Tourist Season

by Carl Hiassen

  Seconds later the King of Siam appeared alone, holding Davidson's cordless microphone.

  The crowd seemed greatly confused about whether this was part of the official program; half of them clapped and half murmured.

  Skip Wiley beamed up at the stands and said, "Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste."

  Brian Keyes had extricated himself from the card-flashers and was bounding down the stadium, four steps at a time, when he heard it.

  Skip Wiley shouted to the heavens: ''Been around for long, long years. Stolen many a man's soul and faith."

  Swell, Keyes said to himself, he's doing the Stones.

  From the crest of the queen's float, Kara Lynn Shivers stopped waving at the crippled Cub Scouts in Section Q and turned to see what was going on. She did not recall "Sympathy for the Devil" being listed in the Orange Bowl music program. Nor did she recognize the bald performer in the gold Oriental waistcoat.

  "Pleased to meet you," Wiley sang, "hope you guess my name ... "

  In the NBC trailer the assistant producer barked into his mike: "Keep two cameras on that asshole!" Which was the prevailing sentiment among his forty-one million viewers.

  Skip Wiley's performance was queer enough to draw almost everyone's attention away from Viceroy Wilson—everyone except the Shriners. Reacting swiftly, Burt and James led the motorcycle squadron across the east zone to intercept the hulking ex-fullback. It was the ultimate test of Viceroy's reborn skill, zigging and juking through the stolid heart of the Evanston Shrine; stiff-arming fenders where necessary; using his All-Pro shoulder to knock the cyclists off balance; an elbow to the fez, a fist to the throat (in the old days, fifteen yards and loss of down). With each collision Viceroy Wilson gave a contented growl. Thirty-one Z-right.This was the only part he'd ever missed, the purity of contact. Galvanized by adrenaline, he rejoiced in the shining justice of his run—the abused black hero outwitting, outflanking, outmuscling the whitest of the white establishment, impotent against his inevitable assault on precious honky womanhood. In Wilson's wake the bruised Shriners squirmed in the slop, pinned beneath their spangled Harleys; defeated, Viceroy mused, by their own gaudy materialism. And all this played out with splendid irony in the theater of his past heroics.

  With the pursuers in chaos, all that stood between Viceroy Wilson and the Orange Bowl queen was the United States Marine Corps Honor Guard, whose members had no intention of breaking formation or soiling their dress blues. Wilson threaded them effortlessly and bounded onto the mermaid float.

  "Oh shit," said Kara Lynn Shivers.

  "Come on, girl," Viceroy Wilson said, catching his wind.

  "Where we going?" Kara Lynn asked.

  "Into history."

  The tuna-blue mermaids shrieked as Wilson slung the queen over his shoulder and sprinted back upfield.

  At that second the Seminole airboat shot off the Everglades float, splintering plywood, disemboweling the stuffed deer, leveling the chickee; the aviation engine expelling a suffocating contrail of rain and kerosene fumes over the stands. The airboat's aluminum hull pancaked on the slick football turf and hydroplaned; it was perfect, the Indian thought, gaining speed—you couldn't ask for a better surface.

  Brian Keyes had finally reached the ground level and was vaulting the fence when he found the cops he'd been looking for. Five of Miami's finest. Dogs, nightsticks, the works. Keyes protested at the top of his lungs but they pinned him to the fence anyway, and there, stuck like a moth, he watched the whole terrible scene unfold—the airboat wheeling circles; Viceroy running with Kara Lynn slung over his shoulder; Skip crooning at the microphone.

  On the field Burt and James had righted their bikes and resumed the chase. The key element now was speed, not agility: dodging a Harley Davidson was one thing, outrunning it was impossible. Viceroy Wilson had no illusion about this: he was counting heavily on the Indian.

  Tommy Tigertail was a wizard with the air-boat. He cut the field in half and slid the howling craft between Wilson and the frowning white riders in purple hats. The Indian spun the boat on a dime, throwing a sheet of rain and loose sod into the teeth of the Shriners. James lost control and went down in a deep skid, chewing a trench from the Notre Dame forty-yard line to the Nebraska thirty-five. He did not get up. Burt alertly veered from the airboat's backwash and, to avoid the flying muck, crouched behind his customized Plexiglas windshield.

  The airboat bounded up alongside Viceroy Wilson and coasted to a stop. Wilson heaved Kara Lynn Shivers onto the deck as if she were a sandbag. By now the stadium crowd had figured out that this was not part of the show and started to scream witlessly. The Orange Bowl chairman was on his feet, yelling for the cops, while Sparky Harper's Chamber of Commerce successor frantically tried to sabotage the cables on one of NEC's portable Minicams. Meanwhile some of the real Notre Dame football players ambled onto the field to watch the commotion; Tommy Tigertail feared that they might soon get chivalrous notions.

  "Hurry," he said to Viceroy Wilson.

  Wilson had one foot in the airboat when Burt's Harley buzzed him like a fat chrome bee. Viceroy looked down to discover that his right leg—his bad leg—was stuck fast in a Shriner death hug. With his other leg Wilson kicked and bucked like a buted-up racehorse. The motorcycle fell from under Viceroy's attacker but somehow Burt kept his balance and his grip, and wound up on his feet. Wilson thought: This guy would have made a helluva nose tackle.

  "Let the girl go!" Burt commanded.

  "Get in," Tommy Tigertail said to Wilson.

  "I can't shake loose!"

  The pain in Viceroy's knee—famously mangled, prematurely arthritic, now barely held together with pins and screws—was insufferable, worse than anything he remembered from the old days.

  "Hurry!" said the Indian. He jiggled the stick and the airboat jerked into gear. They were on a drier patch of the field so the boat moved forward in balky fits. Tommy was aching to throttle up to top speed; through the cutting rain he had spotted a phalanx of helmeted police advancing from the north sidelines. In the bow Kara Lynn sat up, shivering in the deluge.

  "Let her go!" Burt bellowed, tugging and twisting Wilson's leg until number thirty-one clung to the hull by only the tips of his fingers. A deep-bone pain began to rake Viceroy's mind and seep his resolve. He suddenly felt old and tired, and realized he'd spent all his stamina on that glorious run.

  The Indian decided it was time to go—the police were trotting now, yellow-fanged K-9 dogs at their heels. Tommy hopped off the driver's platform, grabbed Viceroy Wilson by the wrists, and yanked with all his strength. Burt lost his grip and fell backward, the purple fez tumbling off. Wilson landed in the boat with a grunt.

  Kara Lynn tried to scrabble out, but the airboat was already moving too fast. She huddled with her legs to her chest, hands pressed to her ears; the thundering yowl of the engine was a new source of pain.

  She saw the sturdy Shriner running alongside the airboat, his sequined vest flapping. He kept shouting for Tommy to stop.

  He had a small brown pistol in one hand.

  Viceroy Wilson rose to the prow, breadloaf arms swaying at his sides, keeping steady but favoring his right leg. He tore off the Notre Dame helmet and hurled it vainly at the dogged Shriner.

  Viceroy's bare mahogany head glistened in the rain; the stadium lights twinkled in the ebony panes of his sunglasses. He scowled imperiously at Burt and raised his right fist in a salute that was at least traditional, if not trite.

  "Down!" the Indian shouted. The airboat was hurtling straight for one of the goalposts—Tommy would have to make an amazing turn. "Viceroy, get down!"

  Kara Lynn saw a rosy flash at the muzzle of Burt's pistol, but heard no shot.

  When she turned, Viceroy Wilson was gone.

  With a grimace Tommy Tigertail spun the airboat in a perilous fishtailing arc. It slid sideways against the padded goalpost and bounced off. The Marching Cornhusker majorettes dropped their batons and broke rank, leaving Tommy a
clear path to escape. With Kara Lynn crouched fearfully in the bow, the airboat skimmed out of the stadium through the east gate. A getaway tractor-trailer rig had been parked on Seventh Street but the Indian knew he wouldn't need it; the swales were ankle-deep in rainwater and the airboat glided on mirrors all the way to the Miami River.

  Viceroy Wilson lay dead in the east end zone. From the Goodyear blimp it appeared that he was splayed directly over the F in "Fighting Irish," which had been painted in tall gold letters across the turf.

  A babbling congress of cops, orange blazers, drunken fans, and battered Shriners had surrounded the Super Bowl hero. Brian Keyes was there, too, kneeling down and speaking urgently into Viceroy Wilson's ear, but Viceroy Wilson was answering no questions. He lay face up, his lips curled in a poster-perfect radical snarl. His right hand was so obdurately clenched into a fist that two veteran morticians would later be unable to pry it open. Centered between the three and the one of the kelly-green football jersey was a single bullet hole, which was the object of much squeamish finger pointing.

  "I'm telling ya," the Notre Dame coach was saying, "he's notone of ours."

  Outside the Orange Bowl, on Fourteenth Avenue, the King of Siam flagged a taxi.

  Keyes made it from the stadium to Jenna's house in twenty minutes.

  "Hey, there," she said, opening the screen door. She was wearing a baggy sweatshirt with nothing underneath.

  Keyes went into the living room. The coffin was padlocked.

  "Open it," he said.

  "But I don't have a key," Jenna said. "What's the matter—he's alive, isn't he?"

  "Surprise, surprise."

  "I told you!" she exclaimed.

  "Put on some goddamn clothes."

  She nodded and went to the bedroom.

  "Do you have a hammer?" Keyes called.

  "In the garage."

  He found a sledge and carried it back to the living room. Jenna cleared the vase and magazines off the macabre coffee table. She was wearing tan hiking shorts and a navy long-sleeved pullover. She had also put on a bra and some running shoes.

  "Look out," Keyes said. He pounded the padlock three times before the hasp snapped.

  Inside the cheap coffin, Skip Wiley's detritus included yellowed newspaper clippings, old notebooks, mildewed paperbacks, library files purloined from the Sun'smorgue. Keyes sifted through everything in search of a single fresh clue. The best he could do was a sales receipt from a Fort Lauderdale marine dealer.

  "Skip bought a boat last week," Keyes said. "Twenty-one-foot Mako. Eighteen-five, cash. Any idea why?"

  "Nuh-uh."

  "When's the last time he was here?"

  "I'm not sure," Jenna replied.

  Keyes grabbed her by the arms and shook hard. He frightened her, which was what he wanted. He wanted her off balance.

  Jenna didn't know how to react, she'd never seen Brian this way. His eyes were dry and contemptuous, and his voice was that of an intruder.

  "When was Skip here?" he repeated.

  "A week ago, I think. No, last Friday."

  "What did he do?"

  "He spent half the day reading the paper," Jenna said. "That much I remember."

  "Really?"

  "Okay, let me think." She took a deep theatrical breath and put her hands in her pockets. "Okay, he was clipping some stuff from the newspaper—that, I remember. And he was playing his music. Steppenwolf, real loud ... I made him turn it down. Then we grilled some bursters with mushrooms, and the Indian man came over and they left. That's what I remember."

  "He didn't say a word about the Nights of December?"

  "No."

  "And you didn't ask?"

  "No," Jenna said. "I knew better. He was really wired, Brian. He was in no mood for questions."

  "You're useless, you know that?"

  "Brian!"

  "Where's the garbage?"

  "Out on the curb." Jenna started sniffling; it sounded possibly authentic.

  Keyes walked to the street and hauled the ten-gallon bag back into the house. He used a car key to gash it open.

  "What're you doing now?" Jenna asked.

  "Looking for Wheaties boxtops. Didn't you hear?—there's a big sweepstakes."

  He kicked through guava rinds, putrid cottage cheese, eggshells, tea bags, melon husks, coffee grounds, yogurt cartons, chicken bones and root-beer cans. The newspapers were at the very bottom, soggy and rancid-smelling. Keyes used the toe of his shoe to search for the front page from Friday, December 28. When he found it, he motioned Jenna over. She made a face as she tiptoed through the rank mush.

  "This is the one he was clipping?" Keyes asked.

  "Right."

  Keyes got on his knees and went through the newspaper, page by sodden page. Jenna backed away and sat on the floor. Pouting would be a waste of energy; Brian scarcely even noticed she was in the room.

  He found Skip Wiley's scissor holes in the real-estate section. A long article had been clipped from the bottom of the first page, and a large display advertisement had been cut out of Page F-17.

  Keyes held up the shredded newsprint for Jenna to see; she shrugged and shook her head. "Stay here," he said. "I need to use your phone."

  Three minutes later he was back. He took her by the hand and said, "Let's go, we're running out of time." Keyes had called a librarian at the Sun.Now he knew what Wiley had clipped out. He knew everything.

  "What about this mess?" Jenna complained.

  "This is nothing," Keyes said, yanking her out the front door. "This is a picnic."

  They arrived at the Virginia Key marina within minutes of one another, Skip Wiley by car, the Indian by airboat. The Indian's round straw hat had blown off during the ride and his wet black hair was windswept behind his ears. Wiley had changed to a flannel shirt, painter's trousers, and a blue Atlanta Braves baseball cap.

  The Mako outboard had been gassed up and tied to a piling. The marina was dark and, once Tommy stopped the airboat, silent. He carefully lifted Kara Lynn into the outboard; she was limp as a rag and her eyes were closed. Her blond hair hung in a stringy mop across half of her face.

  "I gave her something to drink," the Indian said, hopping out. "She'll sleep for a time."

  "Perfect," Wiley said. "Look, Tom, I'm damn sorry about Viceroy."

  "It was my fault."

  "Like hell. All he had to do was duck down, but the big black jackass decides to pull a Huey Newton. He really disappointed me, him and his Black Power bullshit—it wasn't the time or place for it, but the sonofabitch couldn't resist. A regular moonchild of the sixties."

  Tommy Tigertail's eyes dulled with grief. "I'll miss him," he said.

  "Me too, pal."

  "I found these in the airboat." Tommy held up Viceroy Wilson's cherished sunglasses.

  "Here," Wiley said. He fitted the glitzy Carreras onto the Indian's downcast face. "Hey, right out of GQ!"

  "Where's that?" Tommy asked. With the glasses he looked like a Tijuana hit-man.

  A pair of pelicans waddled up the dock to see if the two men were generous anglers. The Indian smiled at the goofy-looking birds and said. "Sorry, guys, no fish."

  A red pickup truck with oversized tires pulled into the lot. The driver turned the headlights off and sat with the engine running.

  Wiley worriedly glanced over his shoulder.

  "It's all right," Tommy said. "That's my ride."

  "Where you off to?"

  "I've got a skiff waiting at Flamingo, down in the back country. There's an old chickee up the Shark River, nobody knows about it. The last few weeks I've had it stocked with supplies—plenty to last me forever." Tommy Tigertail had stored enough for two men. Now there would be only one.

  "You've been so damn generous," Wiley said. "I wish you could stay and watch the fun."

  "If I remained here," Tommy said, "I'd bring nothing but pain to my people. The police would never leave them alone. It's better to go far away, where I can't be found."

  "I'm rea
lly sorry," Wiley said.

  "Why?" The Indian wore a look of utter serenity. In a voice that carried a note of private triumph he said, "Don't you see? This way I will not die in prison." That much he owed his ancestors.

  "If you ever get down to Haiti," Wiley said, "look me up in the phone book. Under E for Exile."

  "Stay out of trouble," Tommy Tigertail advised. "Stay free."

  Wiley scratched his neck and grinned. "We pulled some outstanding shit, didn't we?"

  "Yes," Tommy said. "Outstanding." He shook Wiley's hand and gave him the red kerchief from around his neck. "Good-bye, Skip."

  " 'Bye, Tom."

  The Indian walked briskly to the pickup truck. An ancient Seminole with thin gray hair and a walnut face sat behind the wheel.

  "Let's go, Uncle Billie," Tommy said.

  They could see Skip Wiley toiling at the console of the sleek boat, warming the big engine. He was singing in a stentorian cannon that crashed out over the carping gulls and the slap of the waves.

  Rode a tank, held a general's rank, when the blitzkrieg raged and the bodies stank ...

  "Who is the strange one with the beard?" the old Seminole wanted to know.

  "With any luck," Tommy Tigertail said affectionately, "the last white man I'll ever see."

  When they reached the toll booth to the Rickenbacker Causeway, Jenna sat up and asked, "Where we going?"

  "For a boat ride," Brian Keyes replied.

  "I thought we were going to the police. Don't you think that's a better idea?"

  "The goddamn marines would be a better idea, if I had that kind of time."

  Keyes knew exactly what the cops were doing—setting up a vast and worthless perimeter around the Orange Bowl. The city was howling with sirens; every squad car in Dade County was in motion. There were no helicopters up because of the bad weather—and without choppers, Keyes knew, the cops could forget about catching the Indian.

  Jenna shifted apprehensively. She said, "I think you ought to drop me off here. This whole thing is between you and Skip."

  Keyes drove faster down the causeway. Years ago—a lifetime ago—he and Jenna used to park there at night and make love under the trees, and afterward marvel at how the skyscrapers glittered off the bay. Since then, the causeway had become extremely popular with ski-mask rapists and icepick murderers, and not many unarmed couples went there to neck anymore. Jenna said, "Why don't you let me out?"