless police chief and sentenced to death by a firing squad. In her failed effort to save him, Tosca herself becomes a murderess. Her song is a lamentation on life's tragic ironies."

"I'd never have guessed," Winder said.

As the float passed the Magic Mansion, Carrie sang:

"Nell ora del dolore

Perche, perche, Signore,

Perche me ne rimuneri cost?"

Skink closed his eyes and swayed. "Ah, why, dear Lord," he said. "Ah, why do you reward your servant so?"

Winder said the audience seemed fidgety and disturbed.

"Disturbed?" Skink was indignant. "They ought to be distraught. Mournful. They ought to be weeping?

"They're only tourists," Joe Winder said. "They've been waiting all afternoon to see a lion."

"Cretins."

"Oh, she knew," Winder said fondly. "She knew they wouldn't like it one bit."

Skink grinned. "Bless her heart." He began to applaud rambunctiously, "Bravo! Bravo!" His clapping and shouting caught the attention of spectators in the lower rows, who looked up toward the VIP box with curious annoyance. Carrie spotted both of them in Kingsbury's booth, and waved anxiously. Then she gathered herself and, with a deep breath, began the first verse again.

"What a trouper." Joe Winder was very proud.

Skink straightened his rain cap and said, "Go get her."

"Now?"

"Right now. It's time." Skink reached out to shake Winder's hand. "You've got about an hour," he said.