Tourist Season (21 page)

No, I'm not, Keyes said to himself.

“Is there any chance,” Mrs. Bellamy said, “of finding Teddy's body?”

“None,” said Keyes, thinking of Pavlov the crocodile.

The door opened and the two beefy Shriners came into the room. They wore business suits and mauve fez hats.

“You're a popular fellow,” Burt the Shriner said. “Lots of visitors. Mr. Mulcahy from the newspaper was here. So was Detective Keefe. Later there was a Sergeant García, kind of a rude fellow. Also some television types asking for an interview. One of those Live-Eye jobs.”

“We told them to come back another day,” said the Shriner named James, “when you were up to snuff.”

“I asked Burt and James to keep an eye on the door,” Nell Bellamy explained. “Hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all. Thank you.” Keyes knew what García and the other visitors had wanted: a firsthand account of his
noche
with
Las Noches.
Cab Mulcahy doubtlessly had figured out the Wiley connection. Keyes wondered what the old boy would do now.

“We knew it'd be like Grand Central Station up here after that newspaper article,” Burt said. “We thought you'd appreciate a little peace and quiet.” He looked at Mrs. Bellamy and said, “So what's the verdict, Nellie?”

“Mr. Keyes says the newspaper was right.”

“Slavic murderers! Wearing wigs!”

“No,” Brian Keyes said. “That part was wrong.”

“But the part about Ted being killed, that was true,” Nell told the Shriners. “They stole his bathing trunks.”

“Lord God,” Burt said, “those bastards.”

James put a meaty arm around Nell Bellamy's shoulders and she went for the Kleenex again.

Burt waited a decent interval, then asked: “What are the chances that the police will catch these people?”

“Fifty-fifty,” Keyes replied, without conviction.

“Not good enough,” James said.

“Piss poor,” Burt concurred. “Mr. Keyes, what's your timetable? Are you going to stick with this case?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. We'd like to tag along.”

“Nellie's going back to Evanston,” James said protectively. “Tonight.”

“But not us, no sir, we've got a score to settle,” Burt declared. “What about it, Mr. Keyes? We're not professionals, not like you, but we can take care of ourselves. I'm pretty good with a handgun—”

“Pretty
good!” James interjected. “Jeez.”

“And James himself has some martial-arts experience. Black belt, yellow belt, you name it. Plus a pilot's license. What about it, Mr. Keyes, think you could use some help?”

Well hell, thought Brian Keyes, why not?

“I'd be grateful,” Keyes told them.

“Good, then it's settled.”

“Just one thing.”

“Yes, Mr. Keyes?”

“About those hats. You have to wear them all the time?”

There was an awkward moment of silence, as if Keyes had breached some sacred Shriner wont. Burt and James glanced at one another, and even Nell Bellamy looked up, her face mostly hidden by a mask of pink tissue.

“It's a fez,” Burt said, touching the purple crown. “What about it?”

“Would you like one?” James offered. “Maybe without a tassel.”

“Never mind,” Keyes said. He pressed the button to ring for a nurse. It was time to check out.

 

The annual competition for Miami's Orange Bowl queen had attracted the usual chorus line of debutantes, fashion models, ex-cheerleaders, and slick sorority tarts.

Jesús Bernal, who'd spent the whole day building a bomb, was overwhelmed. As far as he was concerned, this was a dandy way to take your mind off plastique.

“You ever seen this much pussy?” he asked Viceroy Wilson.

“Sure,” Wilson said. “Dallas. Super Bowl Eight.”

Two touchdowns, three blow-jobs, and a cowgirl sandwich. God, he was such a lowlife in those days. All hard-on, no purpose. Wilson shook his head at the memory and lighted a joint.

“Not here!” Bernal snapped. “Remember, we're supposed to be security guards.”

“Well, I feel so secure I'm gonna smoke some weed.”

They stood in darkness at the rear of the Civic Center. The stage was bathed in kliegs. It was dress rehearsal and the auditorium was empty, except for a skeleton orchestra, some TV technicians, and the contestants themselves. The women milled onstage, tugging at their gumdrop-colored swimsuits and poofing their hair. The air conditioning was running full blast, and Jesús Bernal had never seen so many erect nipples in one congregation.

“The fourth one from the left,” Bernal said. “Her name is Maria.”

“No way,” said Viceroy Wilson. He really couldn't see a damn thing with the sunglasses on.

“How about the redhead? Rory Mc What's-her-face.”

“Forget it, Hay-zoos. She don't have a prayer. Freckles look rotten on TV.”

“She made it to the semifinals,” Bernal said.

“Sympathy vote. Mark my words.”

Viceroy Wilson was having as good a time as his abstemious revolutionary ethic would allow. Whenever Wilson found himself distracted by lust, he sublimated rigorously. And whenever he sublimated, he was struck by a vestigial urge to run with a football. Right now he wanted to run down the center aisle, hurdle onstage, and steamroller the emcee. The emcee had a voice that could take the paint off your car.

“They're going to fire your ass for smoking,” Bernal scolded. “You'll wreck everything.”

“Know what you need? You need about eight Quaaludes. Calm your Cuban ass right down.”

Jesús Bernal was appalled at the lack of regimentation within
Las Noches de Diciembre
. Viceroy Wilson, who personified this insubordination, wouldn't have lasted ten minutes with the First Weekend in July. Using drugs during a mission! The Cubans would have wasted him immediately.

“Any sisters make the semis?” Wilson asked.

“
Nadie
,” Jesus Bernal reported. “Seven Anglos, three Cubans.”

“God damn, that figures.”

Jesús Bernal could no longer see Viceroy Wilson's face, only a sphere of bluish smoke behind the sunglasses. Bernal knew that Wilson was worried about the Indian's Cadillac, which they'd double-parked in front of the Hyatt Regency. Bernal himself was anxious about the car, and for the same reason. The double-parking had nothing to do with it.

Skip Wiley had ordered them to interrupt their mission and stop at the Civic Center. A scouting assignment, Wiley had explained, extremely important.

Drive carefully, Wiley had added. Very carefully.

Which only reinforced Jesús Bernal's belief that Wiley was especially crazy when it came to risking other people's asses. A reputable terrorist simply would not dally in downtown Miami with a freshly assembled bomb in the trunk of his Cadillac. Bombs, like pizzas, are made for speedy delivery.

“Straighten up,” Wilson said, stubbing out the joint. “Somebody's coming.”

A man with a walkie-talkie charged up the aisle. He was the chief of security for all Orange Bowl festivities.

“What's that smell?” he demanded, looking straight at Jesus Bernal.

“No sé,”
Bernal replied.

“Caught some kids smoking dope in the back row and threw 'em out,” Wilson said. “Broke their fingers first.”

“Good work, Mr. Wilson.”

The security chief was a big Dolphins fan, so he was overjoyed to have the legendary Viceroy Wilson on his staff.

“So, you enjoying the pageant?” he chirped.

“Loving it,” Wilson said. “Who's your pick?”

“Rory McAllister. Little redhead with the nice ass. Second from the right.”

“Sí, es muy bonita,”
Jesus Bernal said.

“Tell me, my man, why don't I see any black women up on that stage?”

The security chief lost his locker-room grin and wilted back a few steps. “Gosh, I don't know. That's a stumper. Want me to ask the judges?”

“Yeah,” Viceroy Wilson said. “Do that.”

“Right away, Mr. Wilson. And, hey, good work rousting those dopers!” The security chief hurried away.

Jesus Bernal and Viceroy Wilson strolled to the foot of the stage and stared up at the beauty contestants, who were practicing the winner's walk. Back straight, boobs out, buttocks tight, big smile. To Jesus Bernal each of the women seemed six feet tall, perfect and impenetrable.

“Number five,” Wilson said in a disinterested tone. “That's your winner.”

Jesus Bernal found a program and read aloud: “Kara Lynn Shivers. Sophomore, University of Miami. Majoring in public relations. Hobbies: Swimming, mime, and French horn. Hair: blond. Eyes: hazel.”

“Height?” Wilson said.

“Five-eight.”

“She weighs one-twenty.”

“One hundred ten,” Bernal said “That's what it says here.”

“Vanity,” Wilson coughed. “The bitch is lying.”

Bernal shrugged. “Whatever you say. Is one-twenty too heavy?”

Wilson smiled, thinking of all those NFL linebackers. Somebody yelled “Cut!” and the emcee swaggered across the stage, trailing a microphone cord. He leaned over and spoke to Wilson and Bernal. “You guys are too close to the action. We got the top of your heads in that last shot.”

The emcee sounded quite annoyed. Viceroy Wilson had never seen such large bright teeth on a white person. You could tile a swimming pool with teeth like that.

Jesús Bernal stuck out his chest and tapped the badge that was pinned to the pocket of his gray security-guard uniform.

The emcee said, “Hey, I'm superimpressed, okay? Now, get away from the stage. You're making the girls nervous and you're fucking up the take.
Comprende?”

From somewhere inside Viceroy Wilson came a wet growling noise. Jesús Bernal seized him by the arm and tried to pull him away from the stage, but it was too late. Wilson reached up and grabbed one of the emcee's black nylon ankles.

“Let go, you!” the emcee cried.

“Let go, Viceroy,” Jesus Bernal pleaded.

“Aarrrummmm, rrmmmmm,” Viceroy Wilson said.

Then the emcee was a blur, the microphone flying one way, a black shoe flying the other. The emcee's blow-dried head hit the stage with a crack that carried to every corner of the acoustically perfect auditorium. A few of the beauty contestants shrieked “Oh Jerry!” and ran to the young man's aid; others just stared with pained expressions at the prone tuxedo.

The security chief sprinted down the aisle and bounded onstage. “My God, what happened here? Back off, girls, give him air. Give him air.”

Jesus Bernal glanced at Viceroy Wilson and thought: The dumb spade just ruined everything.

“The man slipped on a puddle,” Bernal told the security chief.

“Naw, it was an epileptic attack,” said Viceroy Wilson.

“Get a doctor!” the security chief hollered into his K-Mart walkie-talkie. “Somebody get a doctor.”

“An epilepsy doctor,” advised Viceroy Wilson.

Kara Lynn Shivers gracefully dropped to her knees and cradled the emcee's head. Discreetly she removed some tissue from the left cup of her bathing suit and began dabbing the emcee's forehead. The injured man gazed up at Kara Lynn's perfect sophomore breasts with a stunned but tranquil look.

“I told you she's gonna win,” Viceroy Wilson whispered. “This'll be so damn easy.”

“Let's move,” Jesús Bernal said, commando style. “We've got to find the golf course before it gets dark.”

“Hay-zoos, lemme tell you something,” Wilson said, taking his time. “If your little box of Tinker Toys goes off before we get there, just ‘member the last thing you're gonna see on this earth is my black face—and I'll be chewing on your fuckin' guts all the way to hell.”

Like all terrible golfers, Dr. Remond Courtney believed that nothing was too extravagant for his game. He wore Arnold Palmer sweaters and Tom Watson spikes, and carried a full set of Jack Nicklaus MacGregors, including a six-wood that the Golden Bear himself couldn't hit if his life depended on it.

And like all terrible golfers, Dr. Courtney preferred to play very early in the morning, embracing the myth that golf balls fly farther in cool weather. Since he had no true friends at the Palmetto Country Club, Dr. Courtney often recruited his patients to play golf with him. This worked out fine if the patients were fairly stable, but occasionally one would go completely berserk. This usually happened on the back nine, which was lousy with water hazards, and Dr. Courtney would wave the other golfers to play through while he took an hour to tranquilize his partner. Some Thursdays a round of golf for Dr. Courtney was almost as grueling as a day at work, which is why he had no qualms about writing off all his MacGregors as a hefty tax deduction.

On December 13, Dr. Remond Courtney hitched up his pretentious tweed knickers and teed off at 7:08 A.M. The foursome included one of his patients—a vastly improved schizophrenic named Mario Groppo—and two total strangers from Seattle. The strangers were engineers for Boeing, the aerospace company, and they tended to shank the ball off the tee. Predictably, Mario Groppo would hook the ball on one hole and slice the ball on the next. Nobody in the foursome could putt worth a damn.

As for Dr. Remond Courtney, his golf swing was so unusual that from a distance he appeared to be beating a snake to death. It was a very violent golf swing for a psychiatrist. He managed an eight on the first hole and still won it by two strokes. It looked like it was going to be a long morning.