So now he also had a name and a title. He was Kong, the World’s Strongest Tattooed Giant.
To Harris Lilly, I said, “Commander, I’m going to ask you to dump me off here, then bug out and take my boat back alone. Do you think the Tampa Yacht Club will let you moor it there for the afternoon? Maybe the night?”
He looked from the jogging giant to me, then back to the giant, concerned. “Are you sure? You know, old buddy, I have just about every kind of security clearance there is. I can tag along, watch your six, and never tell a soul. Promise.”
I was pointing toward a section of seawall where I could step off as I gathered my gear back out of the forward locker. “I wish I could. I really do. But I can’t.”
As I stepped off, I told him, “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
I got the impression that the tattooed giant had seldom been surprised in his life.
He was surprised now. His eyes went wide, and he jumped a little, startled, when I jogged quietly up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Hey, Kong, I think it’s time we had a little talk.”
He liked the Everlast muscle shirts. This one was blue. He wore a belly pack and red shorts, but they didn’t seem as colorful as the fire-bright tattoos that covered his legs: dragons, snakes, and gargoyles.
I jogged alone for a few steps as he stopped, jamming hands on hips, getting himself under control before he said, sounding cheery, “Well, well, well, if it ain’t Mr. Booky-Boy. Where’s your long-haired hippie pal, Mr. Freaky Creepy?” Then he added, not the least bit cheerfully, “It is very uncool of you to track me down, buster. Very uncool. It ain’t gonna help your cause one bit.”
As he started to jog away, I reached out and put my right hand on his chest, stopping him.
He wasn’t used to that, either. Being touched. Being told what to do. His face reddened as I told him, “You’re not going anywhere. Not until we have our talk.”
Kong said, “The only place you’re goin’, Booky-Boy, is the hospital to get ya a new arm if you don’t take your paw off me right now. I done told you: I got nothing to say ’cause I don’t know nothin’. People hire me for middle-man work.”
Before I could reply, he pivoted, swatted my hand away as if it were nothing, then lunged, grabbed me beneath the arms, and lifted me without much effort until I was nose to nose with him.
My options were to go for his eyes… or maybe pop his eardrums, then go for his throat… or to let it play out and just listen.
I decided to listen.
The guy was strong.
Holding me there, nearly a foot off the ground, he told me, “I don’t want to know what business it is you got going down. Not listening is how Mr. Kong keeps his pretty ass out of trouble. Like I told you, my brain ain’t the biggest, but it do got some torque. So why don’t you just run along-and leave me alone.”
He’d just told me the only way I could involve him. If he was telling me the truth. If he wasn’t part of the deal already.
If he was lying? It wouldn’t matter anyway.
Talking fast, I said, “The guy who hired you kidnapped my son. A guy named Praxcedes Lourdes, but he’s probably going by something else. I think they’re hiding out somewhere here. Somewhere around Gibsonton, and he’s going to kill my son if I don’t find him.”
I continued before he could interrupt, “Maybe you’re being straight with me. Maybe you don’t know who you’re working for. But Lourdes knows you. Which means you probably know who he is even if you don’t realize it.”
Kong shook his head, expression pained, and dropped me to the ground. He seemed to rub at a knot behind his ear, saying, “ Kidnapping? You’re kidding.”
“No. It’s the truth. That’s who you’re helping.”
“Jesus Christ, I don’t get involved in anything heavy like that. The guy hinted around it was some kind of extortion deal. Like maybe he had naked pictures of the pretty lady or something. Or blackmail. Dope deals and bribery. That’s mostly what I do. But kidnapping someone’s kid? Jesus Christ!”
“He’s Pilar’s son and mine.”
Kong was still shaking his head, a little dazed by what he was hearing. “You just had to tell me, didn’t you? Not only that, you just cost me like ten, maybe fifteen grand. ’Cause now I got to walk. Wash my hands of the whole deal, both sides. I can’t listen to another word, because if the story gets around, I’m out of the mediator business. Which is not a good thing, asshole. Not good at all because this late in the spring, a guy like me, a guy who works carnivals, I’m not exactly rolling in cash.”
I said, “My son’s life’s on the line. So don’t expect any sympathy. I’ll pay you, if that’s the only problem. I’ll pay you what Lourdes was going to pay if you’ll help.”
Kong made a face, thinking about it, then sighed. “If I was to double-cross a client, cut a private deal, that really would screw me.”
I said, “I’ll pay you double. If you find a way to help me, I’ll pay you cash.”
The World’s Strongest Tattooed Giant said, “Double, huh?” He looked at his watch, mulling it over. “I guess, we can at least walk up the street and have a drink. We can talk her over. But kidnapping. Goddamn!”
Kong said he’d missed lunch and would have preferred to go to the Giant’s Camp Restaurant because they had such good collard greens, but a car had smashed through the place recently, and temporarily shut it down.
“The giant,” he told me, “was Big Al Tomaini. He was ’bout eight-four, a lot bigger giant than me, and his wife, Jeanie, was less than three feet tall. Nice lady. And great collards.”
Kong, I could tell, enjoyed the carney business.
Instead, we walked along U.S. 41 to the Showtown Bar amp; Grill, with painted clowns on the door, a jukebox on a cement floor inside, and lots of circus posters and murals on the walls. There were a dozen or so people inside, and I stood in Kong’s shadow while he said hello to Peti, the fire-eating midget; Chuck, the owner; and some other show people. I listened to them talk about the latest controversy: Land developers wanted the county to revoke Gibsonton’s special show-business zoning so they could put in big-ticket subdivisions and not have to worry about rubbing elbows with cotton candy wagons, Ferris wheels, and sideshow exhibits.
“That’ll be the end of us show people,” one of them said.
I heard another say in reply what sounded like, “Giz-iz-bye ciz-iz-arney tiz-iz-own…,” speaking in what seemed to be a kind of pig Latin that I couldn’t understand.
Talking their own secret language, maybe, because I was there.
Then Kong ordered a beer from Rocky the bartender, nothing for me, and I followed him to a corner table. First thing, he said, before he’d talk about anything else, he wanted to know how I’d found him.
“Coincidence, “I said. “That’s the truth. I saw a banner about Kong the Tattooed Giant, then saw you jogging. But it’s no coincidence that I think my son’s in the area. I have some pretty good sources.”
Kong was nodding. “So what I could do is, contact the guy who’s paying me, tell him you’re closing in. The boy dies, but I still get paid. What’s to stop me?”
I said, “A prison sentence. If you help Lourdes, or anyone who’s working with him, you become an accessory. If you aren’t already, legally speaking.”
Because he knew I was right, Kong said, “Shit,” the way guys say it when they’re in a corner.
Then he said, “O.K., Booky-Boy, the truth is, I don’t know who hired me. It’s a voice on the phone. The caller I.D. number’s always blocked. But, yeah, it’s probably someone who’s in on it. In on it-that’s carney talk for being part of the carnival business. ’Cause he left my first payment-two grand, cash-in my box at the Showman’s Club, our private place just across the river.”
“Was the voice familiar?”
“Never heard it before.”
“The guy I’m talking about was badly burned as a teen. Maybe terrible scars. Or always wears something to cover his face.” Looking at the posters on the wall of the Showtown Bar gave me an idea. “A clown maybe. Always in costume. He might try to pull something like that.”