Tourist Season

by Carl Hiassen

  "God! By what, wild dogs?"

  Dr. Allen shook his head somberly. "Judging from the bite pattern, it was no dog. It was something much bigger. Don't ask me what, Brian, because I just don't know."

  "Joe, you always brighten my day."

  "Happy hunting, my friend."

  Brian Keyes's office was on the sixth floor of a dreary downtown bank building off SW Second Avenue, near the Miami River. The consulate of El Salvador was located down the hall, so most of the other tenants lived in perpetual fear of a terrorist attack and behaved accordingly. They all had chipped in to hire extra security guards for the lobby, but the security men had turned out to be professional burglars who one night looted the entire building of all IBM office machinery.

  Brian Keyes was not affected by this crime because the only typewriter in his office was an old Olivetti portable, a leftover from his days of covering politics for the Miami Sun.The other items of potential value were an antique desk lamp and a telephone tape recorder, but the lamp was broken and the tape recorder was made in Korea so the burglars wanted no part of either.

  The highlight of the office was a fifty-gallon salt-water aquarium, a going-away present from his friends at the newspaper. Keyes had erected it in the foyer, where a secretary ordinarily might have sat, and filled it with whiskered catfish that sucked the algae off the glass.

  Except for the aquarium, the place was just as cramped, ratty, and depressing as Keyes had feared it would be. He was rarely there. Even when he had nothing to do, he'd find an excuse to leave the bank building and stroll around downtown. He had an answering service, and an electronic beeper that fit onto his belt. The beeper didn't make Keyes feel particularly important; every shyster lawyer, dope dealer, and undercover agent in Dade County wore one. It was mandatory.

  On the morning of December 5, Keyes was down at Bayfront Park, munching a sandwich and watching the tugboats, when the beeper on his belt went off loudly enough to wake a derelict two benches away.

  Keyes found a pay phone and called his service. Al Garcia was trying to reach him. It was important. Keyes phoned Homicide.

  "Meet me on the beach," Garcia said. "The Flamingo Isles, near Sixty-eighth and Collins. Look for the cop cars out front."

  The Flamingo Isles was not a classic Miami Beach motel. There was nothing charming about the color (silt) or the architecture (Early Texaco). At this motel there were no striped canvas awnings, no wizened retirees chirping in the lobby, no lawn chairs lined up on the front porch, no front porch whatsoever. Basically the Flamingo Isles was a dive for pimps, chicken hawks, and hookers. Rooms cost ten dollars an hour, fifteen with porno cassettes. It was rumored that some of the vestibules were equipped with hidden movie cameras to secretly record the sexual antics of Florida tourists. It was not a good place for an innocent man, but Keyes was hopeful that this was where Sparky Harper had spent his final earthly moments. If so, it meant that Harper had likely died in some bizarre sexual accident and not at the larcenous hands of Ernesto Cabal.

  Keyes goosed his little MG convertible across the causeway and made it to the motel in eighteen minutes flat. Al Garcia already was interviewing a Jamaican maid in the lobby. He kept hollering for an interpreter and the maid kept insisting in perfect English that she spoke perfect English, but Garcia wouldn't believe her. He finally enlisted a black Miami Beach detective to take the maid's statement, and went upstairs, Keyes in tow. They entered room 223.

  "Here you have it," Garcia said.

  A pile of men's clothing lay in the middle of the floor: blue silk socks, turned inside-out; an undershirt; a pair of soiled Jockey shorts; and a powder-blue double-knit suit with a J. C. Penney label. The legs of the suit had been sheared off below the knees. Lying beneath the clothes was a pair of highly polished black Florsheims.

  The room showed no signs of a mortal struggle. There was a half-finished bottle of Seagram's and a couple cans of soda on the dresser. On the nightstand, next to the Magic Fingers machine, sat three plastic bottles of Coppertone tanning butter with coconut oil. A fingerprint man studiously dusted the containers; he was crouched on his haunches, oblivious of everything.

  With a long pair of tweezers, Garcia picked a plastic bag off the floor. The red-and-white lettering on the bag said: "Everglades Novelties."

  "This," Garcia intoned, "was used to transport the instrument of death."

  "The toy alligator?"

  Garcia nodded.

  "So this is where it happened."

  "The murder? No, we don't think so."

  Suddenly a big redheaded cop barged out of the bathroom. It was Harold Keefe, the lead detective.

  "Who're you?" he asked Keyes.

  "A friend of Al's." Keyes looked at Garcia. Garcia had an oh shit!look in his eyes.

  "Don't touch anything," Keefe growled on his way out the door. "Al, don't let him touch anything, got it?"

  Garcia checked the bathroom to make sure no other detectives were sneaking around. He didn't say another word until the fingerprint man packed up his kit and left.

  "Christ! I didn't know that bastard was in the john!"

  "Relax, Al. He doesn't know who I am."

  Garcia started stuffing B. D. Harper's clothing in a clear plastic evidence bag. "Check out the stains on the floor," he told Keyes.

  Two streaks of dried blood made a wavering trail from the bedroom to the bathroom. It was not very much blood, certainly less than one would have expected.

  "The lab guys are on their way," Garcia said, "so I'm gonna give it to you once. Then I want you to get out of here before I get in trouble."

  "Whatever you say, Al."

  "On the night of November 30, two men rented this room for one week. They paid cash in advance, three hundred and sixty bucks."

  "What'd they look like?"

  "One was described as a muscular black male in a tight yellow pullover," Garcia said, "and the other was a young Latin male wearing blue jeans."

  Keyes grimaced. "I suppose you showed Cabal's mug shot to the desk clerk."

  "Yeah, and she's seventy-five percent sure it was him."

  "Seventy-five won't cut it in court, Al."

  "Don't worry, she'll be one hundred percent positive by the time this goes to trial."

  "Anyone see them with B. D. Harper?"

  "We got a couple faggots in room 225 who saw the Latin male enter this room about eleven P.M. with a chubby Anglo matching Harper's description. They heard some loud voices, and then the door slammed. The fairies peeked out just in time to see Harper being led down the stairs by the black dude and the little Cuban. Oh yeah, and the Cuban is carrying a red Samsonite."

  "So they took Harper someplace, killed him, cut his legs off, stuffed him in the suitcase, and—"

  "Brought him back here," Garcia said. "This is where the weird shit happens. These blood smears come from dragging the corpse into the bathroom. That's where they dress him up in that stupid flowered shirt and smear the Coppertone all over and stuff him in the suitcase."

  "Don't forget the sunglasses," Keyes said.

  "Right. Then they drive out to Key Biscayne and heave him into the bay."

  "Why all the trouble?"

  Garcia said, "Beats the hell out of me. Anyway, the black guy and the Cuban haven't been back since early on the morning of December 1. The maid just opened the room today. She saw the blood on the floor and called the Beach police."

  "Well, this is great news, Al."

  "I'm not finished. Remember I told you I had a line on those goofy clothes? Well, I got a sales clerk at a joint down the street who says she sold them to a skinny little Cuban guy on November 29."

  "Ernesto?"

  "She's eighty percent sure. The creep was wearing a floppy hat, so she's not absolutely certain."

  "Give her time," Keyes said glumly. Things were looking bleak for Senor Cabal. Keyes wondered if he'd been wrong about the little guy. Maybe he wasn't just a crummy car burglar trying to get by.

  Garcia knotted
the top of the evidence bag and scanned the room to make sure he hadn't missed anything. "Time for you to hit the road," he told Keyes. "And remember, I don't know your fucking name."

  "Right, Al."

  Keyes was in the parking lot, strolling toward the MG, when he heard Garcia call from a balcony.

  "Hey, Brian, you wanna reallyhelp your client?"

  "You bet."

  "It's easy," Garcia shouted. "Find the black guy."

  Keyes arrived at the county jail just as Mitch Klein was leaving. Klein was a scruffy young lawyer with the public defender's office who apparently had drawn the short straw when they farmed out Ernesto Cabal's case. As he walked out of the jail, his shirt damp and his tie loose, Klein did not look like a happy man. He looked like a man who couldn't wait to get into private practice.

  Klein greeted Keyes with a lugubrious nod and said, "What's the bad news for the day?"

  "They found a motel room on the beach with Harper's clothes and some blood on the floor. Little Cuban guy rented it the night before Harper vanished."

  "Beautiful," Klein grumbled.

  "The good news is, a big black guy was working with the Cuban. He matches the description of the character Ernesto says sold him the Oldsmobile. Maybe I can find him."

  Klein rolled his eyes and made a lewd pumping motion with his right hand. "I think Ernesto is full of shit," he said.

  Wonderful, Keyes thought, the guy's own lawyer is dumping on him.

  When Keyes entered the cell, he noticed that Ernesto lay stark naked on the cot. Ernesto blinked at Keyes like a gecko lizard stunned by the sunlight.

  "Dey took my close."

  "Why?"

  " 'Fraid I'm gonna hang myself."

  "Are you?"

  "Not now."

  "Glad to hear it."

  Ernesto rolled over on his stomach, exposing stringy white buttocks. Two prisoners in another cell hooted in appreciation. Ernesto ignored them.

  "That man Klein wants me to cop a plea. Says he's trying to save my life. He says dey strap my ass in a lektric chair if diss case go to jury. You thin' he's right?"

  Keyes said, "I'm no lawyer."

  "Too bad. That Klein, he's got nice shoes. You could use some nice shoes, no?"

  Keyes told Cabal about the Flamingo Isles motel. The Cuban sat up excitedly when he heard the part about the black man and B. D. Harper.

  "Was the black guy wearing Carrera frames?"

  "I don't know."

  "I'll bet it's the same dude who sold me that goddamn car."

  "I'll try to find him, Ernesto."

  "Hey, you tell Klein?"

  "Yes."

  "What'd he say?"

  "He said it sounded very promising."

  "I seen the black guy before." Ernesto stood up and started pacing the cell. Keyes found his nakedness a little disconcerting. Mainly it was the tattoo: a commendable likeness of Fidel Castro's face, stenciled deftly on the tip of Ernesto's most private appendage.

  "Think hard, Ernesto. Where did you see the black guy? On the beach? In a bar? At Sunday school?"

  "Sone-thin like dat." Ernesto clasped his hands behind his back and stared through the bars of the cell. "I'm gone thin about it."

  Keyes decided it was time to break the bad news. He told Ernesto about the desk clerk at the Flamingo Isles and the saleswoman at the clothing store, about how they had looked at his mug shot and were almost positive that he was the one.

  "Dumb bitches," Ernesto said stoically.

  Keyes said, "A skinny Cuban rented that motel room, and a skinny Cuban bought those loud clothes for B. D. Harper."

  "Not dissskinny Cuban."

  Ernesto sat down on the cot and, mercifully, crossed his legs.

  "Do you want me to get your clothes back?"

  "Thas all right, man."

  "Where do I start looking for the friendly car salesman?"

  "Pauly's Bar. Juss ask round. Big black guy with glasses. Not many of dose on the Beach, man."

  "Did he have an accent?"

  Ernesto giggled. "He's black,man. 'Course he had an accent."

  "Jamaican? Haitian? American?"

  "He's no Jamaican, and he's no street nigger. Diss boy been to school." Ernesto was very sure of himself. "Diss man, he's slick."

  Keyes told Ernesto to think on it some more. He'd need all the help he could get. Especially at Pauly's Bar.

  Mr. Remond Courtney didn't blink. He merely said: "I'm not sure I heard you right, Mr. Wiley."

  "Oh, sorry." Skip Wiley got up and ambled across the office. He leaned over and positioned his large face two inches from the doctor's nose. "I said," Wiley shouted, as if Courtney were deaf, "Is it really true that you have sex with mallard ducks?"

  "No," Courtney replied, lips whitening.

  "Mergansers, then?"

  "No."

  "Ah, so it's geese. No need to be ashamed."

  "Mr. Wiley, sit down, please. I think we're avoiding the subject, aren't we?"

  "And, what subject would that be, Dr. Goosefucker? May I call you that? Do you mind?"

  Courtney looked down at the notebook in his lap, as if referring to something important. Actually the page was blank. "Why," he said to Skip Wiley, "all this hostility?"

  "Because we're wasting each other's time. There's nothing wrong with me and you know it. But you had to be an asshole and tell my boss I've got a pathological brain tumor—here I am, about to do something truly pathological." Wiley smiled and grabbed Dr. Courtney by the shoulders.

  The psychiatrist struggled to maintain an air of superiority (as if this were just some childish prank) while trying to squirm from Wiley's grasp. But Wiley was a strong man and he easily lifted Courtney off the couch. "I never said you had a tumor, Skip." Dr. Remond Courtney was remarkably calm, but he'd had plenty of practice. He was by trade a professional witness, a courthouse shrink-for-hire. He was impressive in trial—cool, self-assured, unshakable on the stand. Lawyers loved Dr. Courtney and they paid him a fortune to sit in the witness box and say their clients were crazy as loons. It was laughably easy work, and Courtney was conveniently flexible in his doctrines; one day he might be a disciple of Skinner and, the next, a follower of Freud. It all depended on the case (and who was paying his fee). Dr. Courtney had become so successful as an expert witness that he was able to drop most of his private patients and limit his psychiatric practice to three or four lucrative corporate and government contracts. Dr. Courtney had hoped this would minimize his exposure to dangerous over-the-transom South Florida fruitcakes, but he'd learned otherwise. By the time a big company got around to referring one of its employees to a psychiatrist, the screaming meemies had already set in and the patient often was receiving radio beams from Venus. The worst thing you could do in such a case, Remond Courtney believed, was lose your professional composure. Once a patient knew he could rattle you, you were finished as an analyst. Domination required composure, Dr. Courtney liked to say.

  "Skip, I can assure you I never said anything about a brain tumor."

  "Oh, it's Skipnow, is it? Did you learn that at shrink school, Dr. Goosefucker? Whenever a patient becomes unruly, call him by his first name."

  "Would you prefer 'Mr. Wiley' instead?"

  "I would prefer not to be here," Wiley said, guiding Dr. Courtney toward the window of his office. Below, fifteen floors down, was Biscayne Boulevard. Courtney didn't need to be reminded of the precise distance (he'd had a patient jump once), but Skip Wiley reminded him anyway. He reminded Dr. Courtney by hanging him by his Italian-made heels.

  "What do you see, doctor?"

  "My life," the upside-down psychiatrist said, "passing before my eyes."

  "That's just a Metro bus."

  "A bus, you're right. Lots of people walking. Some taxicabs. Lots of things, Mr. Wiley." The doctor's voice was brittle and high. He was using his arms to fend himself off the side of the building, and doing a pretty good job. After a few seconds Courtney's paisley ascot fluttered from his neck and dri
fted down to earth like a wounded butterfly. Skip Wiley thought he heard the doctor whimper.

  "You okay down there?"

  "Not really," Courtney called up to him. "Mr. Wiley, your time's almost up."

  Wiley dragged Courtney up through the window.

  "Your ankles sweat, you know that?"

  "I'm not surprised," the doctor said.

  "So you're sticking with this idea that I'm crazy? That's what you're going to tell Mulcahy?"

  Courtney brushed himself off. The palms of his hands were red and abraded, and this seemed to bother him. He straightened his blazer. "You're very lucky I didn't lose one of my contact lenses," he told Wiley.

  "You're lucky you didn't lose your goddamn life." Plainly unsatisfied, Wiley sat down at the doctor's desk. Courtney reclaimed his spot on the couch, a brand-new spiral notebook on his lap.

  "In my opinion, it started with the hurricane column," the psychiatrist said.

  "Come on, doc, that was a terrific piece."

  "It was uncommonly vicious and graphic. 'What South Florida needs most is a killer hurricane ... ' All that stuff about screaming winds and crumpled condominiums. My mother saw that ... that trash," the doctor said with agitation, "and the next day she put her place on the market. The poor woman's scared to death. An ocean view with a nine-point-eight-mortgage—assumable!—and still she's scared out of her mind. Wants to move to bloody Tucson. All because of you!"

  "Really?" Skip Wiley seemed pleased.

  "What kind of drugs," Dr. Courtney started to ask him, "provoke this kind of lunacy?"

  But Skip Wiley already was on his way out the door, a honey-maned blur.

  Cab Mulcahy strolled into the newsroom shortly after five. He was a composed, distinguished-looking presence among the young neurotics who put out the daily newspaper, and several of them traded glances that said: Wonder what brings the old man out?

  Mulcahy was looking for Wiley. Actually, he was looking for Wiley's column. Mulcahy harbored a fear that Wiley would devise a way to sneak the damn thing into print in defiance of their agreement.