Tourist Season

by Carl Hiaasen

  “Glucose. Tomorrow I’m back on solids and in three days I’ll be out of here. Jenna, where’s Skip now?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “You’ve got to find him. He’s killed four people.”

  “Not personally he hasn’t.” Jenna pulled back the sheet. “Let me see your stitches.”

  Keyes turned to one side and lifted his right arm.

  “Oh, boy,” said Jenna, whistling.

  “Nasty, huh?”

  “Looks like a railroad track.” She traced the wound with a finger, light as a feather. Keyes shivered pleasurably.

  “Did the knife hit your lung? Or was it a knife?” Jenna asked.

  “Nicked it,” Keyes said.

  “Ouch,” Jenna whispered. She stroked his forehead and smiled. “How do you feel? I mean really.”

  Keyes flushed. He knew what she meant. Really.

  “Woozy,” he said, thinking: Something extraordinary is happening here; maybe Wiley’s under the bed.

  “Too woozy? What if I took this one away... would you be all right? Could you breathe?”

  “Well, let’s find out,” Keyes said. Of course she couldn’t be serious. Not here. He removed the oxygen tube and took three breaths.

  “Okay?” Jenna asked.

  Keyes nodded; it was pain he could live with.

  Jenna slid out of bed and unbuttoned her starched nurse’s uniform. Suddenly she was standing there in bra and panties and white hospital hose. She had a deliciously naughty look on her face. Keyes didn’t think he’d seen that particular look before.

  “I think we should make love,” Jenna announced.

  Keyes was stupefied. Considering what had happened the last few days, maybe he was due for a miracle. Maybe this was God’s way of balancing fate. Or maybe it was something else altogether. Keyes didn’t care; it was bound to be his last spell of infinite pleasure until Skip Wiley was caught or killed.

  “It’s possible I still love you, Brian,” said Jenna, slipping out of her bra. “Mind if I lock the door?”

  “What about the nurses?”

  “We’ll be oh-so-quiet.” Jenna stepped out of her panties. She looked radiant, her new tan lines providing a phenomenal lesson in contrasts. Keyes had never seen her velvet tummy so brown, or her breasts so white.

  He said: “I’m a wreck. I need to shave.”

  Then he said: “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  And then he decided to just shut up and let things happen, because he really couldn’t be sure that this wasn’t some splendid Dilaudid dream, and that Jenna wasn’t just your usual breathtaking nude mirage in white hospital stockings.

  She studied him from an artist’s pose, arms folded, a finger on her lips. “This is going to be tricky. I guess I’d better get on top.” And she did.

  Smothered in delight, Keyes kissed Jenna’s neck and throat and collarbone and whatever else he could get his mouth on. He half-hugged her, using the arm that wasn’t attached to the intravenous tube, and played his fingers down her spine. Jenna seemed to enjoy it. She arched, then pressed down hard with her hips. Her aim was perfect.

  “Have you missed me, Brian?”

  “Yup.” Which was all the breath he had left.

  Jenna sat up, straddling him. Her eyes were liquid and, for once, not so far away. She swayed gently with a hand on each bed rail, as if riding a sled.

  “Am I hurting you?” she asked with one of those killer smiles. “I didn’t think so.”

  Partly out of passion and partly to get the weight off his tortured diaphragm, Keyes pulled her down. He kissed her lightly on the mouth and right away she closed her eyes. At first she was tentative, maybe even nervous, but soon she started doing all the amazing things she used to do when they were lovers; things he’d never forgotten but never thought he’d experience again.

  Lovemaking with Jenna had always been an emotional workout for Brian Keyes—shock therapy for the heart. True to form, his brain shut down the moment she pressed against him. He totally forgot where he was and why he was there. He forgot his stitches, he forgot his collapsed lung, and he forgot the tube gurgling out of his side. He forgot the nurse, who was pounding on the door. He even forgot Ida Kimmelman and the goddamn crocodile.

  He forgot everything but Jenna and Wiley.

  “What about Skip?” he whispered between nibbles. “I thought you were madly in love with Skip.”

  “Hush now,” Jenna said, guiding his free hand. “And try not to kick the I.V.”

  14

  Jesús Bernal finally got a chance to build another bomb, thanks to Ricky Bloodworth.

  On the morning of December 12, the Miami Sun published its first front-page story about Las Noches de Diciembre. It was not a flawless piece of journalism but it stirred excitement at Skip Wiley’s Everglades bivouac.

  The lead of the story focused on the ominous El Fuego letter discovered in Ida Kimmelman’s condominium mailbox. A trusting Broward County detective had read the contents to Ricky Bloodworth (Dear Otter Creek Shuffleboard Club: Welcome to the Revolution!) and Bloodworth realized he had a hot one. He worked the phones like a boiler-room pro, pestering every cop he knew until he unearthed the fact that this Fuego letter was the fourth of its kind. Thus the murder of B. D. “Sparky” Harper finally was linked to the disappearance of the Shriner, the abduction of the Canadian woman at the Seaquarium, and now the unsolved kidnapping of Ida Kimmelman. Of course, neither the police nor Ricky Bloodworth knew precisely what had happened to the last three victims—who could have guessed? —but it was still quite a list. Especially if you tacked on the savage stabbing of private investigator Brian Keyes.

  This front-page attention thrilled Skip Wiley, and in a brief campfire ceremony he thanked his fellow radicals for their patience. “Remember ye this day!” he told them. “On this day we are born to the eyes of America. Today the Miami Sun, tomorrow USA Today!”

  None of the conspirators were identified in Bloodworth’s story, and Brian Keyes’s description of his “Slavic” abductors was repeated as if it were an established fact. Wiley admired the yarn as a stroke of originality.

  There was one significant error in Ricky Bloodworth’s story which, when read aloud by Jesus Bernal, made Skip Wiley roll his eyes, Viceroy Wilson laugh out loud, and Tommy Tigertail shrug. It was a shrug Tommy saved for extremely stupid behavior by white people. Somehow Ricky Bloodworth had managed to screw up the name of Wiley’s group and referred to it throughout the story as Las Nachos de Diciembre, which translates exactly as one might suppose. Skip Wiley had been in the newspaper business too long not to be tickled by this mistake, but Jesús Bernal was apoplectic. “Nachos!” he shrieked. “This is your brilliant publicity coup? We are now world-famous nachos!” With that Jesus Bernal shredded the newspaper and declared that he’d never experienced such humiliation in all his days in the underground. Skip Wiley suspected that, more than anything, Bernal resented the Mexican insinuation.

  “Relax,” he told Jesus. “We’ll straighten this out soon enough, won’t we?”

  Several persons were deeply displeased to see Ricky Bloodworth’s story. One was Cab Mulcahy, who sensed Skip Wiley’s demented hand behind the El Fuego caper. Mulcahy could see disaster looming. For the newspaper. For himself. For all Miami. He shriveled at the vision of a handcuffed Wiley being led up the steps of the Dade County Courthouse—wild-eyed and foamy-mouthed, bellowing one of his dark axioms. Every major paper in America would cover the extravaganza: Columnist Goes on Trial as Mass Murderer. It would be better than Manson because Skip Wiley was more coherent. Skip Wiley was a hell of a quote.

  Despite his premonitions, Cab Mulcahy knew there was little he could do until he was absolutely sure.

  Another person who cringed at the sight of Richard L. Bloodworth’s byline was Detective Harold Keefe, who’d nearly succeeded in convincing the police hierarchy that a renegade cop had dreamed up those crazy letters. Harold Keefe had refused to speak with Bloodworth the night before and
now was sorry he hadn’t. Keefe could have used the opportunity to drop the dime on Al García and derail all this freaky Las Noches crap. Now it was too late, a veritable disaster. The chief was furious, I.A.D. was on red alert, and the Chamber of Commerce was handing out cyanide capsules.

  As Harold Keefe studied the front page of the Miami Sun, he decided to retaliate swiftly, utilizing the police department’s vast apparatus for equivocation. He would compose a public statement to put the whole Nacho case in a sober perspective. The wording would be dicey, considering the publicity, but Keefe would stick to the original platform: The murder of B. D. Harper is unrelated to the subsequent disappearance of tourists... No evidence of foul play ... The Fuego letters are a sick hoax perpetrated by a disgruntled policeman (for support, quote from Dr. Remond Courtney’s report to the chief) ... Close by saying the whole matter remains under investigation ... an internal investigation. Pretty tidy, Keefe thought.

  He recorded two versions of the statement, a thirty-second loop for radio and two fifteen-second sound bites for TV. The tapes were copied and the cassettes distributed to broadcast reporters in the lobby of police headquarters. Full texts of the press release (in English, Spanish, and Creole) were hand-delivered to all Miami newspapers; a studio eight-by-ten of Harold Keefe was conveniently included in the package.

  Keefe’s statement was released just in time for the noon news on radio and television.

  Tommy Tigertail was driving east on Alligator Alley when he heard the broadcast. He turned around and cruised back to tell Skip Wiley.

  “I’ll be damned, a cover-up!” Wiley exclaimed. The Indian had found him fishing near the secret campsite. Wiley was dressed in a buckskin jacket and Fila tennis shorts; he wore an Australian bush hat with a red emblem on the crown. He listened closely to Tommy Tigertail’s account of the police press release, and winced at the mention of Dr. Remond Courtney.

  “I wonder what happened to Brian,” Wiley said irritably. “He was our ace in the hole, our smoking gun. I even gave him the briefcase—it was all the proof those moron cops would ever need.”

  “So what do we do?” the Indian asked.

  “Strike again,” advised Jesus Bernal, who had wandered out of the hammock to eavesdrop. “Strike again, and strike dramatically.”

  Wiley’s bestubbled face cracked into a grin. “Jesús, mi hermano, do you still have some C-4?”

  “Sí.”

  “Bueno,” said Wiley, humoring him with Spanish. “Make me a bomb.”

  “Yes, sir!” Bernal said, scarcely concealing his rapture. “What kind of bomb?”

  “A bomb that goes off when it’s supposed to.”

  “Claro! Do not worry.”

  “Please don’t blow up my car,” Tommy Tigertail said.

  Among those who had no intention of waiting for a bomb were the residents of Otter Creek Village, where the abduction of Ida Kimmelman had set off a minor panic. Newly hired security guards now patrolled the shuffleboard courts until midnight—security guards with guns! Furthermore, the Otter Creek Safety Committee declared that all condominium owners should henceforth walk their dogs en masse, for protection. This was a drastic measure that only promoted more hysteria at Otter Creek—a herd of yipping, squatting miniature poodles dragging scores of Sansa-belted retirees across the landscaping. Fearful of kidnappings, some of the oldsters armed themselves with sharp umbrellas or canisters of Mace, which they often used on one another in the heat of competition for shrubs and hydrants. Indelible terror seized the residents when the actual text of the El Fuego letter appeared in the newspaper; within hours forty-seven units at Otter Creek were put up for sale. Contracts on fourteen other apartments, including a penthouse with a whirlpool, were canceled. Overnight the parking lot seemed to fill with mustard-colored moving vans and station wagons with New York tags.

  This was the first wave out of Florida.

  It was exactly the way Skip Wiley had dreamed it.

  One morning Brian Keyes looked up and saw the round, friendly face of Nell Bellamy. For a second he thought he was back on the sidewalk outside Pauly’s Bar.

  “Hello again.”

  “Hi,” Keyes said.

  “I read about your accident.”

  “It wasn’t exactly an accident,” Keyes said. “Why are you whispering?”

  “It’s a hospital. I always whisper in hospitals.” Nell Bellamy looked embarrassed.

  Keyes said, “It was nice of you to come.”

  “How are you feeling? The nurses said you had a little setback.”

  “Tore a few stitches the other night. One of those things.” The cost of Jenna’s heavenly visit; the next morning he’d felt like a gutted carp.

  Nell tucked another pillow under his head. “Did you see the paper? They think it’s a gang of... maniacs.”

  Brian Keyes knew why Nell Bellamy had come, and it was time to tell the truth. As a reporter, he’d always tried to do these melancholy chores over the phone, never in person. On the phone you could just close your eyes and take a deep gulp and say, “Ma’am, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but—” and then the rotten news. Your little boy got hit by a truck. Your sister was a passenger on that 727. They found your daughter’s body, Mrs. Davenport. Sometimes Keyes couldn’t bring himself to do it, and he’d play the line-is-busy game with his editor. Sorry, can’t get a comment from the family. The line’s been busy all afternoon. And then if the editor persisted, Keyes would dial his own phone number and hold the receiver away from his ear, so the busy signal would be audible.

  Unfortunately, Nell Bellamy wasn’t on the other end of a telephone. She was standing intently at the rail of the hospital bed, bracing for what her ace private investigator was about to say.

  “Mr. Keyes, I’ve a feeling you found out something important.”

  Keyes couldn’t bear to look in her eyes, so he concentrated on the buttons of her crisp blouse. “Mrs. Bellamy, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your husband is dead. I think he was murdered.”

  Nell Bellamy sat down, neat and plump, in a chair by the window. “Oh, Teddy,” she said softly.

  At that moment Brian Keyes could have murdered Skip Wiley, could have grabbed his wild blond mane and snapped his neck. In his derangement Wiley had come to see his own life as a headline, getting bigger and more sensational each day. Everything El Fuego said and did, or ordered done, was devised with one test: how it would look in print. Sparky Harper gagging on a rubber alligator, for instance—masterful, in a way. For days Keyes had been thinking about Wiley’s macabre front-page reality. Now he thought: Skip ought to be here to watch this woman cry.

  “I think it was the same people who stabbed me,” Keyes said. “They’re very dangerous, Mrs. Bellamy. They’re fanatical.”

  “The Nachos?” Nell Bellamy asked. “But why would they kill my husband? He’s just a realtor.”

  “They’re killing off tourists,” Keyes said.

  Nell nodded as if she understood, as if Florida was finally making sense. “Well, the police warned me not to believe the newspaper.”

  “The police are wrong, Mrs. Bellamy.”

  “A detective told me Teddy must’ve drowned. He said there’s no such thing as The Nachos.”

  “They had Teddy’s swimming trunks,” Keyes said.

  “Oh no,” Nell said, stricken. “What did they do to him? I mean, how ... ?”

  Keyes felt terrible. He held out his hand and Nell Bellamy took it. “They told me it was quick and painless,” he said. “I’m very sorry.”

  From nowhere Nell produced a handful of pink Kleenexes and dabbed at her eyes. “You’re a brave man, Mr. Keyes. Risking your life the way you did.” She composed herself and took a paisley checkbook from her purse. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Put that away,” Keyes said. “Please, Mrs. Bellamy.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  No, I’m not, Keyes said to himself.

  “Is there any chance,” Mrs. Bellamy said, “of
finding Teddy’s body?”

  “None,” said Keyes, thinking of Pavlov the crocodile.

  The door opened and the two beefy Shriners came into the room. They wore business suits and mauve fez hats.

  “You’re a popular fellow,” Burt the Shriner said. “Lots of visitors. Mr. Mulcahy from the newspaper was here. So was Detective Keefe. Later there was a Sergeant García, kind of a rude fellow. Also some television types asking for an interview. One of those Live-Eye jobs.”

  “We told them to come back another day,” said the Shriner named James, “when you were up to snuff.”

  “I asked Burt and James to keep an eye on the door,” Nell Bellamy explained. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Thank you.” Keyes knew what García and the other visitors had wanted: a firsthand account of his noche with Las Noches. Cab Mulcahy doubtlessly had figured out the Wiley connection. Keyes wondered what the old boy would do now.

  “We knew it’d be like Grand Central Station up here after that newspaper article,” Burt said. “We thought you’d appreciate a little peace and quiet.” He looked at Mrs. Bellamy and said, “So what’s the verdict, Nellie?”

  “Mr. Keyes says the newspaper was right.”

  “Slavic murderers! Wearing wigs!”

  “No,” Brian Keyes said. “That part was wrong.”

  “But the part about Ted being killed, that was true,” Nell told the Shriners. “They stole his bathing trunks.”

  “Lord God,” Burt said, “those bastards.”

  James put a meaty arm around Nell Bellamy’s shoulders and she went for the Kleenex again.

  Burt waited a decent interval, then asked: “What are the chances that the police will catch these people?”

  “Fifty-fifty,” Keyes replied, without conviction.

  “Not good enough,” James said.

  “Piss poor,” Burt concurred. “Mr. Keyes, what’s your timetable? Are you going to stick with this case?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good. We’d like to tag along.”

  “Nellie’s going back to Evanston,” James said protectively. “Tonight.”