Tourist Season (44 page)

At precisely 8:01, the kliegs lighted up in the blue NBC booth, washing co-hosts Jane Pauley and Michael Landon in an unremitting white glare.

A teleprompter mounted on brackets above the cameras began to scroll. His cheeks burnished and his New Testament curls showing spangles of sun-induced blondness, Michael Landon spoke first to America, sticking faithfully to the script:

 

The parade slowly headed north up the boulevard, past the massive gray public library and Bayfront Park, wino mecca of the eastern seaboard.

The cab of the pickup truck was oppressively stuffy under heavy layers of plaster and plastic. To keep from suffocating, Keyes held his face close to the open windshield, which also functioned as the smiling mouth of the friendly octopus. The driver of the float noticed the gun beneath Keyes's jacket, but said nothing and appeared unconcerned.

From inside the float, Keyes found it difficult to see much of anything past the prancing rear-ends of the four blue mermaids. Occasionally, when they parted, he caught a glimpse of Kara Lynn's bare shoulders on the front of the float. As for peripheral vision, he had none; the faces of the spectators were invisible to him.

To offset the racket from the Shriners' Harley Davidsons, the sperm-whale music had been cranked up to maximum volume. Keyes ranked the whales in the same melodic category as Yoko Ono and high-speed dental drills. It took every ounce of concentration to follow the chatter on the portable police radio that linked him to the command center. Each new block brought the same report: everything calm, so far.

When Kara Lynn's float reached the main grandstands, it came to a stop so that she and the other Orange Bowl finalists could wave at the VIP's and pose for the still photographers. Brian Keyes tensed as soon as he felt the Datsun brake; it was during this pause, scheduled for precisely three minutes and twenty seconds, that Keyes expected Skip Wiley to make his move, while the TV cameras settled on Kara Lynn. Forewarned, the police snipers focused their infrared scopes while the plainclothesmen slid through the cheering crowd to take preassigned positions along the curb. On cue, Burt and James led the Shriner cavalcade into an intricate figure-eight that effectively encircled the queen's float with skull-buzzing motorcycles.

But nothing happened.

Kara Lynn dutifully waved at everyone who vaguely looked important, flash bulbs popped, and the parade crawled on. The floats crossed the median at NE Fifth Street and headed south back down the boulevard, past the heart of the city's infant skyline. At Flagler Street the procession turned west, and away from the bright television lights. Instantly everyone relaxed and the floats picked up speed for the final leg. Kara Lynn quit waving; her arms were killing her. It was all she could do to smile.

At North Miami Avenue, one of the undercover cops calmly called over the radio for assistance. Some ex-Nicaraguan National Guardsmen who were picketing the U.S. immigration office now threatened to crash the parade if they did not immediately receive their green cards. A consignment of six officers responded and easily quelled the disturbance.

A block later, one of the motorcycle cops disguised as a Shriner reported sighting a heavyset black male resembling Daniel “Viceroy” Wilson, watching the parade from the steps of the county courthouse.

As the queen's float passed the building, Keyes leaned out of the octopus's mouth to see a squad of officers swarm up the marble steps like indigo ants. The search proved fruitless, however; three large black men were briefly detained, questioned, and released. They were, in order of size. a Boca Raton stockbroker, a city councilman from Cleveland, and a seven-foot Rastafarian marijuana wholesaler. None bore the slightest resemblance to Viceroy Wilson, and the motorcycle cop's radio alert was dismissed as a false alarm.

 

Al García refused to take any painkillers while he watched the parade from his hospital room in Homestead. He wanted to be fully cognizant, and he wanted his vision clear. Two young nurses asked if they could sit and watch with him, and García was delighted to have company. One of the nurses remarked that Michael Landon was the secondhandsomest man on television, next to Rick Springfield, the singer.

As the floats rolled by, García impatiently drummed the plaster cast that was glued to his left side. He worried that if trouble broke out, the TV cameras wouldn't show it; that's the way it worked at baseball games, when fans ran onto the field. Prime time was too precious to waste on misfits.

Finally the queen's float came into view, emitting a tremulous screech that García took for brake trouble, when actually it was just the whale music. One of the nurses remarked on how gorgeous Kara Lynn looked, but García wasn't paying attention. He put on his glasses and squinted at the dopey octopus's smile until he spotted Keyes, his schoolboy face bobbing in and out of the shadow. Pain and all, García had to chuckle. Poor Brian looked wretched.

At 8:55, the last marching band clanged into view playing something by Neil Diamond. The NBC cameras cut back to Jane Pauley and Michael Landon in the blue booth:

Garcia reached for the remote control and turned the channel. A show about humorous TV bloopers came on and Garcia asked the nurses for a shot of Demerol. He lay thinking about the killing of Jesus Bernal and the peaceful parade, and contemplated the possibility that the madness was really over. He felt immense relief.

Ten minutes later the phone rang, sounding five miles away. It was the chief of police.

“Hey, Al, how you feeling?”

“Pretty damn good, boss.”

“We did it, huh?”

García didn't want to quibble. “Yeah,” he said.

“Did you see the pageant?”

“Yeah, it was just great.”

“Looks like the Nachos are history, buddy.”

“Looks that way,” García said, thinking: This is the same bozo who thought
I
wrote the
Fuego
letters. But this time he just might be right. It looks like Wiley took the deep-six after all.

“What do you say we shitcan the task force?” the chief said.

“Sure.” There was no good argument against it. The parade was over, the girl was safe.

“First thing tomorrow I'll do up a release.”

“Fine, boss.”

“And, Al, on my honor: you're getting all the credit on this one. All the credit you deserve.”

For what? García wondered as he hung up. It wasn't like I shot down the goddamn chopper myself.

After the parade, Brian Keyes drove back to the Shivers house and started packing. Reed Shivers and his wife got home thirty minutes later.

“See, all that panic for nothing,” Shivers said smugly.

“I get paid to panic,” Keyes said, stuffing his clothes into a canvas athletic bag. He felt drained and empty. The end wasn't supposed to have been this easy, but Wiley's moment had come and gone—if the bastard really had been alive, Keyes thought, he would have shown up. With bells on.

“Where's Kara Lynn?” Keyes asked.

“She went to a wrap party with the other girls,” Mrs. Shivers said.

“A wrap party.”

“A little tradition in beauty pageants,” Mrs. Shivers explained. “Girls only.”

“You'd best be off,” Reed Shivers said. He was trying to light his pipe, sucking on the stem like a starving carp. “There was a lady from the Eileen Ford agency in the stands—she picked up on Kara Lynn right away. I'm expecting a call anytime.”

“Wonderful,” Keyes said. “Book a room at the Plaza.”

The Shiverses walked him to the door.

“Is your friend going to be all right?” Mrs. Shivers asked. “The Cuban policeman.”

“I think so. He's a tough guy.”

“You're a brave young man yourself,” she said. Her tone of voice made it plain that she was addressing the hired help. “Thank you for all you've done for Kara Lynn.”

“Yes,” Reed Shivers said grudgingly. He extended his golden-brown hand; a Yale man's polite but superior handshake. “Drive carefully now,” he said.

“Good night, Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver.”

They nodded blankly and shut the front door.

Keyes was standing at the trunk of the MG, squirming out of the shoulder holster, when a brown Buick pulled into the driveway and Kara Lynn got out. had changed into blue jeans and a papery white sleeveless blouse; she carried her Orange Bowl gown on a plastic hanger.

“Where you going, Marlowe?”

“Back to the other side of town.”

A female voice from the Buick shouted: “Kara, is that him?”

Kara Lynn smiled bashfully and waved her friends to leave. The Buick honked twice as it sped off.

“We had a little wine,” she said. “I told 'em about you.”

Keyes laughed. “The private eye in the octopus.”

Kara Lynn laid the gown across the hood of the sports car and glanced up at the house, checking for her parents at the window. Then she put her arms around Keyes and said, “Let's go somewhere and make love.”