ch.nativetongue-第36节

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here〃d　you　put　my　suitcase？〃
　
　In　the　mid…1970s；　Florida　elected　a　crusading　young　governor　named　Clinton　Tyree；　an　ex…football　star　and　Vietnam　War　veteran。　At　six　feet　six；　he　was　the　tallest　chief　executive　in　the　history　of　the　state。　In　all　likelihood　he　was　also　the　most　honest。　When　a　ravenous　and　politically　connected　land…development　pany　attempted　to　bribe　Clinton　Tyree；　he　tape…recorded　their　offers；　turned　the　evidence　over　to　the　FBI　and　volunteered　to　testify　at　the　trial。　By　taking　a　public　stand　against　such　omnipotent　forces；　Clinton　Tyree　became　something　of　a　folk　hero　in　the　Sunshine　State　and　beyond。　The　faint　scent　of　integrity　attracted　the　national　media；　which　roared　into　Florida　and　anointed　the　young　governor　a　star　of　the　new　political　vanguard。
　It　was；　unfortunately；　a　vanguard　of　one。　Clinton　Tyree　spoke　with　a　blistering　candor　that　terrified　his　fellow　politicians。　While　others　reveled　in　Florida's　boom　times；　Clinton　Tyree　warned　that　the　state　was　on　the　brink　of　an　environmental　cataclysm。　The　Everglades　were　drying　up；　the　coral　reefs　were　dying；　Lake　Okeechobee　was　choking　on　man…made　poisons　and　the　bluegills　were　loaded　with　mercury。　While　other　officeholders　touted　Florida　as　a　tropical　dreamland；　the　governor　called　it　a　toxic　dump　with　palm　trees。　On　a　popular　call…in　radio　show；　he　asked　visitors　to　stay　away　for　a　couple　of　years。　He　spoke　not　of　managing　the　state's　breakneck　growth；　but　of　halting　it　altogether。　This；　he　declared；　was　the　only　way　to　save　the　place。
　The　day　Clinton　Tyree　got　his　picture　on　the　cover　of　a　national　newsmagazine；　some　of　the　most　powerful　special　interests　in　Florida…bankers；　builders；　highway　contractors；　sugar　barons；　phosphate…mining　executives…congealed　in　an　informal　conspiracy　to　thwart　the　new　governor's　reforms　by　stepping　around　him；　as　if　he　were　a　small　lump　of　dogshit　on　an　otherwise　luxuriant　carpet。
　Bypassing　Clinton　Tyree　was　relatively　easy　to　do；　all　it　took　was　money。　In　a　matter　of　months；　everyone　who　could　be　promised；　intimidated　or　bought　off　was。　The　governor　found　himself　isolated　from　even　his　own　political　party；　which　had　no　stake　in　his　radical　bluster　because　it　was　alienating　all　the　big　campaign　contributors。　Save　Florida？　Why？　And　from　what？　The　support　that　Clinton　Tyree　enjoyed　among　voters　didn't　help　him　one　bit　in　the　back　rooms　of　Tallahassee；　every　bill　he　wanted　passed　got　gutted；　buried　or　rebuffed。　The　fact　that　he　was　popular　with　the　media　didn't　deter　his　enemies；　it　merely　softened　their　strategy。　Rather　than　attack　the　governor's　agenda；　they　did　something　worse…they　ignored　it。　Only　the　most　gentlemanly　words　were　publicly　spoken　about　young　Clint；　the　handsome　war　hero；　and　about　his　idealism　and　courage　to　speak　out。　Any　reporter　who　came　to　town　could　fill　two　or　three　notebooks　with　admiring　quotes…so　many　（and　so　effusive）　that　someone　new　to　the　state　might　have　assumed　that　Clinton　Tyree　had　already　died；　which　he　had；　in　a　way。
　On　the　morning　the　Florida　Cabinet　decided　to　shut　down　a　coastal　wildlife　preserve　and　sell　it　dirt　cheap　to　a　powerful　land…sales　firm；　the　lone　dissenting　vote　trudged　from　the　Capitol　Building　in　disgust　and　vanished　from　the　political　landscape　in　the　back　of　a　limousine。
　At　first　authorities　presumed　that　the　governor　was　the　victim　of　a　kidnapping　or　other　foul　play。　A　nationwide　manhunt　was　suspended　only　after　a　notarized　resignation　letter　was　analyzed　by　the　FBI　and　found　to　be　authentic。　It　was　true；　the　crazy　bastard　had　up　and　quit。
　Journalists；　authors　and　screenwriters　flocked　to　Florida　with　hopes　of　securing　exclusive　rights　to　the　renegade　governor's　story；　but　none　could　find　him。　Consequently；　nothing　was　written　that　even　bordered　on　the　truth。
　Which　was　this：　Clinton　Tyree　now　went　by　the　name　of　Skink；　and　lived　in　those　steamy　clawing　places　where　he　was　least　likely　to　be　bothered　by　human　life…forms。　For　fifteen　years　the　governor　had　been　submerged　in　an　expatriation　that　was　deliberately　remote　and　anonymous；　if　not　entirely　tranquil。
　
　Joe　Winder　wanted　to　talk　about　what　happened　in　Tallahassee。　〃I　read　all　the　stories；〃　he　said。　〃I　went　back　and　looked　up　the　microfiche。〃
　〃Then　you　know　all　there　is　to　know。〃　Skink　was　on　his　haunches；　poking　the　embers　with　a　stick。　Winder　refused　to　look　at　what　was　frying　in　the　pan。
　He　said；　〃All　this　time　and　they　never　found　you。〃
　〃They　quit　searching；〃　Skink　said。　A　hot　ash　caught　in　a　wisp　of　his　beard。　He　snuffed　it　with　two　fingers。　〃I　don't　normally　eat　soft…shell　turtle；〃　he　allowed。
　〃Me　neither；〃　said　Joe　Winder。
　〃The　flavor　makes　up　for　the　texture。〃
　〃I　bet。〃　Winder　knelt　on　the　other　side　of　the　fire。
　Out　of　the　blue　Skink　said；　〃Your　old　man　wasn't　a　bad　guy；　but　he　was　in　a　bad　business。〃
　Winder　heard　himself　agree。　〃He　never　understood　what　was　so　wrong　about　it。　Or　why　I　was　so　goddamn　mad。　He　died　not　having　a　clue。〃
　Skink　lifted　the　turtle　by　the　tail　and　stuck　a　fork　in　it。　〃Ten　more　minutes；〃　he　said；　〃at　least。〃
　It　wasn't　easy　trying　to　talk　with　him　this　way；　but　Winder　wouldn't　give　up：　〃It's　been　an　interesting　day。　In　the　space　of　two　hours　I　lost　my　job　and　my　girlfriend。〃
　〃Christ；　you　sound　like　Dobie　Gillis。〃
　〃The　job　was　shit；　I　admit。　But　I　was　hoping　Nina　would　stay　strong。　She's　one　in　a　million。〃
　〃Love；〃　said　Skink；　〃it's　just　a　kiss　away。〃
　Dejectedly；　Winder　thought：　I'm　wasting　my　time。　The　man　couldn't　care　less。　〃I　came　to　ask　about　a　plan；〃　Winder　said。　〃I've　been　racking　my　brain。〃
　〃e　on；　I　want　to　show　you　something。〃　Skink　rose　slowly　and　stretched；　and　the　blaze…orange　rainsuit　made　a　crackling　noise。　He　pulled　the　shower　cap　tight　on　his　skull　and；　in　high　steps；　marched　off　through　the　trees。　To　the　west；　the　sky　boiled　with　fierce　purple　thunderheads。
　〃Keep　it　moving；〃　Skink　advised；　over　his　shoulder。
　Joe　Winder　followed　him　to　the　same　dumpsite　where　the　corpse　of　Spearmint　Breath　had　been　hidden。　When　they　walked　past　the　junker　Cadillac；　Winder　noted　that　the　trunk　was　open；　and　empty。　He　didn't　ask　about　the　body。　He　didn't　want　to　know。
　Skink　led　him　through　a　hazardous　obstacle　course　of　discarded　household　junk…shells　of　refrigerators；　ripped　sofas；　punctured　mattresses；　crippled　Barca…loungers；　rusty　barbecue　grills；　disemboweled　air　conditioners…until　they　came　to　a　very　old　Plymouth　station　wagon；　an　immense　egg…colored　barge　with　no　wheels　and　no　windshield。　A　yellow　beach　umbrella　sprouted　like　a　giant　marigold　from　the　dashboard；　and　offered　minimal　protection　from　blowing　rain　or　the　noonday　sun。　Skink　got　in　the　car　and　ordered　Joe　Winder　to　do　the　same。
　The　Plymouth　was　full　of　books；　hundreds　of　volumes　arranged　lovingly　from　the　tailgate　to　the　front。　With　considerable　effort；　Skink　turned　pletely　in　the　front　seat；　he　propped　his　rear　end　on　the　warped　steering　wheel。　〃This　is　where　I　e　to　read；〃　he　said。　〃Believe　it　or　not；　the　dome　light　in　this　heap　still　works。〃
　Joe　Winder　ran　a　finger　along　the　spines　of　the　books；　and　found　himself　smiling　at　the　exhilarating　variety　of　writers：　Churchill；　Hesse；　Sandburg；　Steinbeck；　Camus；　Paine；　Wilde；　Vonnegut；　de　Tocqueville；　Salinger；　Garcia　Marquez；　even　Harry　Crews。
　〃I　put　a　new　battery　in　this　thing；〃　Skink　was　saying。　〃This　time　of　year　I've　got　to　run　the　AC　at　least　two；　three　hours　a　day。　To　stop　the　damn　mildew。〃
　〃So　there's　gas　in　this　car？〃　Winder　asked。
　〃Sure。〃
　〃But　no　wheels。〃
　Skink　shrugged。　〃Where　the　hell　would　I　be　driving？〃
　A　cool　stream　of　wind　rushed　through　the　open　windshield；　and　overhead　the　yellow　beach　umbrella　began　to　flap　noisily。　A　fat　drop　of　rain　splatted　on　the　hood；　followed　by　another　and　another。
　〃Damn；〃　said　Skink。　He　put　a　shoulder　to　the　door　and　launched　himself　out　of　the　station　wagon；　〃Hey；　Flack；　you　ing　or　not？〃
　The　storm　came　hard　and　they　sat　through　it；　huddled　like　Sherpas。　The　campfire　washed　out；　but　the　soft…shelled　turtle　was　cooked　to　perfection。　Skink　chewed　intently　on　its　tail　and　blinked　the　raindrops　from　his　good　eye；　the　other　one　fogged　up　like　a　broken　headlight。　Water　trickled　down　his　bronze　cheeks；　drenching　his　beard。　Lightning　cracked　so　close　they　could　smell　it…Winder　ducked；　but　Skink　showed　no　reaction；　even　when　thunder　rattled　the　coffeepot。
　He　adjusted　the　blaze　weather　suit　to　cover　the　electronic　panther　collar　on　his　neck。　〃They　say　it's　waterproof；　but　I　don't　know。〃
　Winder　could　scarcely　hear　him　over　the　drum　of　the　rain　against　the　trees。　Lightning　flashed　again；　and　reflexively　he　shut　his　eyes。
　Skink　raised　his　voice：　〃You　know　about　that　new　golf　resort？〃
　〃I　saw　where　they're　putting　it。〃
　〃No！〃　Skink　was　shouting　now。　〃You　know　who's　behind　it？　That　fucking　Kingsbury！〃
　The　wind　was　getting　worse；　if　that　was　possible。　With　his　free　hand；　Skink　wrung　out　the　tendrils　of　his　beard。　〃Goddammit；　man；　are　you　listening？　It　all　ties　together。〃
　〃What…with　Koocher's　death？〃
　〃Everything…〃　Skink　paused　for　another　white　sizzle　of　lightning。　〃Every　damn　thing。〃
　It　made　sense　to　Winder。　A　scandal　at　the　Amazing　Kingdom　would　not　only　be　bad　for　business；　it　might　jeopardize　Francis　Kingsbury's　plan