by Carl Hiaasen
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:
Hello everybody and welcome to Miami, Florida. What a night for a parade! [Cut to three-second shot of majorette with baton.] It’s a mild sixty-seven degrees here in South Florida, with a tangy sea breeze reminding us that beautiful Biscayne Bay and the Atlantic Ocean are just over my shoulder. Down below, on Biscayne Boulevard, the King Orange Jamboree is in full swing. [Cut for four-second shot of swaying palm trees and Cooley Motors float.] The theme of this year’s pageant is Tropical Tranquillity, and for the past week I’ve been enjoying just that, as you can see from my sunburn [sheepish smile]. Now I’d like to introduce my co-host for tonight’s Orange Bowl pageant, the lovely and talented Jane Pauley. [Cut to close-up Pauley, then two-shot.]
Pauley: Thanks, Michael. We have had a great stay down here, though it looks like you spent a bit more time at the beach than I did. [Landon medium smile.] There’s a lot of excitement in this town, and not just over the parade. As you know, tomorrow night the University of Nebraska Cornhuskers and the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame square off for the national college football championship in the Orange Bowl. NBC will carry that game live, and it looks like the weather’s going to be perfect. Michael, who’re you rooting for? [Cut to Landon close-up.]
Landon: I like Nebraska, Jane.
Pauley: Well, I think I’m going with Notre Dame.
Landon: Ah, still an Indiana girl.
Pauley [laughing]: You betcha. [Cut from two-camera to close-up.] On a serious note [turning to camera], if you’ve been following the news recently you probably know that this South Florida community has been struggling with a tragic and frightening crisis for the past month. A terrorist group calling itself the Nights of December has taken credit for a series of bombings, kidnappings, and other crimes in the Miami area. At least ten persons, many of them tourists, are known to have been killed. Now, as you may have heard, several alleged members of this terrorist group are believed to have died in a helicopter accident over the weekend. And last night, the last known member of this extremist cell was shot to death after abducting a Dade County police officer. It has been a trying time for the citizens down here, and in spite of all this difficulty they still managed to make us feel warm and welcome. [Cut to Landon, nodding appreciatively.] And, Michael, I know you’ll agree as we watch some of these amazing floats go by: It’s shaping up as another spectacular Orange Bowl extravaganza! [Cut to shot over Landon shoulder as he enjoys parade.]
Landon [big smile]: Is it ever! And look at some of these bathing beauties! I may never go back to Malibu.
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:
Pauley: Another thrilling Orange Bowl spectacle! I don’t know how they do it, year after year. [Cut to Landon.]
Landon: It’s amazing, isn’t it, Jane? I’djust like to thank NBC and the Orange Bowl organizers for inviting us to spend New Year’s Eve in beautiful South Florida. One of the local weathermen just handed me a list of temperatures around the country and, before we sign off, I’d like to share some of these [holds up temp list]. New York, twenty-one...
Pauley [VO]: Brrrrr.
Pauley: Oh boy, let’s have it.
Landon: Six degrees!
Pauley [pinning on a Go Irish! button]: Home sweet home. Well, I promised everyone I’d bring back some fresh oranges, but I’m just sorry there’s no way to package this magnificent Miami sunshine. Thanks for joining us... good night, everybody.
Landon [two-shot, both waving, major smiles]: ’Night, everybody. Happy New Year!
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.”
Keyes kissed her softly. “Your folks are waiting inside. Somebody from a model agency is supposed to call.”
“Who cares?”
“Your old man. Besides, I’m worn out.”
“Hey, don’t look so blue. We made it.” Playfully she took his hands and placed them on her buttocks. “The mother lode is safe,” she said, kissing him hard. “Good work, kiddo.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
A yellow porch light came on over the front door.
“Daddy waits,” said Kara Lynn, frowning.
Keyes climbed into the MG and started the engine. Kara Lynn scooped up her gown and pecked him on the cheek. “Did I mention,” she said in a breathy Marilyn voice, “that I wasn’t wearing any panties tonight?”
“I know,” Keyes said. “It wasn’t all bad, the view from the octopus.”
On the way back to his apartment, he stopped at the office to check for burglaries and collect his mail, which consisted of a dozen bills, two large checks from the Miami Sun and a National Geographic with an albino something on the cover. Lost somewhere in the debris on Keyes’s desk was a checkbook, and he decided to locate it, just in case he ever needed to buy groceries again. Afterward he tried to clean the aquarium, which had been consumed by an advancing greenish slime that threatened to overtake its borders.
These chores were undertaken mainly to stuff his mind with distractions and delay the inevitable. It was nearly one A.M. when Keyes finished, and he lay down on the battered sofa and fell asleep. Before long he felt the coarse grip of the Browning semiautomatic in his right hand. He looked down and saw that his hand was covered with lustrous black mosquitoes, which were swelling up and bursting one by one, little blood balloons. A bony-looking puppet appeared and began to dance, and the Browning went off. The bullets traveled slowly, leaving orange contrails. One after another they puffed into the limestone around the puppet’s feet. Just as the puppet’s likeness changed from Jesus Bernal to Ernesto Cabal, one of the bullets smashed its head into a thousand wooden splinters. The slivers flew in all directions, twanging the puppet strings which led to the sky. In the dream Brian Keyes saw himself racing toward the broken puppet and snatching the strings with blood-splashed hands. Then he was airborne over the ocean, clinging for life. In a wispy cloud high above, a familiar man with long blond hair and Gypsy eyes twitched the puppet strings and muttered about the usurious price of coffins.
31
Port-au-Prince, Haiti. December 28th—By the time this is published, I might be dead or in jail, or hiding in some bleak rathole of a country where I’d never get to read it anyway. Which would be a shame.
But I suppose I’ve got it coming.
For many years I’ve written a daily column for this newspaper, a column that achieved an unforeseen but gratifying popularity. I admit that the reportage was not always faultless, but I never strayed too far from the truth. Besides, you folks knew what you were getting.
I probably could have continued to grind out fifteen inches of daily outrage, insult, poignancy, and sarcasm until I got old and my brain turned to porridge. See, I had a nifty deal going here at the paper. The brass liked me, and to keep me contented paid a salary nearly commensurate with my talents. This is what happens when you sell the merchandise: they make it worth your while.
About six weeks ago something changed. Whether it was my job attitude, spiritual diet, or moral equilibrium, I can’t say. Things got o
ut of hand, I suppose. The simple and convenient view is that I went berserk, which is possible though unlikely. In my business you learn that sanity, not insanity, is the greater riddle—and that there’s nothing so menacing as a sane person suddenly alerted to his own fate.
One thing is true. Over time I came to see the destiny of Florida in a singularly horrid vision, and I took steps to change that destiny. Extreme steps. I assembled a few choice acquaintances and we made some moves, as they say.
In my ardor I might have committed a few unforgivable felonies, but my mission was to save the place and to inspire those who cared, and to that noble end I suppose I’d break almost any law. Which they say I did.
For once it was a fair fight, both sides battling with tantamount weapons: publicity versus counterpublicity. Their ammunition was fantasy and whitewash, and ours was the meanest of truths, random crime, and terror. What better way to destroy bogus mail-order illusions!
The odious reality is that we live on a peninsula stolen from the Indians, plundered by carpetbaggers, and immorally occupied by Yankee immigrants who arrive at the rate of one thousand per day, Okies in BMWs.
Most of us born here were always taught to worship growth, or tolerate it unquestioningly. Growth meant prosperity, which was defined in terms of swimming pools and waterfront lots and putting one’s kids through college. So when the first frostbitten lemmings arrived with their checkbooks, all the locals raced out and got real-estate licenses; everybody wanted in on the ground floor. Greed was so thick you had to scrape it off your shoes.
The only thing that ever stood between the developers and autocracy was the cursed wilderness. Where there was water, we drained it. Where there were trees, we sawed them down. The scrub we simply burned. The bulldozer was God’s machine, so we fed it. Malignantly, progress gnawed its way inland from both coasts, stampeding nature.
Today the Florida most of you know—and created, in fact—is a suburban tundra purged of all primeval wonder save for the sacred solar orb. For all you care, this could be Scottsdale, Arizona, with beaches.