TOURIST SEASON by Carl Hiaasen

Bernal stalked to the tip of the jetty. “I chose this spot for a reason,” he said, pointing the gun across the Atlantic. “Out there is Cuba. Two hundred miles. It is nearer than Disney World, Mr. Policia. I think it’s time you should go home.”

“I don’t believe this,” said Al Garcia.

“Are you much of a swimmer?” Jesus Bernal asked.

“Not when I’m fucking paralyzed.”

“Such a baby. But, you see, this is your sentence. The sentence which—you have agreed—befits your treasonous crimes. Alberto Garcia, maggot and traitor, I hereby command you to return at once to Cuba. There you will join the underground and fight the devil in his own backyard. This is how you will redeem yourself. Perhaps you may someday be a hero. Or at least a man.”

“How about shark food?” Garcia said. Even with two good arms he was a rotten swimmer. He knew he’d never make it as far as Molasses Reef, much less Havana harbor. It was a funny idea, really. Garcia heard himself laugh out loud.

“What’s so goddamn hilarious?”

“Nothing, commander.”

The detective began to think of his family. Dreamily he pictured his wife and his children as he had last seen them. At dinner, two nights ago. They all seemed to be smiling. He thought: I must have done something right.

He opened his eyes and turned his head to see the tops of Jesus Bernal’s moldy sneakers.

“Up!” Bernal cried. He kicked at Garcia, once, twice, three times, until the detective lost count. They were not hard kicks, but diabolically aimed.

Bernal bent down until their faces were inches apart. “Get your stinking ass off the ground,” Bernal said, his breath sour and sickening.

Once more Garcia tried to sit up, but rolled sideways instead. He nearly passed out as his full weight landed on his mangled arm.

Bernal resumed kicking and Garcia rolled again, the limestone and coral digging into his flesh.

“Go!” Bernal shouted, prodding with his feet. “Go, go, go!”

Garcia landed in the water with a muted splash. The salt scoured his wounds and a sudden coldness seized his chest, robbing him of all breath. Garcia did not know how deep the water was, but it didn’t matter. He could have drowned in a saucepan. Somehow he clawed to the surface and slurped air.

He looked up toward the jetty and saw Bernal’s stringy silhouette, the shotgun raised over his head in triumph. Jesus played the flashlight across the waves.

“You’d better get started!” he called exuberantly. “Head for Carysfort Light. It’s a good place to rest. By daybreak you’ll be ready to go again. Hurry, mi guerrero, onward to Cuba! She is not as far as you think.”

Garcia was too weak to float, much less swim. Hungrily he gulped breath after breath, but it was not enough. A marrow-deep pain began to smother his conscious thought, and he sensed himself slipping away. He paddled mindlessly with his good arm; he didn’t care that he was going in circles, as long as his head stayed above water.

“You look like a fool!” Jesus Bernal yelled giddily. “A fat little clown!”

Another gunshot split the night and Jesus Bernal commenced a curious dance, hopping like a marionette. In his deepening fog Al Garcia thought: The idiot is shooting into the sky, like frigging New Year’s Eve.

Still another shot went off, and then more, until the crackles blended to a dull resonance, like a church bell. Garcia wondered why he saw no firebursts from the mouth of the sawed-off.

Jesus Bernal’s queer dance became palsied. Suddenly he stopped hopping, bent over double and emitted a horrific wail. The shotgun and the flashlight clattered to the rocks.

But Garcia himself was out of strength. His arm felt like cement, and his will to save himself evaporated under a warm wave of irrepressible fatigue. He was sliding downward into euphoria, away from all pain. The ocean took him gently and closed his tired eyes, but not before he saw a final shot shear the crown of Jesus Bernal’s head and leave him twitching in a heap on the jetty.

29

“Nice shooting, Ace,” Al Garcia said feebly.