These matters weighed heavily on his mind as Pedro Luz sat in the broiling sun and watched the floats rumble by. He was hoping that the sight of Annette Fury's regal bosom would buoy his mood, and was disappointed to see that she had been replaced as Princess Golden Sun. The new actress looked familiar, but Pedro Luz couldn't place the face. She was a very pretty girl, but the black wig needed some work, as did the costume buckskin culottes and a fringed halter top. Her singing was quite lovely, much better than Annette"s, but Pedro Luz would've preferred larger breasts. The lioness that shared the Seminole float was in no condition to rehearse; panting miserably in the humidity, the animal sprawled half-conscious on one side, thus thwarting the cat-straddling exit that culminated the princess's dramatic performance.
As the parade disbanded, Pedro Luz eased the wheelchair off the curb and approached the Seminole float. The pretty young singer was not to be seen; there was only the driver of the float and Dr. Kukor, the park veterinarian, who had climbed aboard to revive the heatstruck lioness. Dr. Kukor was plainly flabbergasted by the sight of Pedro Luz.
"I lost my foot in an accident," the security chief explained.
Dr. Kukor hadn't noticed the missing foot. It was the condition of Pedro Luz's face, so grossly inflated, that had generated the horror. The man looked like a blow-fish: puffed cheeks, bulging lips, teeny eyes wedged deep under a pimpled, protuberant brow.
To Pedro Luz, Dr. Kukor directed the most inane inquiry of a long and distinguished career: "Are you all right?"
"Just fine. Where's the young lady?"
Dr. Kukor pointed, and Pedro Luz spun the wheelchair to see: Princess Golden Sun stood behind him. She was zipping a black Miami Heat warm-up jacket over the halter.
Pedro Luz introduced himself and said, "I've seen you before, right?"
"It's possible," said Carrie Lanier, who recognized him instantly as the goon who shot up her double-wide, the creep she'd run over with the car. She noticed the bandaged trunk of his leg, and felt a pang of guilt. It passed quickly.
"You sing pretty nice," Pedro Luz said, "but you could use a couple three inches up top. If you get my meaning."
"Thanks for the advice."
"I know a doctor who specializes in that sort of thing. Maybe I could get you a discount."
"Actually," said Carrie, patting her chest, "I kind of like the little fellas just the way they are."
"Suit yourself." Pedro Luz scratched brutally at a raw patch on his scalp. "I'm trying to figure where I saw you before. Take off the wig for a second, okay?"
Carrie Lanier pressed her hands to her eyes and began to cry plaintive, racking sobs that attracted the concern of tourists and the other pageant performers.
Pedro Luz said, "Hey, what's the matter?"
"It's not a wig!" Carrie cried. "It's my real hair." She turned and scampered down a stairwell into The Catacombs.
"Geez, I'm sorry," said Pedro Luz, to no one. Flustered, he rolled full tilt toward the security office. Speeding downhill past the Wet Willy, he chafed his knuckles trying to brake the wheelchair. When he reached the chilled privacy of the storage room, he slammed the door and drove the bolt. In the blackness Pedro Luz probed for the string that turned on the ceiling's bare bulb; he found it and jerked hard.
The white light revealed a shocking scene. Someone had entered Pedro's sanctuary and destroyed the delicate web of sustenance. Sewing shears had snipped the intravenous tubes into worthless inch-long segments, which littered the floor like plastic rice. The same person had sliced open every one of Pedro's unused IV bags; the wheelchair rested, literally, in a pond of liquid dextrose.
But by far the worst thing to greet Pedro Luz was the desolate sight of brown pill bottles, perhaps a half-dozen, open and empty on the floor. Whoever he was, the sonofabitch had flushed Pedro's anabolic steroids down the John. The ceramic pestle with which he had so lovingly powdered his Winstrols lay shattered beneath the toilet tank.
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.