"Right away," said Chelsea, dashing off in search of air freshener.

Kingsbury gestured at the billowing tent, the murmuring onlookers, the husk of deceased behemoth. "You believe this shit?" he said to Joe Winder. "I'm a goddamn real-estate man is all. I don't know from animals."

"It's a tricky business," Winder agreed.

"Who'd believe it, I mean, looking at this thing."

It was quite a strange scene, Joe Winder had to admit. "I'm sure they can find a new whale for the show."

"This time mechanical," Kingsbury said, jabbing a finger at Orky's lifeless form. "No more real ones. Computerized, that'd be the way to go. That's how Disney would handle it, eh?"

"Either that or a hologram," said Joe Winder with a wink. "Think of all the money you'd save on whale food."

Just then Dr. Kukor, the veterinarian, tripped on something and fell down inside Orky's closet-sized stomach cavity. Two of Uncle Ely's Elves bravely charged forward to help, hoisting the doctor to his feet.

"Oh my," Kukor said, pointing. The elves ran away frantically, their huge curly-toed shoes slapping noisily on the blood-slickened asphalt.

"What?" barked Francis X. Kingsbury. "What is it?"

"I don't believe this," said the veterinarian.

Kingsbury stepped forward to see for himself and Joe Winder followed, though he was sorry he did.

"Call somebody," wheezed Dr. Kukor.

"Looks like a human," Kingsbury remarked. He turned to stare at Winder because Winder was clinging to his arm. "Don't puke on me or you're fired," said Kingsbury.

Joe Winder was trying not to pass out. The corpse wasn't in perfect condition, but you could tell who it was.

A wan and shaky Dr. Kukor stepped out of Orky's excavated carcass. "Asphyxiation," he declared numbly. "The whale choked to death."

"Well, damn," said Francis X. Kingsbury.

Joe Winder thought: Choked to death on Will Koocher. Koocher, in a mint-green golf shirt.

"Somebody call somebody," Kukor said. "This is way out of my field."

Winder reeled away from the scene. In a croaky voice he said, "That's the worst thing I ever saw."

"You?" Kingsbury laughed harshly. Three fucking tons of whale meat, talk about a nightmare."

"Yes," Joe Winder said, gasping for fresh air.

"I'm thinking South Korea or maybe the Sudan," Kingsbury was saying. "Stamp it 'Tuna,' who the hell would ever know? Those little fuckers are starving."

"What?" said Winder. "What did you say?"

"Providing I can get some goddamn ice, pronto."

Charles Chelsea decreed that there should be no mention of Dr. Will Koocher in the press release. "Stick to Orky," he advised Joe Winder. "Three hundred words max."

"You're asking me to lie."

"No, I'm asking you to omit a few superfluous details. The whale died suddenly overnight, scientists are investigating, blah, blah, blah. Oh, and be sure to include a line that Mr. Francis X. Kingsbury is shocked and saddened." Chelsea paused, put a finger to his chin. "Scratch the 'shocked,' he said. " 'Saddened' is plenty. "Shocked" makes it sound like something, I don't know, something – "

"Out of the ordinary?" said Joe Winder.

"Right. Exactly."

"Charlie, you are one sorry bucket of puss."

Chelsea steepled his hands on his chest. Then he unfolded them. Then he folded them once more and said, "Joe, this is a question of privacy, not censorship. Until Dr. Koocher's wife is officially notified, the least we can do is spare her the agony of hearing about it on the evening news."

For a moment, Winder saw two Charles Chelseas instead of one. Somewhere in the cacophonous gearbox of his brain, he heard the hiss of a petcock, blowing off steam. "Charlie," he said blankly, "the man was eaten by a fucking thirty-foot leviathan. This isn't going to remain our little secret very long."

Chelsea's brow wrinkled. "Eventually, yes, I suppose we'll have to make some sort of public statement. Seeing as it was our whale."

Joe Winder leaned forward on one elbow. "Charlie, I'm going to be honest."

"I appreciate that."

"Very soon I intend to kick the living shit out of you."

Chelsea stiffened. He shifted in his chair. "I don't know what to make of a remark like that."

Joe Winder imagined his eyeballs pulsating in the sockets, as if jolted by a hot wire.

Charles Chelsea said, "You mean, punch me? Actually punch me?"

"Repeatedly," said Winder, "until you are no longer conscious."

The publicity man's voice was plaintive, but it held no fear. "Do you know what kind of day I've had? I've dealt with two dead bodies – first the man on the bridge, and now the vole doctor. Plus I've been up to my knees in whale guts. I'm drained, Joe, physically and emotionally drained. But if it makes you feel better to beat me up, go ahead."

Joe Winder said he was a reasonable man. He said he would reconsider the beating if Charles Chelsea would show him the suicide note allegedly written by Dr. Will Koocher.

Chelsea unlocked a file drawer and took out a sheet of paper with block printing on it. "It's only a Xerox," he said, handing it to Winder, "but still it breaks your heart."

It was one of the lamest suicide notes that Joe Winder had ever seen. In large letters it said:

"TO MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY,

I SORRY BUT I CAN'T GO ON. NOW THAT MY WORKS IS OVER, SO AM I."

The name signed at the bottom was "William Bennett Koocher, PhD."

Winder stuffed the Xerox copy in his pocket and said, "This is a fake."

"I know what you're thinking, Joey, but it wasn't only the voles that got him down. There were problems at home, if you know what I mean."

"My goodness." Winder whistled. "Problems at home. I had no idea."

Chelsea continued: "And I know what else you're thinking. Why would anybody kill himself in this...extreme fashion? Jumping in a whale tank and all."

"It struck me as a bit unorthodox, yes."

"Well, me too," said Chelsea, regaining some of his starch, "until I remembered that Koocher couldn't swim a lick. More to the point, he was deathly afraid of sharks. It's not so surprising that he chose to drown himself here, indoors, rather than the ocean."

"And the green shirt?"

"Obviously he wasn't aware of Orky's, ah, problem."

Joe Winder blinked vigorously in an effort to clear his vision. He said, "The man's spine was snapped like a twig."

"I am told," said Charles Chelsea, "that it's not as bad as it appears. Very quick, and nearly painless." He took out a handkerchief and discreetly dried the palms of his hands. "Not everyone has the stomach for using a gun," he said. "Myself, I'd swallow a bottle of roach dust before I'd resort to violence. But, anyway, I was thinking: Maybe this was Koocher's way of joining the lost voles. A symbolic surrender to Nature, if you will. Sacrificing himself to the whale."

Chelsea squared the corners of the handkerchief and tucked it into a pants pocket. He looked pleased with his theory. Sagely he added, "In a sense, what happened that night in Orky's tank was a purely natural event: Dr. Koocher became part of the food chain. Who's to say he didn't plan it that way?*

Joe Winder stood up, clutching the corners of Charles Chelsea's desk. "It wasn't a suicide," he said, "and it wasn't an accident."

"Then what, Joe?"

"I believe Koocher was murdered."

"Oh, for God's sake. At the Amazing Kingdom?"

Again Winder felt the sibilant whisper from a valve letting off pressure somewhere deep inside his skull. He reached across the desk and got two crisp fistfuls of Chelsea's blue oxford shirt. "I sorry but I can't go on?"

Perplexed, Chelsea shook his head.

Joe Winder said, "The man was a PhD, Charlie. I sorry but I can't go on? Tonto might write a suicide note like that, but not Dr. Koocher."