Tourist Season

by Carl Hiaasen

  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 somewhere after 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 Home-owners’ 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. That was 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 sun-drenched 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 I would. 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. Sawgrass 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 Jesús 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?”

  Keyes was awestruck. He watched Tommy Tigertail lean over to stroke the giant reptile’s armored snout. From where he stood Keyes could hear its breath hissing.

  “Is it...tame?”

  Wiley laughed. “Lord, no! He knows Tommy brings the food but there’s no loyalty there, Brian. See, crocodiles are different from alligators. Tommy grew up around gators and he could tell you better than I.”

  Without taking his eyes off the beast, Tommy said, “Crocs are meaner, more aggressive. Gators get fat and lazy.”

  Wiley said, “You won’t ever see a Seminole wrestle a crocodile, will you, Tommy?”

  “Never,” Tommy agreed. “Have to be crazy.”

  Keyes was afraid that anything he said might hasten the ceremony, so he said nothing. If only Wiley would keep jabbering, maybe the damn crocodile would get bored and swim away. Meanwhile Ida Kimmelman was sobbing and Jesús Bernal hovered watchfully, in case she tried to get up and run. Keyes wondered if Ida had figured out the plan by now.

  “This is not murder,” Wiley declared, “it’s social Darwinism. Two endangered species, Pavlov there and Mrs. Kimmelman, locked in mortal combat. To the victor goes the turf. That’s how it ought to be, Brian.”

  “It’s not fair, Skip.”

  “Fair? There are nine million Mrs. Kimmelmans between here and Tallahassee, and thirty fucking crocodiles. Is that fair? Who has the legitimate right to be here? Who does this place really belong to?”

  Wiley was hitting warp speed. Keyes backed off and tried another strategy.

  “Mr. Wilson,” he said, “please don’t let this happen.”

  Viceroy Wilson just wanted the whole thing to be over so he could go back to the campfire and sleep off a couple joints. It wasn’t his idea to do it quite this way; this was something cooked up by Wiley and the Indian. Viceroy Wilson went along to expedite the revolutionary process and also to avoid irritating the Indian, who, after all, was very generous with his Cadillac.

  So Viceroy Wilson said to Keyes: “You don’t like it, close your goddamn eyes.” Which was exactly what Viceroy Wilson planned to do.

  As for Pavlov, he seemed to drift leisurely in the pond not far from Tom Tigertail’s ankles. The leviathan’s eyes, two burning barbecue coals, gave nothing away. Keyes imagined he saw bemusement there—as if the carnivorous dinosaur were just playing along with Skip Wiley’s schemes.

  At Wiley’s instruction, Jesús Bernal tore the hurricane tape from Ida Kimmelman’s mouth and cut the ropes on her wrists. Immediately she began bellowing so loudly that the crocodile was drawn closer to shore.

  “Please be quiet!” Wiley commanded.

  “Who do you think you are—”

  “Shut up, Mrs. Kimmelman! This is going to be a fair contest, despite what Mr. Keyes says. You and Pavlov are going for a swim. If you survive, you can go home.”

  “But what’s the meaning of this?” Ida cried.

  Wiley clenched his jaw and rubbed at his temples. “It is a contest, pure and simple. You and Pavlov have laid claim to the same territory”—he waved his hand at the Glades—“and always such disputes must be settled by battle. Two primitive animals fighting for elemental needs. It’s the natural order. How’s that for meaning?”

  “But I can’t swim!” Ida Kimmelman said.

  “So what? Pavlov can’t play bridge. Sounds like you’re even to me.” Wiley snapped his fingers. “Viceroy!”

  Viceroy Wilson seized Mrs. Kimmelman by the shoulders and firmly guided her toward the water. Tommy Tigertail stepped out of the pond, drying his arms with the towel.

  “Brian, this may get a little rough,” Wiley cautioned. “You’d better sit down.”

  Keyes felt shaky and nauseated. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He took one queasy step toward Viceroy Wilson, then another, and finally a scream came to his throat and he was able to launch himself at the football player.

  He grabbed on with both hands, snarling as he dug his fingernails into the jet flesh. By the look on his face, Viceroy Wilson obviously was surprised at Keyes’s strength.

  Keyes felt the athlete’s neck cords tighten in his grip, and saw Mrs. Kimmelman wilt to the ground between them. The lantern strobed, and then came shouting: �
��No, Jesus! Stop!”

  Skip Wiley’s voice, but not in time.

  Keyes felt the fiery rip beneath his right armpit and, on the inside, something metal scrape his ribs. His hands turned to cork and he fell back, gasping. A rush of heat drenched his flank. Even with Wiley and the Cuban on his back, Keyes somehow held his balance until Viceroy Wilson put him down with a vengeful right cross to the jaw.

  Crumpling after the punch, Keyes dearly hoped that Wilson had knocked him out. He was hoping to awake later, when it was over, in daylight and sanity.

  But Brian Keyes was not unconscious.

  He lay curled on his right side, sticky with blood, looking out across the misty, lantern-lit pond. Keyes watched helplessly while Viceroy Wilson and Jesus Bernal carried Mrs. Kimmelman to the water’s edge. Pavlov slowly submerged, leaving a cheerful bubble on the pond. In dread Keyes watched as the Cuban took Mrs. Kimmelman’s feet and the football player grabbed her arms and they swung her twice and let go—like at a fraternity pool party. She landed in a tangle and floundered on the surface, spluttering in an enormous voice.

  “Oh, stop that!” Wiley scolded, playing swim coach. “Kick your legs and keep your head up.”

  Recklessly Mrs. Kimmelman windmilled toward shore, flailing the swamp to a froth. The giant crocodile was nowhere to be seen, but ominous clouds of bottom mud stained the water. Then the silky surface of the pond seemed to bulge.

  “Help!” Mrs. Kimmelman yelled.

  “Keep swimming,” Wiley counseled. “You’re doing quite well.”

  Brian Keyes closed his eyes when the water finally exploded.

  As Ida Kimmelman went under, she thought: Damn you, Lou, are you happy now?

  12

  Brian Keyes shivered on the deck of a speeding airboat and watched dawn bleed across the pale Everglades sky. High on the driver’s platform sat Tommy Tigertail, his black hair dancing in spikes.

  Keyes lifted his head with a groan, but the Indian couldn’t hear him over the din of the engine. Tommy wore a serene look as he steered deftly through the sedge.