Tourist Season (29 page)

“But there'll be cops all over the place!”

Keyes put down his coffee cup, aiming for a linen doily. “Mr. Shivers, I just want you to be aware of the risks. The risks are substantial.”

Reed Shivers looked annoyed. “Some risk. An Injun, a Cuban, and a washed-up spade ballplayer. Don't tell me a hundred well-armed policemen can't stop a bunch of losers like that!”

“Mr. Shivers, losers get lucky. If one nut can shoot the damn President in Dealey Plaza, a whole gang of nuts can sure as hell snatch your precious little Pumpkin off Biscayne Boulevard.”

“Shhhh.”

Kara Lynn Shivers stood at the French doors.

“Sugar doll! Come here and meet Mr. Keyes.”

Reed Shivers whispered: “Isn't she spectacular?”

She was. She wore tight jeans, white sneakers, and a gray Miami Hurricanes sweatshirt. Kara Lynn Shivers greeted Brian Keyes with an expert smile. It was one of the best smiles he'd seen in a long time.

“So you're my bodyguard,” she said.

“It wasn't my idea,” Keyes said.

“I can think of worse assignments,” Reed Shivers said with a locker-room wink.

Keyes said, “Kara Lynn, I'm going to tell you what I told your dad: I think you ought to drop out of the parade next week. I think you're in serious danger.”

Kara Lynn looked at her father.

“I already told him,” Shivers said. “It's out of the question.”

“Do I get a choice?”

“Of course, buttercup.”

“Then I want to hear what Mr. Keyes has to say.”

Kara Lynn Shivers was quite beautiful, which wasn't surprising; one did not get to be Orange Bowl queen by looking like a woodchuck. What did surprise Brian Keyes was the wit in Kara Lynn's gray-green eyes and the steel in her voice. He had expected a chronic case of airheadedness but found just the opposite. Kara Lynn seemed very self-assured for nineteen, and canny—light—years ahead of her old man. Still, Keyes was wary. He had stopped falling in love with beauty queens when he was twenty-six.

“One reason Sergeant Garcia asked me to keep an eye on you,” Keyes said, “is because I'm the only person who's seen the terrorists face-to-face. At least, I'm the only one still alive. They're treacherous and unpredictable. And clever—I can't overemphasize that. These guys are damn clever. Now, your father's right: there will be scores of plainclothes police all up and down the parade route. You won't see them, and neither will the folks watching on TV, but they'll be there, with guns. Let's hope Las Noches know it; then maybe they'll think twice before trying anything.”

“Dad, suppose something happens,” Kara Lynn said.

“We pay the ransom, of course. I've already called Lloyd's about a kidnap policy and arranged the very best—the same one all the top multinationals have on their executives.”

“That's not what I meant,” Kara Lynn said sharply. “Suppose there's a shoot-out during the parade, with all those little kids in the crowd. Somebody might get killed.”

“Now, darling, these police are expert marksmen.”

“Mr. Shivers,” Keyes said, “you've been watching way too much TV.”

Kara Lynn started to smile, then caught herself.

“In the first place, this gang doesn't ask for ransoms. They don't need your money,” Keyes said. “And your daughter's absolutely right about the shooting. Once it starts, somebody's going to die. As for all those cops being crack shooters, I guarantee you that half of them couldn't hit the SS Norway with a bazooka at ten paces.”

“Thank you, Mr. Keyes,” Reed Shivers said acidly, “for your reassurance.”

“I'm not paid to give pep talks.”

“Dad-” Kara Lynn said.

“Sweetie, it's the
Orange Bowl Parade.
Forty million people will be watching, including all the top talent agents in Hollywood and New York. Jane Pauley's going to be there. In person.”

Kara Lynn knew the forty-million figure was a crock.

“Dad, it's a parade, not a moon shoot.”

Reed Shivers' voice quavered. “It's the most important moment in your whole life!”

“And maybe the last,” Keyes said. “But what the hell. It'd be worth it just to see little Pumpkin's face in People magazine, right?”

“Shut up, you creep!” Pink in the face, Shivers bounced to his feet and assumed a silly combative stance. With one hand Brian Keyes shoved him back into the folds of the camel sofa.

“Don't be an asshole,” Keyes said. “This is your daughter's life we're talking about.”

Reed Shivers was so angry his body seemed to twitch. It was not an image the L. L. Bean people would have chosen for the spring catalog.

“If it's so damn dangerous,” Shivers rasped, “why won't they just cancel the parade?”

Keyes chuckled. “You know Miami better than that. Christ himself could carry the cross down Biscayne Boulevard and they'd still run the Orange Bowl Parade, right over his body.”

“Mr. Keyes,” Kara Lynn said, “can I talk to my father for a minute, alone?”

Keyes walked out to the game room, which was walled in chocolate-brown cork. It was Sunday so there was nothing but football on the wide-screen television; Keyes turned it off. He counted sixteen golfing trophies in one maple bookcase. On the bar was a framed color photograph of Reed Shivers with his arm around Bob Hope. In the picture Shivers looked drunk and Bob Hope looked taxidermied.

Keyes went to the billiard table and glumly racked up the balls. Guarding the girl had been García's idea; Keyes wasn't thrilled about it but he'd taken the job anyway. With Skip Wiley out of reach in the Bahamas there wasn't much else to do. No fresh tourist corpses had popped up and even the Trifecta Massacre had turned into a dead end, the bomber having made a clean getaway. Now it was a waiting game, and Kara Lynn was the bait.

Keyes scratched the cue ball just as she walked in. She closed the door behind her.

“Look, don't get mad, but I've decided to go ahead and be in the parade.”

“Swell,” Keyes said. “I hope your father knows probate.”

“You're really trying to scare me. Well, I'm scared, okay? I honestly am.” She really was.

“Then don't be stubborn.” Keyes propped the cue stick in a corner.

“Look,” Kara Lynn said, “if I drop out, they'll just get somebody else, one of the runners-up. Let me tell you, Mr. Keyes, some of those girls would ride in that parade no matter what. They'd
pay
to do it. So if I quit, it won't change a thing. The Nights of December will still have somebody to kidnap, or try to. It might as well be me.”

“Besides,” Keyes said, “it'll make great television.”

Kara Lynn glared at him. “You think I like this whole setup?”

“Don't you want to be a star?”

“I'd much rather be alive.” Kara Lynn shrugged. “My dad wants to see his little girl on NBC. Let him have his moment, Mr. Keyes. He says it's safe.”

“Your dad's a real piece of work.”

“I told you not to get mad.”

Keyes smiled in spite of himself. It wasn't easy, being a tough guy. “Okay, I'm not mad.”

“Good.” Kara Lynn went to the bar and fixed herself a club soda. She tossed a cold can of Coors at Keyes. He caught it one-handed.

“I've never had a bodyguard before,” she said. “How does this work?”

“Well, for the next week or so, it's just you and me, with some discreet assistance from Dade County's finest. The most important thing is that you're never alone when you're out of this house. We want the bad guys to see that you're not a sitting duck, that you've got protection—though I use the term loosely. You want to go shopping, I'll carry the groceries. You want to play tennis, I'll carry the rackets. You want to go to the beach, I'll carry the Coppertone.”

“What if I want to go on a date?”

“No dates.”

“Says who?”

“The eminent Orange Bowl Committee. They would prefer that you not go anywhere at night. I think that's a good idea.”

“Oh, just a great idea.”

“Your boyfriend can come by the house to visit. Watch TV. Play Trivial Pursuit. Smoke dope. Doesn't matter to me.”

“Can we make love?”

Keyes reddened. “If you're quiet about it,” he said. “I need my sleep.”

Kara Lynn laughed. “I'm just kidding. I don't have a boyfriend; we broke up after I won this stupid contest. Mr. Keyes—”

“It's Brian, please. I get a new gray hair every time a pretty girl calls me mister.”

“All right ... Brian, will you carry a gun?”

“Sometimes. And a nifty Dick Tracy police radio.”

“What kind of gun?” asked Kara Lynn.

“Never mind.” It was a Browning nine-millimeter. Keyes hated the damn thing. The holster bled all over his shirts.

“Can I ask you something?” she said. “I don't want to hurt your feelings, but when they told me about a bodyguard I expected somebody ...”

“A little larger?”

“Yeah. More imposing.”

“Imposing is my specialty,” Keyes said. “But you want to know why they didn't send a big gorilla cop instead of a skinny private eye.”

Kara Lynn nodded. Her eyes were just dynamite.

Keyes said, “The eminent Orange Bowl Committee felt that it would be a catastrophe, image-wise, if it became known that the Orange Bowl queen was under police protection. The eminent Orange Bowl Committee felt that the scoundrels of the press would seize upon such a nugget and blow it way out of proportion. They feared that surrounding a beauty queen with heavily armed police would create the wrong kind of publicity. Detract from their splendid program. Make people too scared to come to the parade. So the civic fathers decided to hide the cops and hire a freelance undercover baby-sitter. Me.”

“Unbelievable,” Kara Lynn said. “Those jerks.”

“I know you'd feel safer with Clint Eastwood,” Keyes said. “So would I.”

“You'll do fine.”

“Your dad doesn't like me.”

“But I do,” Kara Lynn said, “and I'm the queen, remember? When do you start?”

“My stuff's in the car.”

“The gun, too?”

“Would you forget about the gun!”

“As long as you don't forget whose adorable little ass is on the line here.” Kara Lynn patted her blue-jeaned rump. “Mine! I know you're no Dirty Harry, but promise me that you actually know how to use the gun, Brian. Promise me that much, please?”

 

The next day was Christmas Eve, and Skip Wiley assembled three-fourths of the Nights of December in his rented villa near Lyford Cay, on the outskirts of Nassau.

Tommy Tigertail had elected to stay deep in the Everglades, tending to bingo business, but Jesus Bernal and Viceroy Wilson had jumped at the chance to get out of South Florida, particularly since their photographs had been published on the front page of the Miami Sun. To be sure, neither picture bore much resemblance to the two men sitting on Skip Wiley's sundeck. The photograph of Jesus Bernal with a Snidely Whiplash mustache had been taken in 1977 after his arrest for illegal possession of a surface-to-air missile. He looked about fourteen years old. The picture of Viceroy Wilson was no better; it actually had been clipped from an old Miami Dolphins yearbook. Wilson was decked out in his aqua jersey and shoulder pads, pretending to stiff-arm an invisible tackler. He was wearing the same phony scowl that all the bubblegum companies want football players to wear in their pictures; Viceroy Wilson's real scowl was much more effective.

No photograph of the Indian had appeared in the Miami media because no photograph was known to exist.

Skip Wiley didn't seem too concerned about the mug shots as he cracked jokes and handed out cold Heinekens to his visitors.

Viceroy Wilson peered over the rims of his sunglasses. “How come the papers don't mention your name?” he asked Wiley.

“Because Mr. Brian Keyes apparently is covering up for me. Don't ask me why, boys. A misguided act of friendship, I suppose.”

“The cops searched my mother's house this morning,” Jesus Bernal blurted angrily. “My sister's house, last night. They're all over Little Havana, like rats, those cops.”

“An occupational hazard,” Wiley said. “You should be used to it by now.”

“But they broke down her door!” Bernal cried. “Fucking animals. This guy García, he's going to pay. ‘Scum of the earth,' he called us. It was in the papers.
Scum of the earth!
Cubans know how to deal with traitors like that.”

“Here we go again,” Viceroy Wilson said. “The Masked Avenger.”

“You shut up!”

Wilson laughed and attacked a plate of johnnycake.

“Go easy on the bread,” Wiley said. “Remember, you've got to drop ten pounds this week.”

Viceroy Wilson shoveled a thick slice into his cheeks. “And who the fuck are you,” he said, spitting crumbs, “Don Shula?”

“Aren't we testy this morning? You boys must have had a bumpy flight.” Wiley festively stacked the empty green beer bottles. “I know just the thing to cheer you up. Jenna's doing a plum pudding!”

“Count me in,” said Viceroy Wilson.

“And I think there might be a little something for both of you under the Christmas tree.”

“No shit?” Jesus Bernal said brightly. “Well, God bless Las Noches de Diciembre, each and every one.”

But the Nights of December never got to open their gifts. Hitting the newsstands of Nassau that afternoon was the Miami Sun, featuring Skip Wiley's doctored Christmas column. Within thirty minutes the prime minister himself called an emergency cabinet meeting and declared that the story about the fisherman Rollie Artis was “an insult to the sovereignty and self-respect of the Bahamas.” The minister of home affairs immediately drafted a deportation order, to which each cabinet member affixed his signature. At approximately six P.M., just as Jenna's plum pudding ignited, six uniformed Bahamian immigration officers burst into Wiley's palatial manor house and ordered him out of the commonwealth forever. No amount of proffered cash or traveler's checks would change their minds.