"So when you finally see one, you throw a rat in it? Is that the deal?" Danny Pogue picked at a pair of ripe pimples on the peak of his Adam's apple.

"Let's just drop it," said Bud Schwartz.

But Danny Pogue remained agitated all the way to Florida City. He told Bud Schwartz to let him off in front of the Long John Silver's.

"No way," said Bud Schwartz.

"Then I'll jump outta the goddamn truck."

Danny Pogue would damn sure try it, too, Bud thought. Jump out of the damn truck purely on principles.

Bud Schwartz said, "Hey, you don't want to do that. We've gotta go get your money."

"I'll find my own ride."

"It'll look hinky, we don't show up together."

Danny Pogue said, "I'm not riding nowhere with a guy that throws rats on little kids. Understand?"

"What if I said I was sorry," Bud Schwartz said. "I'm sorry, all right? It was a shitty thing to do. I feel terrible, Danny, honest to God. I feel like a shit."

Danny Pogue gave him a sideways look.

"I mean it," said Bud Schwartz. "You got me feeling so bad I got half a mind to cry. Swear to God, look here – my eyes are all watered up. For a second I was thinking of Bud, Jr., about what I'd do, some asshole throwed a rat or any other damn animal at my boy. Probably kill him, that's what I'd do."

As he spun through this routine, Bud Schwartz was thinking: The things I do to keep him steady.

And it seemed to work. In no time Danny Pogue said, "It's all right, Bud. Least nobody got hurt."

"That's true."

"But don't scare no more little kids, understand?"

Bud Schwartz said, "I won't, Danny. That's a promise."

Ten minutes later, stopped at a traffic light in Cutler Ridge, Danny Pogue turned in the passenger seat and said, "Hey, it just hit me."

He was grinning so wide that you could count all the spaces where teeth used to be.

"What?" said Bud Schwartz.

"I remember you told me that Bud Schwartz wasn't your real name. You said your real name was Mickey Reilly."

"Mike. Mike Reilly," said Bud Schwartz, thinking, Here we go.

"Okay, then how could you have a kid named Bud, Jr.?"

"Well – "

"If your name's Mike."

"Simple. I changed the boy's name when I changed mine."

Danny Pogue looked skeptical. Bud Schwartz said, "A boy oughta have the same name as his daddy, don't you agree?"

"So his real name was – "

"Mike, Jr. Now it's Bud, Jr."

"You say so," said Danny Pogue, grinning again, a jack-o'-lantern with volcanic acne.

"What, you don't believe me?"

"No, I don't believe you," said Danny Pogue, "but it was a damn good story. Whatever your fucking name is."

"Bud is just fine. Bud Schwartz. And let's not fight no more, we're gonna be rich."

Danny Pogue got two beers out of the Styrofoam cooler in the back of the cab. He popped one of the cans for his partner and handed it to him. "I still can't believe they're payin' us ten grand apiece to steal a boxful of rats."

"This is Miami," said Bud Schwartz. "Maybe they're voodoo rats. Or maybe they're fulla dope. I heard where they smuggle coke in French rubbers, so why not rats."

Danny Pogue lifted the box from behind the front seat and placed it carefully on his lap. He leaned down and put his ear to the lid. "Wonder how many's in there," he said.

Bud Schwartz shrugged. "Didn't ask."

The den box was eighteen inches deep, and twice the size of a briefcase. It was made of plywood, painted dark green, with small hinged doors on each end. Air holes had been drilled through the side panels; the holes were no bigger than a dime, but somehow one of the animals had managed to squeeze out. Then it had scaled the front seat and perched on Danny Pogue's headrest, where it had balanced on its hind legs and wiggled its velvety snout in the air. Laughing, Bud Schwartz had deftly snatched it by the tail and dangled it in his partner's face. Over Danny Pogue's objections, Bud Schwartz had toyed with the rodent for six or seven miles, until he'd spotted the red convertible coming the other way down the road. Then he had said, "Watch this," and had tossed the animal out the window, into the passing car.

Now Danny Pogue lifted the green box off his lap and said, "Sure don't weigh much."

Bud Schwartz chuckled. "You want a turn, is that it? Well, go ahead then, grab one."

"But I don't wanna get bit."

"You got to do it real fast, way I did. Hurry now, here comes one of them Winnebagos. I'll slow down when we go by."

Danny Pogue said, "The top of this box ain't even locked."

"So what're you waiting for?" said his partner. "Pop goes the weasel."

After the rat attack, the Whelper family rode in edgy silence until they arrived at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. They parked the red LeBaron in the Mr. Bump-a-Rump lot, Section Jellybean, and took the tram to the main gate. There they came upon a chaotic scene: police cars, an ambulance, TV trucks, news photographers. The ticket turnstiles were all blocked.

"Swell," said Terry Whelper. "Beautiful."

"Maybe they're filming a movie," his wife suggested. "Maybe it's not real."

But it was. The center of attention was a supremely tanned young man in a blue oxford shirt with a dark red club tie, loosened fashionably at the throat. Once all the TV lights were on, the man started to read from a typed sheet of paper. He said he was a spokesperson for the company.

"This is a message for all our friends and visitors to the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills," the man began. "We deeply regret the incident that disturbed today's Summerfest celebration. We are proud of our security arrangements here at the park, and proud of our safety record. Up until today, there had been – and I say this unequivocally – no serious crimes committed within our friendly gates."

In the swell of the crowd, Terry Whelper felt his wife's chin digging into his shoulder blade. "What do you suppose he's talking about?" she said.

The man in the oxford shirt continued: "We believe there was no way to anticipate, much less prevent, what happened this afternoon in the Rare Animal Pavilion."

Terry Whelper said, "This oughta be good." A large woman wearing a damp cotton blouse and a Nikkormat around her neck turned and shot him a dirty look.

The man at the TV microphones was saying, "At approximately 2.15 p.m., two men entered the compound and attacked one of the wildlife exhibits with a sledgehammer, breaking the glass. One of our park employees courageously tried to stop the intruders, but was overpowered and beaten. The two men then grabbed a box of specimens from the exhibit arena and ran. In the confusion, the suspects managed to escape from the park, apparently by mingling with ordinary tourists aboard the Jungle Jerry Amazon Boat Cruise."

Jason Whelper said, "Specimens? What kinda specimens?"

Jennifer announced, "I don't want to go on the Jungle Jerry anymore."

Terry Whelper told the children to be quiet and listen. The tanned man in the blue shirt was saying that the park employee who had so bravely tried to stop the crime was being rushed to the hospital for X-rays.

"Hey, look!" said Jason, pointing.

Somebody in an oversized polyester animal outfit was being loaded into the ambulance.

"That's Robbie Raccoon!" cried Jennifer Whelper. "He must be the one who got hurt."

All around them in the crowd, other tourist children began to whimper and sniffle at the sight of Robbie Raccoon on the stretcher. Jason swore he saw some blood on Robbie Raccoon's nose.

"No, he's going to be fine," said Gerri Whelper. "See there, he's waving at us!"

And, indeed, whoever was inside the Robbie Raccoon costume managed a weak salute to the crowd before the ambulance doors swung closed.

"It's gotta be ninety-eight degrees out here," marveled Terry Whelper. "You'd think they'd get the poor guy out of that raccoon getup."