‘‘Yes, Cab. However, it was a very small parade today.”
“I don’t care.”
“Belize Nationalism Day?”
“Perfect. Go with it. Run a nice big picture, too.”
“But, Cab … “
“And call Jenna. Right away.”
The screen door on Pauly’s Bar was humming with flies. Inside there were six bar-stools, a gutted pinball machine, a boar’s head, and a life-size cutout of Victoria Principal, a bourbon stain on her right breast. The bar itself was made of cheap pine and appeared to be recently repaired, bristling with fresh nails and splinters. Behind the bar was a long horizontal mirror, its fissures secured with brown hurricane tape.
At first glance Pauly’s was not a raucous joint, but a careful person could sense an ominous lethargy.
Brian Keyes decided to be the perfect customer. He slipped the lumpy-faced bartender a twenty-dollar bill and discreetly assured him that no, he wasn’t a cop, he was just trying to buy some information.
The bartender, who wore a mesh tank top and a shiny mail-order toupee, turned out to be somewhat helpful; after all, twenty dollars was a banner night at Pauly’s. Keyes knew from looking around the place that the man he hunted would be remembered here, and he was right.
“Don’t get many big niggers in here,” the bartender remarked, secreting the money in a pocket. “Then again, they all look big at night.” The bartender laughed, and so did a greasy wino two stools down. Keyes smiled and said ha-ha, pretty funny, but this one you’d remember especially because of the fancy black sunglasses.
The bartender and the greasy wino exchanged looks, their grins getting bigger and dirtier. “Viceroy!” the bartender said. “Viceroy Wilson.”
“The football player?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t believe it!” Keyes said.
“Well, take a look here,” and then the bartender tossed an official NFL football at Brian Keyes, knocking over his Budweiser. Viceroy Wilson, former star fullback for the Miami Dolphins, had autographed the ball with a magnificent flourish, in red ink right under the stitch.
“He’s a regular,” the bartender boasted.
“No!”
“He sure is!”
“Well, I really need to talk to him.”
“He don’t give autographs to just anybody.”
“I don’t want an autograph.”
“Then why you asking for him? He’s not a man that likes to be asked for.”
“It’s personal,” Keyes said. “Very important.”
“I’ll bet,” croaked the wino. Keyes ignored him. He had a feeling these guys were full of shit anyway. Keyes was an avid football fan and, looking around, he wasn’t able to picture the great Viceroy Wilson—bad hands, bankrupt and all—rubbing elbows with a bunch of pukes at Pauly’s. Viceroy Wilson didn’t belong in a rathole dive on South Beach; Viceroy Wilson belonged in Canton, Ohio, at the Football Hall of Fame.
“I’ll get him for you,” the wino volunteered, oozing off the bar stool.
“Hey, what if he don’t want to be got?” the bartender said. “Viceroy’s a very private man.”
“Twenty bucks,” the wino said. Keyes handed it to him and ordered another beer. Twenty dollars apparently was now the going rate for everything at Pauly’s. The wino shuffled out the door.
“Kiss your money good-bye,” the bartender said reproachfully.
“Relax,” Keyes told him, knowing it would only have the opposite effect. People in bars don’t like to be told to relax.
“I’m beginning to think you’re a narc!” the bartender said loudly. He calmed down when Keyes laid another twenty bucks on the bar next to the beer glass.
Forty minutes later the screen door wheezed open and stayed that way for several moments. A cool salty breeze tickled Keyes’s neck. He longed to turn around but instead just sipped on the beer, pretending that the 235-pound black man (Carrera sunglasses dangling on his chest) who loomed in the tavern mirror wasn’t really glaring at him as if he were the proverbial turd in the punch bowl.
“I don’t think I know you,” Viceroy Wilson growled.
Brian Keyes was in the process of spinning around on the barstool, about to say something extremely witty, when a black fist the approximate size and consistency of a cinder-block slammed into the base of his neck.
At that instant Keyes’s brain became a kaleidoscope, and he would later be able to recall only a few jagged pieces of consciousness.