“Sam’s a doctor,” Mrs. Gilbert explained.
Mack Dane felt like another drink. The Nordic Princess was out to sea, rocking ever so lightly in the northeast chop. Behind her, the skies of Miami glowed a burnished orange from the sodium anticrime lights.
“So it’s safe to say you’re really enjoying this trip,” Mack Dane said.
“Oh yes.” Mrs. Gilbert noisily attacked a stone-crab claw. Mack Dane wondered if she’d considered removing the shell first.
“Put in your article,” she said, “that Dr. and Mrs. Samuel Gilbert of Montreal, Canada, are having the time of their lives.”
Sam Gilbert said, “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Mr. Dane, could you do us a favor? Could you take our picture?”
“Sure.” Mack Dane put away his notebook and wiped his hands on a cocktail napkin that was decorated with the seal of the State of Florida. Mrs. Gilbert handed him a small thirty-five-millimeter camera with a built-in flash and built-in focus and built-in light meter.
The Gilberts posed arm-in-arm against the rail of the ship. Sam Gilbert wore his doctor face while Mrs. Gilbert kept reaching up and fiddling with his toupee, which, in the strong wind, had begun to resemble a dead starling.
Mack Dane squinted through the viewfinder and tried to frame the Gilberts romantically, with the lights of Miami shining over their shoulders. At first it was a perfect picture—if only there’d been a full moon! Then something went wrong. Suddenly Mack Dane couldn’t see the Gilberts anymore; he couldn’t see anything through the camera except a white light. He figured something broke on the focus.
But when he took the camera away from his face, Mack Dane realized that the white light was real: a beam piercing down from the heavens. Or from something in the heavens. Something that hovered like a dragonfly high above the SS Nordic Princess.
“A helicopter,” Mack Dane said. “A big one.” He knew the sound of a chopper. He’d flown them lots of times out to the oil rigs.
The Gilberts craned their necks and stared into the sky, shielding their eyes from the powerful search beam. The other partiers crowded together, pointing. The salsa band took a break.
Mack Dane said, “It’s coming down.”
The helicopter did seem to be descending slowly, but it was no longer in a hover, it was flying in a slow arc. Trailing behind the chopper was a long advertising banner.
“This is really tacky,” Sam Gilbert said.
Mack Dane put on eyeglasses and turned in circles, trying to read the streamer. In four-foot letters it said: “AVAST AND AHOY: WELCOME TO THE REVOLUTI—”
“Revoluti?” puzzled Sam Gilbert.
“Maybe it’s a new perfume,” said his wife.
Mack Dane wondered if some letters had fallen off the advertisement.
The helicopter dropped lower and lower, and soon the partiers aboard the Friendship Cruise found themselves drowned to silence by the rotor noise. When the chopper was no more than one hundred feet above the deck, the banner was cut loose. It fluttered into the sea like an enormous confetti. The crowd ooooohhhed, and a few even applauded.
Mack Dane noticed that the top deck—the Royal Sun Deck, according to the ship’s guide—was filling with tourists and VIPs and travel writers who had come up from below to investigate the commotion. Before long, people were packed elbow to elbow. In the meantime, the captain of the SS Nordic Princess had grown concerned about the reckless helicopter and cut his speed to eight knots.
“Hello, folks!” said a brassy male voice. Somebody on the helicopter had an electric bullhorn.
“Having a good time in Florida?” the voice called.
“Yeaaaah!” shouted the partiers, their faces upturned brightly. Some of the stuffy civic-leader types—the mayor, the Orange Bowl committeemen, the Chamber of Commerce life members—were miffed at the interruption of the cruise but, not wanting to spoil anyone’s fun, said nothing.
The loud voice in the helicopter said: “How would all of you like some genuine Florida souvenirs?”
“Yeaaaaah!” shouted the partiers.
“Well, here you go!” the voice said.
A door on the side of the helicopter opened and a white parcel plummeted toward the deck of the Nordic Princess. It was followed by another and another. At first Mack Dane thought the objects might be miniature parachutes or beach towels, but when one landed near his feet he saw that it was only a shopping bag from Neiman-Marcus. Soon the deck was being rained with shopping bags from all the finest department stores—Lord and Taylor, Bloomingdale’s, Macy’s, Burdine’s, Jordan Marsh, Saks. Once the travelers realized what was happening, the Friendship Cruise quickly dissolved into a frenzied scrabble for the goodies.