Which is why he came to enjoy guarding Kara Lynn Shivers. The first couple days she’d treated him with the same frostiness and suspicion she held for most men, but gradually she had warmed up. The less they talked about the beauty-queen racket, the happier Kara Lynn seemed. She was good company, nothing like Keyes had expected. It seemed a miracle that she had emerged from the cloying parentage of Reed Shivers so independent, unspoiled, and classy. It also was amazing that her sense of humor had survived, as had some soft and thoughtful edges. Talking to Kara Lynn was so easy that Keyes had to remind himself that this was not prom week, it was a serious assignment, and the package did not include true confessions. He was getting paid a small truckload of money to do one job: deliver Kara Lynn Shivers safe, pristine, and magnificent aboard the queen’s float.
Two days after Christmas, five days before the big parade, Kara Lynn came downstairs wearing a sassy lemon-yellow tennis skirt and a matching knit vest. She handed Brian Keyes one of her father’s expensive boron tennis rackets and said, “Come on, Marlowe, we’re going to the club.”
Keyes wasn’t in a clubby mood. He’d spent a second straight morning at the airport, watching Customs in case Wiley tried to slip through. As usual, Miami International was a zoo—and there’d been no sign of Skip.
“I’m beat,” Keyes told Kara Lynn. “Besides, I’m lousy at tennis.”
“Not with those legs,” Kara Lynn said. “Now, come on.”
They took her VW. It was only a ten-block ride, a winding circle around the Coral Gables golf course. Keyes drove. In the rearview, two cars back, was a Cadillac Seville with tinted windows. It was the worst tail job Keyes had ever seen—if that’s what it was. On an open stretch Keyes coasted the VW and the Caddy backed off by half a mile. Then it turned off and disappeared.
Kara Lynn was very cool; she hadn’t turned around once.
“Do you have your own gun?” she asked casually.
“It’s in the trunk.”
“There is no trunk.”
“There is too,” Keyes said, “in the MG.”
“Brilliant,” she said. “How much did you say they were paying you?”
Keyes gave her a that’s-very-funny look.
“Who do you think was following us?”
“Maybe nobody. Maybe the bad guys.”
“They wouldn’t try anything now, not before the parade.”
“Who knows,” Keyes said. “We’re dealing with a special brand of fruitcake.” He pulled into the clubhouse parking lot.
Kara Lynn asked, “How are you going to play tennis in those ratty sneakers?”
“Badly, I’m sure.” The shoes weren’t the worst of it. Keyes was wearing raggedy cutoff jeans and a Rolling Stones concert T-shirt.
“Take my arm,” Kara Lynn said, “otherwise they’ll think you’re a caddy.”
Keyes dragged himself around the tennis court for a solid hour, volleying like a madman, all speed and no finesse. His stitches throbbed constantly and his right lung was on fire. The only thing that kept him going was the long-legged sight of Kara Lynn rushing the net, her lips set intently, cheeks flushing pink, blond hair shimmering with each step. When it came to tennis, she was a very serious young lady. Nothing fancy, no power to speak of, but clean precise strokes. Tricky, too.
She beat him 6-4, 3-6, 7-6. A drop shot got him. He made a valiant stab, but wound up straddling the net. He was too exhausted to feel embarrassed.
Afterward Kara Lynn led him into the clubhouse lounge. Keyes took a quick survey and concluded that he was the only person in the whole joint without an alligator on his shirt. Even the bartender had one. Keyes thought he’d died and gone to Preppie Heaven.
Several fragrant young men stopped Kara Lynn for a peck on the cheek. Kiss, kiss. Howya doing. Looking great. Bye now. Keyes himself got a few curious stares.
“You ever see Goodbye, Columbus’?” he said to Kara Lynn when they sat down. “I feel just like the shmuck in that movie, and you’re the Ali MacGraw part.”
“Oh please.”
“It was before your time. Forget about it.”
“I like the Rolling Stones,” Kara Lynn volunteered.