by Carl Hiassen
"This is the place," Viceroy Wilson announced.
Great, thought Jesus Bernal. He wished Wiley would just let him alone with the typewriter and plastique.
Wilson parked the car in front of a two-story office building on Biscayne Boulevard at Seventy-ninth. A sign out front said: "Greater Miami Orange Bowl Committee."
"Comb your hair," Wilson grumbled.
"Shut up."
"You look like a damn Marielito."
"And you look like my father's yard man."
The lady at the reception desk didn't like the looks of either of them. "Yes?" she said with a polite Southern lilt unmistakable in its derision.
"We're here about the advertisement," Viceroy Wilson explained, shedding his Carreras.
"Yes?"
"The ad for security guards," Jesus Bernal said.
"Security guards," Wilson said, "for the Orange Bowl Parade."
"I see," said the Southern lady, warily handing each of them a job application. "And you both have some experience?"
"Do we ever," said Viceroy Wilson, smiling his touchdown smile.
When Brian Keyes awoke, the first thing he noticed was a woman on top of him in the hospital bed. Her blond head lay on his shoulder, and she seemed to be sleeping. Keyes strained to get a glimpse of her face, but every little movement brought a fresh jolt of pain.
The woman weighed heavily on his chest; his ribs still ached from the surgery. Keyes stared down at the soft hair and sniffed for fragrant clues; it wasn't easy, especially with the tube up his nose.
"Jenna?" he rasped.
The woman on his chest stirred and gave a little hum of a reply.
"Jenna, that you?"
She looked up with a sleepy-eyed hello.
"You sound just like George Burns. Want some water?"
Keyes nodded. He let out a sigh when Jenna climbed out of bed.
"Where'd you get the nurse's uniform?"
"You like it?" She hitched up the hem. "Check out the white stockings."
Keyes sipped at the cold water; his throat was a furnace.
"What time is it? What day?"
"December 10, my love. Ten-thirty P.M. Way past visiting hours. That's why I had to wear this silly outfit."
"You'd make a spectacular nurse. I'm getting better by the second."
Jenna blushed. She sat at the foot of the bed. "You looked so precious when you were asleep."
Keyes shut his eyes and faked a snore.
"Now stop!" Jenna laughed. "You look precious anyway. Aw, Brian, I'm so sorry. What happened out there?"
"Skip didn't tell you?"
She looked away. "I haven't talked to him."
Keyes thought: She must think I've had brain surgery.
"What happened out there?" she asked again.
"I got knifed by one of Skip's caballeros "
"I don't believe it," Jenna said.
Pausing only for gulps of water, Keyes related the sad tale of Mrs. Kimmelman. For once Jenna seemed to focus on every word. She was curious, but unalarmed.
"That poor woman. Do you think she died?"
Keyes nodded patiently. "I'm pretty sure."
Jenna stood up and walked to the window. "The weather got muggy again," she remarked. "Three gorgeous days with a little winter, and then poof, Sauna City. My folks already had three feet of snow."
"Jenna?"
When she turned to face him, her eyes were moist. She was trying to keep it inside, trying to recoup like the magnificent actress she was.
"I'm s-s-so sorry," she cried. "I didn't know you'd get hurt."
Keyes held out his hand. "I'm all right. C'mere."
She climbed back into bed, sobbing on his shoulder. At first the pain was murderous, but Jenna's perfume was better than morphine. Keyes wondered what he'd say if a real nurse walked in.
Jenna sniffed, "How's Skip?"
"Skip's a little crazy, Jenna."
"Of course he is."
"Slightly crazier than usual," Keyes said. "He's killing off tourists."
"I figured it'd be something like that. But it's not really murder, is it? I mean murderin the criminal way."
"Jenna, he fed an old lady to a crocodile!"
"He sent me a Mailgram," she said.
"A Mailgram?"
"It said: 'Dear Jenna, burn all my Rolodex cards at once. Love, Skip.' "
Keyes asked, "Did you do it? Did you burn the Rolodex?"
"Of course not," Jenna said, as if the suggestion were preposterous. "The message obviously is in code, which I haven't yet figured out. Besides, he keeps the Rolodex inside that darned coffin, which gives me the creeps."
Keyes grimaced, not from pain.
"Look at all these tubes," Jenna said. "There's one in your chest and one up your nose and another stuck in your arm. What's in that bottle?"
"Glucose. Tomorrow I'm back on solids and in three days I'll be out of here. Jenna, where's Skip now?"
"I've no idea."
"You've got to find him. He's killed four people."
"Not personally he hasn't." Jenna pulled back the sheet. "Let me see your stitches."
Keyes turned to one side and lifted his right arm.
"Oh, boy," said Jenna, whistling.
"Nasty, huh?"
"Looks like a railroad track." She traced the wound with a finger, light as a feather. Keyes shivered pleasurably.
"Did the knife hit your lung? Or was it a knife?" Jenna asked.
"Nicked it," Keyes said.
"Ouch," Jenna whispered. She stroked his forehead and smiled. "How do you feel? I mean really"
Keyes flushed. He knew what she meant. Really.
"Woozy," he said, thinking: Something extraordinary is happening here; maybe Wiley's under the bed.
"Too woozy? What if I took this one away ... would you be all right? Could you breathe?"
"Well, let's find out," Keyes said. Of course she couldn't be serious. Not here.He removed the oxygen tube and took three breaths.
"Okay?" Jenna asked.
Keyes nodded; it was pain he could live with.
Jenna slid out of bed and unbuttoned her starched nurse's uniform. Suddenly she was standing there in bra and panties and white hospital hose. She had a deliciously naughty look on her face. Keyes didn't think he'd seen that particular look before.
"I think we should make love," Jenna announced.
Keyes was stupefied. Considering what had happened the last few days, maybe he was due for a miracle. Maybe this was God's way of balancing fate. Or maybe it was something else altogether. Keyes didn't care; it was bound to be his last spell of infinite pleasure until Skip Wiley was caught or killed.
"It's possible I still love you, Brian," said Jenna, slipping out of her bra. "Mind if I lock the door?"
"What about the nurses?"
"We'll be oh-so-quiet." Jenna stepped out of her panties. She looked radiant, her new tan lines providing a phenomenal lesson in contrasts. Keyes had never seen her velvet tummy so brown, or her breasts so white.
He said: "I'm a wreck. I need to shave."
Then he said: "I don't know if I can do this."
And then he decided to just shut up and let things happen, because he really couldn't be sure that this wasn't some splendid Dilaudid dream, and that Jenna wasn't just your usual breathtaking nude mirage in white hospital stockings.
She studied him from an artist's pose, arms folded, a finger on her lips. "This is going to be tricky. I guess I'd better get on top." And she did.
Smothered in delight, Keyes kissed Jenna's neck and throat and collarbone and whatever else he could get his mouth on. He half-hugged her, using the arm that wasn't attached to the intravenous tube, and played his fingers down her spine. Jenna seemed to enjoy it. She arched, then pressed down hard with her hips. Her aim was perfect.
"Have you missed me, Brian?"
"Yup." Which was all the breath he had left.
Jenna sat up, straddling him. Her eyes were liquid and, for onc
e, not so far away. She swayed gently with a hand on each bed rail, as if riding a sled.
"Am I hurting you?" she asked with one of those killer smiles. "I didn't think so."
Partly out of passion and partly to get the weight off his tortured diaphragm, Keyes pulled her down. He kissed her lightly on the mouth and right away she closed her eyes. At first she was tentative, maybe even nervous, but soon she started doing all the amazing things she used to do when they were lovers; things he'd never forgotten but never thought he'd experience again.
Lovemaking with Jenna had always been an emotional workout for Brian Keyes—shock therapy for the heart. True to form, his brain shut down the moment she pressed against him. He totally forgot where he was and why he was there. He forgot his stitches, he forgot his collapsed lung, and he forgot the tube gurgling out of his side. He forgot the nurse, who was pounding on the door. He even forgot Ida Kimmelman and the goddamn crocodile.
He forgot everything but Jenna and Wiley.
"What about Skip?" he whispered between nibbles. "I thought you were madly in love with Skip."
"Hush now," Jenna said, guiding his free hand. "And try not to kick the I.V."
Jesus Bernal finally got a chance to build another bomb, thanks to Ricky Bloodworth.
On the morning of December 12, the Miami Sunpublished its first front-page story about Las Noches de Diciembre.It was not a flawless piece of journalism but it stirred excitement at Skip Wiley's Everglades bivouac.
The lead of the story focused on the ominous El Fuegoletter discovered in Ida Kimmelman's condominium mailbox. A trusting Broward County detective had read the contents to Ricky Bloodworth (Dear Otter Creek Shuffleboard Club. Welcome to the Revolution!)and Bloodworth realized he had a hot one. He worked the phones like a boiler-room pro, pestering every cop he knew until he unearthed the fact that this Fuegoletter was the fourth of its kind. Thus the murder of B. D. "Sparky" Harper finally was linked to the disappearance of the Shriner, the abduction of the Canadian woman at the Seaquarium, and now the unsolved kidnapping of Ida Kimmelman. Of course, neither the police nor Ricky Bloodworth knew precisely what had happened to the last three victims—who could have guessed?—but it was still quite a list. Especially if you tacked on the savage stabbing of private investigator Brian Keyes.
This front-page attention thrilled Skip Wiley, and in a brief campfire ceremony he thanked his fellow radicals for their patience. "Remember ye this day!" he told them. "On this day we are born to the eyes of America. Today the Miami Sun,tomorrow USA Today!"
None of the conspirators were identified in Bloodworth's story, and Brian Keyes's description of his "Slavic" abductors was repeated as if it were an established fact. Wiley admired the yarn as a stroke of originality.
There was one significant error in Ricky Bloodworth's story which, when read aloud by Jesus Bernal, made Skip Wiley roll his eyes, Viceroy Wilson laugh out loud, and Tommy Tigertail shrug. It was a shrug Tommy saved for extremely stupid behavior by white people. Somehow Ricky Bloodworth had managed to screw up the name of Wiley's group and referred to it throughout the story as Las Nachos de Diciembre,which translates exactly as one might suppose. Skip Wiley had been in the newspaper business too long not to be tickled by this mistake, but Jesus Bernal was apoplectic. "Nachos!" he shrieked. "This is your brilliant publicity coup? We are now world-famous nachos!" With that Jesus Bernal shredded the newspaper and declared that he'd never experienced such humiliation in all his days in the underground. Skip Wiley suspected that, more than anything, Bernal resented the Mexican insinuation.
"Relax," he told Jesus. "We'll straighten this out soon enough, won't we?"
Several persons were deeply displeased to see Ricky Bloodworth's story. One was Cab Mulcahy, who sensed Skip Wiley's demented hand behind the El Fuegocaper. Mulcahy could see disaster looming. For the newspaper. For himself. For all Miami. He shriveled at the vision of a handcuffed Wiley being led up the steps of the Dade County Courthouse—wild-eyed and foamy-mouthed, bellowing one of his dark axioms. Every major paper in America would cover the extravaganza: Columnist Goes on Trial as Mass Murderer.It would be better than Manson because Skip Wiley was more coherent. Skip Wiley was a hell of a quote.
Despite his premonitions, Cab Mulcahy knew there was little he could do until he was absolutely sure.
Another person who cringed at the sight of Richard L. Bloodworth's byline was Detective Harold Keefe, who'd nearly succeeded in convincing the police hierarchy that a renegade cop had dreamed up those crazy letters. Harold Keefe had refused to speak with Bloodworth the night before and now was sorry he hadn't. Keefe could have used the opportunity to drop the dime on Al Garcia and derail all this freaky Las Nochescrap. Now it was too late, a veritable disaster. The chief was furious, I.A.D. was on red alert, and the Chamber of Commerce was handing out cyanide capsules.
As Harold Keefe studied the front page of the Miami Sun,he decided to retaliate swiftly, utilizing the police department's vast apparatus for equivocation. He would compose a public statement to put the whole Nacho case in a sober perspective. The wording would be dicey, considering the publicity, but Keefe would stick to the original platform: The murder of B. D. Harper is unrelated to the subsequent disappearance of tourists ... No evidence of foul play ... The Fuegoletters are a sick hoax perpetrated by a disgruntled policeman (for support, quote from Dr. Remond Courtney's report to the chief) ... Close by saying the whole matter remains under investigation ... an internalinvestigation. Pretty tidy, Keefe thought.
He recorded two versions of the statement, a thirty-second loop for radio and two fifteen-second sound bites for TV. The tapes were copied and the cassettes distributed to broadcast reporters in the lobby of police headquarters. Full texts of the press release (in English, Spanish, and Creole) were hand-delivered to all Miami newspapers; a studio eight-by-ten of Harold Keefe was conveniently included in the package.
Keefe' s statement was released just in time for the noon news on radio and television.
Tommy Tigertail was driving east on Alligator Alley when he heard the broadcast. He turned around and cruised back to tell Skip Wiley.
"I'll be damned, a cover-up!" Wiley exclaimed. The Indian had found him fishing near the secret campsite. Wiley was dressed in a buckskin jacket and Fila tennis shorts; he wore an Australian bush hat with a red emblem on the crown. He listened closely to Tommy Tigertail's account of the police press release, and winced at the mention of Dr. Remond Courtney.
"I wonder what happened to Brian," Wiley said irritably. "He was our ace in the hole, our smoking gun. I even gave him the briefcase—it was all the proof those moron cops would ever need."
"So what do we do?" the Indian asked.
"Strike again," advised Jesus Bernal, who had wandered out of the hammock to eavesdrop. "Strike again, and strike dramatically."
Wiley's bestubbled face cracked into a grin. "Jesus, mi hermano,do you still have some C-4?"
"Si."
"Bueno,"said Wiley, humoring him with Spanish. "Make me a bomb."
"Yes, sir!" Bernal said, scarcely concealing his rapture. "What kind of bomb?"
"A bomb that goes off when it's supposed to."
"Ciaro!Do not worry."
"Please don't blow up my car," Tommy Tiger-tail said.
Among those who had no intention of waiting for a bomb were the residents of Otter Creek Village, where the abduction of Ida Kimmelman had set off a minor panic. Newly hired security guards now patrolled the shuffleboard courts until midnight—security guards with guns! Furthermore, the Otter Creek Safety Committee declared that all condominium owners should henceforth walk their dogs en masse,for protection. This was a drastic measure that only promoted more hysteria at Otter Creek—a herd of yipping, squatting miniature poodles dragging scores of Sansabelted retirees across the landscaping. Fearful of kidnappings, some of the oldsters armed themselves with sharp umbrellas or canisters of Mace, which they often used on one another in the heat of competition for shrubs and hydran
ts. Indelible terror seized the residents when the actual text of the El Fuegoletter appeared in the newspaper; within hours forty-seven units at Otter Creek were put up for sale. Contracts on fourteen other apartments, including a penthouse with a whirlpool, were canceled. Overnight the parking lot seemed to fill with mustard-colored moving vans and station wagons with New York tags.
This was the first wave out of Florida.
It was exactly the way Skip Wiley had dreamed it.
One morning Brian Keyes looked up and saw the round, friendly face of Nell Bellamy. For a second he thought he was back on the sidewalk outside Pauly's Bar.
"Hello again."
"Hi," Keyes said.
"I read about your accident."
"It wasn't exactly an accident," Keyes said. "Why are you whispering?"
"It's a hospital. I always whisper in hospitals." Nell Bellamy looked embarrassed.
Keyes said, "It was nice of you to come."
"How are you feeling? The nurses said you had a little setback."
"Tore a few stitches the other night. One of those things." The cost of Jenna's heavenly visit; the next morning he'd felt like a gutted carp.
Nell tucked another pillow under his head. "Did you see the paper? They think it's a gang of ... maniacs."
Brian Keyes knew why Nell Bellamy had come, and it was time to tell the truth. As a reporter, he'd always tried to do these melancholy chores over the phone, never in person. On the phone you could just close your eyes and take a deep gulp, and say, "Ma'am, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but—" and then the rotten news. Your little boy got hit by a truck. Your sister was a passenger on that 727. They found your daughter's body, Mrs. Davenport. Sometimes Keyes couldn't bring himself to do it, and he'd play the line-is-busy game with his editor. Sorry, can't get a comment from the family. The line's been busy all afternoon.And then if the editor persisted, Keyes would dial his own phone number and hold the receiver away from his ear, so the busy signal would be audible.