As a habit Skip Wiley called Mulcahy’s home only in moments of rage and only in the merciless wee hours of the morning, when Wiley could be sure of holding the boss’s undivided attention.
Which is why Cab Mulcahy scarcely slept Friday night, and why he was so fretful by Saturday morning when Skip still hadn’t phoned. Keyes called twice to see if Wiley had made contact, but there was nothing to report; both of them worried that Skip might have changed his mind. By midafternoon Mulcahy—still unshaven, and rambling the house in a rumpled bathrobe—was battling a serious depression. He feared that he had missed the only chance to reason with Wiley or bring him in for help.
He was fixing a tuna sandwich on toast when the phone finally rang at half-past five. He hurried into the bedroom, closed the door, punched the tape recorder.
“Hello?”
“You viper!”
“Skip?”
“What kind of snake would let Bloodworth sodomize a Christmas column!”
“Where are you, buddy?”
“At the Gates of Hell, waiting. I told ‘em to save you a ringside seat at the inferno.”
Mulcahy was impressed by Wiley’s vitriol; not bad for a five-day-old rage. “I’m sorry, Skip. I should never have done it. It was wrong.”
“Immoral is what it was.”
“Yes, you’re right. I apologize. But I don’t think morality is your strong suit, at the moment.”
“Whoa,” Wiley said. “Blowing up Ricky Bloodworth was not my idea, Cab. It was one of those things that happens in the fever of revolution. Corrective measures are under way.”
“He’s going to recuperate. You’re damn lucky, Skip.”
“Yeah, I paid a visit to the hospital.”
“You did? But there’s supposed to be a police guard!”
Wiley said, “Don’t get all upset. The kid was thrilled to see me. I brought him a stuffed skunk.”
Mulcahy decided to make his move. A conversation with Wiley was like a freight train: you either got aboard fast or you missed the whole damn thing.
“If you’re in town, why don’t you stop by the house?”
“Thanks, but I’m extremely busy, Cab.”
“I could meet you somewhere. At the club, maybe.”
“Let’s cut the crap, okay?”
“Sure, Skip.”
“Keyes isn’t as smart as he thinks.”
“Oh.”
“Neither are you.”
“What do you mean?”
“In due time, old friend.”
“Why are you doing this?” The wrong thing to say—Mulcahy knew it immediately.
“Why am I doing this? Cab, don’t you read your own newspaper? Are you blind? What do you see when you stare out that big bay window, anyway? Maybe you can’t understand because you weren’t here thirty years ago, when it was paradise. Before they put parking meters on the beach. Before the beach disappeared. God, Cab, don’t tell me you’re like the rest of these migratory loons. They think it’s heaven down here as long as the sun’s out, long as they don’t have to put chains on the tires, it’s marvelous. They think it’s really paradise, because, compared to Buffalo, it is. But, Cab, compared to paradise … “
“Skip, I know how you feel, believe me. But it’ll never work.”
“Why not?”
“You can’t evacuate South Florida, for God’s sake. These people are here to stay.”
“That’s what the cavemen said about tyrannosaurs.”
“Skip, listen to me. They won’t leave for a bloody hurricane—what makes you think they’ll move out after a few lousy bombs?”
“When the condos fail, the banks fail. When the banks fail, it’s bye-bye lemmings.” Wiley sounded impatient. “I explained all this to Keyes.”
“Okay, I understand it,” Mulcahy said. “I understand perfectly. Just tell me, what’s this business about Violating a sacred virgin’? How does that fit into your theory?”
“I thought you smartasses had it all figured out.”
“Well, if it’s the Orange Bowl queen, forget it. The police are everywhere.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
Mulcalay said, “Skip, you’re going to get yourself shot.”
“I’m not planning on it.”
“What are you planning?”
“To be on the front page of your newspaper again tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Mulcahy found it difficult to sound nonchalant. “But the parade’s not for two days.”
“This is a little preview, Cab.”
Mulcahy was flustered. “What kind of preview?”
Wiley said, “You’ll have to wait and see. As a courtesy, I’m advising you to budget some space for tomorrow’s front page.”