“Unless,” Marlis said, “the dude over there is the Fidel impersonator, Mickey Schwartz.”
“Either way,” Joe Sereno said, “ID these two and this whole mess will become clear.”
A look passed between Franklin and Marlis.
Joe caught it and thought, Hmmmm.
13. THE LAW OF THE JUNGLE—Carl Hiaasen
Mickey Schwartz had never been to Bimini, as there was not among Bahamians a huge demand for Fidel Castro impersonators.
Nor had Mickey Schwartz ever been in a Cigarette boat crossing the Gulf Stream with an Uzi-toting goon, an obese fugitive politician, two crabby female hostages, and an older woman who elegantly claimed to have slept with the real Fidel.
In that respect, it was the most interesting gig of Mickey Schwartz’s show business career. And, except for the threat of gunplay, it was also the most gratifying, professionally.
Being a Castro impersonator in Miami was no picnic—a vast impassioned segment of the population regarded the Cuban leader more as a murderous butcher than as cheap comic relief. As Mickey Schwartz could attest, there was no fortune to be made milking Castro for laughs, at least not in South Florida.
Most of Mickey’s Fidel gigs were weekend parades in Little Havana, and involved long hours of pretending to be dead—lying in an open casket, swinging from a gallows, rotting under a cloud of fake flies in a cane field… that sort of thing. As long as Mickey didn’t move a muscle, everything was fine; people cheered like crazy.
Easy payday, his pals would say. But Mickey Schwartz hated it. The fatigues were stifling and the phony beard was scratchy. Besides, he was too talented for Sunday parade crap. He had a solid lounge act in Sunny Isles—Brando, Nicholson, Robin Williams. He even did a Howard Stern, for the younger crowd. Who else did a Howard Stern? Nobody, that’s who.
Mickey Schwartz believed he hated impersonating Castro nearly as much as the exiles hated Castro himself. Yet now, plowing across the Gulf Stream in a spiffy black Cigarette boat, he figured all the hard humiliating work was paying off. Ten grand, and a free trip to Bimini!
Mickey wasn’t sure exactly who was paying him, and didn’t care. He was feeling pretty good about the day, until the speedboat hit the curling wake of an oil tanker and the humongous fugitive politician—the one they called Big Joey G.—choked to death on his conch salad.
Fay Leonard said, “Tell me you’re not just throwing him overboard.”
Hector squinted at her. “No, baby, I’m not throwing him overboard. I’m rolling him overboard.”
The body of Big Joey disappeared over the transom. The splash was majestic. Fay glared at Hector; she hated polluters.
Hector said, “That oughta add about eight knots to our cruising speed.”
“And three hundred pounds of filth to the water column,” Fay muttered.
“No, baby, that man is definitely biodegrading.”
Britt Montero, shackled on the deck next to Fay, couldn’t help but snigger. Hector winked and flexed, making the scorpion tattoo do a shimmy. He slipped the strap of the Uzi over his shoulder and returned to the wheel. Fay’s gaze shifted to the red Gott cooler at Hector’s feet. Glumly she considered what was inside, packed on a pillow of ice.
Nothing left to bargain with now, she thought. The granddaughter of Marion McAlister Williams will soon be sleeping with the fishes, and Joey G.
Fay felt an elbow in her ribs. Britt leaned close and said, “Don’t worry.” Fay nodded gamely. Maybe they could talk their way out of it. Maybe there was hope.
Just as the despicable Hector had predicted, the newly lightened Cigarette boat picked up speed. In her mind, Fay replayed the long ride. By the time Joey G. started gagging, everyone aboard had grown sick of him. His preposterous cryogenics spiel had become a topic of open ridicule among the captives; even Hector admitted it was baloney, along with the Vietnam skull-boiling rap. Nobody who saw Big Joey cram an entire quart of diced conch into his voluminous cheeks could’ve imagined him as a soldier in any man’s army, in any war.
Then came the jolt of the tanker wake, a shower of salt spray, and Joey was flopping on the deck like an albino walrus. Hector flung himself across the Gott cooler to prevent it from being kicked overboard. Before the others realized Big Joey wasn’t reenacting some ludicrous jungle-sapper fantasy, it was over. All of Hector’s strength was required to jettison the prebloated corpse.