Tourist Season

by Carl Hiassen

  "Ho-ho-ho."

  The suntan oil, the rubber alligator, the tacky Hawaiian shirt. Keyes thought: Who else but Wiley?

  "And Ted Bellamy, the Shriner?"

  "I'm afraid he's dead," Wiley said, tossing a stick in the fire.

  "What about the girl at the Seaquarium?" Keyes asked.

  "Brian, settle down. We're simply trying to establish credibility. Nobody took us seriously after the Harper episode. Jesus, amigo,get my briefcase."

  "My God, Skip, you're talking about murder!Three innocent people—four, if you count Ernesto Cabal. You set him up, didn't you?"

  "It was Viceroy's idea, to get rid of the car," Wiley acknowledged. "He was your client, I know, and I'm sorry he killed himself. By the way, did you really stab his lawyer in the tongue with a shrimp fork? That was wonderful, Brian, I was so goddamn proud when I heard about it. Made me think you must've learned something, all that time sitting next to me. For what it's worth, we had planned to spring little Ernesto when the time was right."

  "Es verdad,"Jesus said, delivering the briefcase.

  "Speak English, you shmuck," Wiley snapped. He turned to Keyes, complaining: "The man was born in Trentonand still he's doing Desi Arnaz. Drives me nuts."

  Jesus Bernal slouched away, pouting. Wiley opened the briefcase and said, "Might as well get the preliminaries out of the way. Pay attention, Brian." Wiley held up a pair of plaid swim trunks. "Theodore Bellamy," he said.

  "I believe you," said Keyes.

  Next Wiley produced a crimson halter top. "Renee What's-her-face, the Canadian girl."

  Keyes nodded blankly.

  With both hands Wiley dangled a man's silver necklace with a gaudy octagonal charm. "Sparky Harper was wearing this," Wiley said, studying it in the firelight. "It says 'Sunshine State Booster of the Year, 1977.' Got his name engraved on the back. Be sure to point that out."

  Wiley dropped the articles into the briefcase and snapped it shut. "You'll take this back to Miami, please."

  Keyes felt relieved. He'd been contemplating the possibility of dying out here in the swamp and not liking the idea at all, dead in his underwear and covered with bug bites.

  "Saw Bloodworth's column," Wiley said. "What a hack."

  "He's not in your league, that's for sure."

  "He's a dim-witted gerbil who can't write his name. Strangled to deathis redundant, doesn't he know that?" Wiley fumed. "If it'd been you, you would have put it together two days ago. You'd have connected everything—Harper, Bellamy, Renee. Hell, you would have printed our letters."

  "And you would have loved it," Keyes said.

  Wiley wasn't listening. "Brian, I know you've still got good police sources. What do you hear?"

  Viceroy Wilson edged a little closer. He was always interested in cop news.

  "Metro homicide closed the Harper case when Ernesto died," Keyes said. "As for the other two, a big zero. Missing persons, that's all."

  "Damn!" Wiley exploded. "Those silly shitheads have got murderous terrorists on the loose and they don't even know it! See what I mean about credibility, Brian? What do we have to do? Tell me, Viceroy, you're the historian. Did the SLA have this problem?"

  "Naw, they had Patty Hearst," Wilson replied laconically. "Got plenty of ink. Maybe we can brainwash us some famous white bitch."

  "Si,"said Jesus Bernal, digging his knife from a gumbo-limbo tree. "Pia Zadora!"

  Wiley sat cross-legged in front of Keyes. "See what I'm up against," he muttered.

  "Skip—or is it El Fuegonow?"

  "Skip is fine."

  "Okay, what do you want from me?"

  "We need a witness," Wiley said momentously. "Someone impeccable. Someone who can go back to Miami and attest that we are legitimate, that we're deadly serious. Brian, we want recognition.We want the police and the press and the politicians and the tourist board to take us seriously."

  "In other words, you want your names in the paper?"

  "The Nights of December? Yes. Mine? No. Not until the time comes." Wiley leaned closer. "If you go back and tell the cops about me, it would complicate our plans. Jeopardize everything. Now, should you decide to play Boy Scout and spill the beans, fine. But if you do, Brian, you'll deeply regret it. All hell will break loose, and what's happened so far—the kidnappings, Sparky Harper, the rest—is gonna seem like Mister Rogers' Neighborhood.You understand what I'm saying? If I should pick up the Suntomorrow and see my face, then me and my comrades shift into overdrive. Moderation goes out the window. And then I'm afraid some folks you and I both know, and care about, are going to wind up suddenly deceased. We're talking massacre with a capital M."

  Keyes had never seen Wiley so grim, or heard his voice so leaden. He wondered if Wiley meant Jenna, or Cab, or friends from the newspaper.

  "Brian, if we do things my way, on my schedule, the violence will be minimized—I promise. If all goes well, in a few weeks the whole truth can be told. But not now—it's too early. My name would be nothing but a distraction, a liability to the organization. So my role here—well, let it be our little secret for a while. The rest of the saga is yours to tell. In fact, that's why we invited you here. Can I offer you some softshell-turtle stew?"

  Keyes said: "Let me get this straight. I'm supposed to go back to Miami and scare the shit out of everybody."

  "Exactly," Wiley said.

  "With what, Skip? A halter top and a dime-store medallion?"

  Wiley shook his head. "Those are just freebies for the cops, old pal. No, the most significant thing you'll carry back to civilization tomorrow is testimony."

  Keyes was getting tired. His arms ached, his wrists hurt, and invisible insects were feasting in his crevices.

  "Okay, Skip, I'll go back and tell the cops that a gang of crazed radicals dragged me out of a canoe, tied me to a tree, and gave me tea that tasted like goat piss. Is that what you want?"

  "Not quite," Wiley said. The smile was thin, the eyes cheerless. "We want you to go back and tell everyone that you witnessed a murder."

  Keyes went cold.

  Wiley stood up and smoothed his pseudo-African smock. "Tommy! Jesus! Viceroy!" he called. "Go get Mrs. Kimmelman."

  The morning actually had started off well for Ida Kimmelman. The arrival of the Social Security checks was always a good omen, and then her sister called from Queens to say that Joel, Ida's youngest nephew, had finally gotten into law school. It wasn't a famous law school—someplace in Ohio, with two names—but Ida went out and bought Joel a card anyway. Basically he was a good young man, a little disrespectful perhaps, but deserving of encouragement.

  The truth was that Joel, as most of Ida's blood relations, couldn't stand her. They had all been fond of Lou Kimmelman, a sweet little fellow with a teasing sense of humor, but for years the clan had puzzled over how Lou could put up with Ida's tuba voice and her incredible charmlessness. Around the apartments the same was true: Lou was popular and pitied, while Ida was barely tolerated.

  When Lou finally passed on, the social invitations dried up and the fourth-floor bridge club recruited a new couple, and Ida Kimmelman was left all alone with her dog Skeeter in apartment 4-K at Otter Creek Village. Somehow the U.S. government had overlooked Lou Kimmelman's death and continued to mail a $297.75 Social Security check every month, so Ida was making out pretty well. She'd bought herself a spiffy red Ford Escort and joined a spa, and every third Tuesday she would drive Skeeter to Canine Canaan and get his little doggy toenails painted blue. Of course Ida's Otter Creek neighbors disapproved of her extravagance and thought it tacky that she boasted of her double-dipping from Social Security. Ida knew they were jealous.

  She was truly ambivalent about Lou's death. On some days she felt lonely, and guessed it must be Lou she was missing. Who else had shared her life for twenty-nine years? Lou had been an accountant for a big orthopedic shoe company in Brooklyn. He had been a hard worker who had saved money in spite of Ida; Ida, who'd never wanted children of her own, who was always scheming for a new car or a
tummy tuck or a new dinette. When it came time to retire, the Kimmelmans had argued about where they would go. Everyone on the block was moving to Florida, but Ida disliked everyone on the block and she didn't want to go. Instead she wanted to move to Southern California and make new friends. She wanted a condo on the beach in La Jolla.

  But Lou Kimmelman had been a shrewd accountant. One painful evening, two weeks before the shoe company gave him the traditional gold Seiko sendoff, Lou had sat Ida down with the Chemical Bank passbooks and the Keogh funds and demonstrated, quite conclusively, that they couldn't afford to move to California unless they wanted to eat dried cat food the rest of their lives. Reluctantly, Ida had accepted the inevitability of Florida. After all, it was unthinkable not to go somewhereafter your husband retired.

  So they'd bought a small two-bedroom unit at Otter Creek, three doors down from the Seligsons, and Lou Kimmelman soon became captain of the fourth-floor shuffleboard team and sergeant-at-arms of the Otter Creek Homeowners' Association.

  One thing Ida Kimmelman didn't miss about Lou, now that he was gone, was how he'd sit there in his madras slacks and blinding white shoes, watching TV in their new living room (which was hardly big enough for a family of squirrels), and ask, "Now aren't you glad we moved down here after all?"

  Lou Kimmelman would say this three or four times a week, and Ida hated it. Sometimes she'd wonder bitterly if she hated Lou, too. She'd squeeze out on the balcony, which was actually more of a glorified ledge, and gaze at the parking lot and, beyond that, the emptiness of the Everglades. In these moments Ida would imagine how great it would be to have a town house on a bluff in La Jolla, where you could sip coffee and watch all those brown young men on their candy-colored surfboards. Thatwas Ida Kimmelman's idea of retirement.

  Instead she was stuck in Florida.

  After Lou died, Ida had gathered all the bankbooks and E. F. Hutton statements and got the calculator to add up their worldly possessions—only to discover that Lou Kimmelman, damn his arithmetic, had been absolutely correct. Southern California was no more affordable than Gstaad.

  So Ida laid her dream to rest with Lou, and vowed to make the best of it. Never would she admit to her Otter Creek neighbors that her unhappiness was anything but a widow's grief, or that sometimes, especially during Florida's steambath of a summer, she longed to be back up North, in the city, where one could actually walk to the grocery without an oxygen tank.

  December, with its cooler nights, wasn't so unbearable. The snowbirds were trickling south and the condominium was a much livelier place than in August, when nothing moved but the mercury. Now Otter Creek Village slowly was awakening, soon to be clogged with other couples who'd discovered Florida as long-ago tourists or honeymooners and returned to claim it in their old age.

  The center of social life was the swimming pool. Not much swimming took place, but there was a lot of serious floating, wading, and talking—by far the most competitive of all condominium sports.

  When Ida went down to the pool, which wasn't often, she'd usually end up dominating some debate about the perilous traffic, the impossible interest rates, or the criminally high hospital bills. Each outrage was a harbinger of financial ruination, which was the favorite topic poolside at Otter Creek. Lately, since she'd discovered Lou's Social Security checks were still coming, Ida's stock speech on the economy had lost some of its fire and she'd avoided the daily discussions. Ida loved to express her opinions, but she loved her spa, too.

  On the morning of December 8, Ida Kimmelman followed her morning routine: hot bagels, two cups of coffee, six ounces of prune juice, David Hartman, and the Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel,which had terrific grocery coupons. By ten Ida was usually made-up and ready to walk Skeeter, but on this day she was running late because she had to go to Eckerd Drugs to buy a card for her nephew Joel the law student.

  Ida returned to the apartment at ten-thirty to find a nasty little present from Skeeter on the shag in the bedroom. This was another reason she missed Lou, because Lou would always clean up after the dog; he never clobbered Skeeter or threatened to put him to sleep the way Ida did.

  She was so mad about the mess in the bedroom that she hooked Skeeter to his leash and dragged him, yelping, down four flights of stairs. She led the dog out to the canal behind Otter Creek Village, near the Everglades dike, and unfastened the leash to let him run.

  Ida noticed there was nobody out by the pool. She thought: These people! A touch of cold weather and they run indoors. The breeze felt good, too, although it puffed her new hairdo.

  After fifteen minutes Ida Kimmelman got goose bumps and wished she'd brought a light sweater. She clapped her hands and shouted for Skeeter in a baritone that seemed to carry all the way to Orlando.

  But Skeeter didn't come.

  Ida picked up her pace along the canal, careful not to get too close. She called for Skeeter again, expecting any moment to see his beautifully barbered, AKC-registered poodle face hopping through the high grass along the banks of the canal.

  But there was no sign of the little dog.

  Ida trudged on, hollering, calling, cooing, thinking: He's just mad about what happened upstairs. He'll be back.

  Soon she found herself standing in a field of scrub and palmetto, a full mile from Otter Creek. The sandspurs stuck to her slacks, and she cried out when a fat coppery ant chomped on her big toe.

  "Skeeter darling," Ida Kimmelman cried, the great voice fading, "come home to Momma! Momma loves you!"

  Suddenly she heard a commotion and turned to see two men waist-deep in the scrub; one black and ominous, the other small and dark. Nothing frightened Ida Kimmelman so much as the fact that the small man wore an undershirt, the mark of a true desperado.

  "Have you seen my doggie?" Ida asked nervously.

  The black man nodded. "Skeeter had an accident," he said. "You'd better come quick."

  "What kind of accident?" Ida Kimmelman cried, forgetting her own safety and clumping after the men. "I said, what kind of accident?"

  "An eagle," the black man said. "A fish eagle, ma'am."

  And when Ida Kimmelman saw what was left of poor Skeeter, presented in a shoebox by the man in the undershirt, she fainted dead away. The next time she opened her eyes was in the airboat.

  Standing before Brian Keyes was a plainly terrified woman in her late sixties, slightly overweight, lacquered with rouge and mascara. Her mouth was covered with two-inch hurricane tape, and her hands were tied with rope. Her shiny wine-colored hair was piled in a tangled nest on one side of her head. She was doing plenty' of talking with her eyes.

  Jesus Bernal cut Keyes loose and stood him up.

  Skip Wiley said, "Brian, this is Mrs. Kimmelman."

  "Skip, are you nuts?" Keyes said. "This is kidnapping! You and your merry men are gonna wind up at Raiford."

  "Mrs. Kimmelman and her late husband discovered South Florida in 1962," Wiley said, "when they spent two weeks on gorgeous sundrenched Miami Beach. Stayed at the Beau Rivage, shopped at Lincoln Road. Went to see a Jackie Gleason show live, right, Mrs. Kimmelman?"

  Ida Kimmelman nodded.

  "Had such a good time, they came back again and again," Wiley said, "and when Mr. Kimmelman, rest his soul, retired, they moved down here for good. Bought a unit out at Otter Creek Village, forty-two-five at twelve percent. A very tasteful place, Mrs. Kimmelman, I must say."

  "Mmmmmm," Ida Kimmelman protested through the tape.

  "Skip, let her go."

  "Can't do that, Brian."

  Viceroy Wilson held one of Ida Kimmelman's pale arms, and Tommy Tigertail the other. Wiley jerked his head and they led her out of the clearing into the darkness.

  "Skip, I don't need to see any more. Let her go and I'll do what you want. I'll go back and tell the cops you mean business."

  "No, I think you need to be convinced," Wiley said. "I know Iwould. Skeptics, you and I both, Brian. Take nobody's word for anything. First law of good journalism: if your mom says she loves you, check it out
first."

  Jesus Bernal handed Brian Keyes his trousers and said something sternly in Spanish.

  "Put your pants on," Wiley translated, "and follow me."

  In great strides Wiley crashed through the brush while Keyes struggled to keep up. Saw-grass and grape-sized pine burs bit into his bare feet, but Jesus Bernal stayed close enough to prod him with his beloved knife whenever Keyes faltered.

  Ahead Wiley broke from the shelter of the hammock and took a ragged trail through an open, flat expanse of swamp. A juggernaut of noise, he was just as easy to track by sight, the cream-colored smock fluttering in the gray night.

  Keyes found himself trotting faster to escape the insects, but dreading what awaited him. Jesus Bernal gave no clues, grunting with each step.

  After ten minutes the sprint ended abruptly at water's edge. Keyes caught his breath and studied the scene by yellow lantern light: Mrs. Kimmelman, whimpering on the ground where they had laid her; Wiley, looking haunted but anticipatory; Viceroy Wilson, cool, unexerted, and bored; Tommy Tigertail, up to his knees in the water, his back to the light; and Jesus Bernal, swatting bugs off his sweaty arms.

  "Tommy," Wiley said, panting, "do the honors, please."

  Tommy Tigertail splashed the water with both hands and began to clap.

  "Skip?" Keyes whispered.

  "Shhhh!"

  Tommy cupped his hands to his mouth and barked in a deep gravelly voice: "Aaaarkk! Aaaarkk!" He slapped the water at his feet.

  Skip Wiley extended the lantern and peered into the marsh. "Here, boy!" he sang out.

  "Oh God," said Brian Keyes.

  A massive shadow cut a clean V in the silky water and made no noise as it swam. Its eyes shone ruby-red, and the snaking of its prehistoric tail cast a roiling wake.

  Now Brian Keyes knew what had happened to Sparky Harper.

  "His name is Pavlov," Wiley said. "He is a North American crocodile, one of only about thirty left in the entire world. He's a shade over seventeen feet and weighs about the same as a Porsche 915. All that tonnage with a brain no bigger than a tangerine. Isn't nature wonderful, Brian? Who said God doesn't have a sense of humor?"