Pauley: Thanks, Michael. We have had a great stay down here, though it looks like you spent a bit more time at the beach than I did. [Landon medium smile.] There’s a lot of excitement in this town, and not just over the parade. As you know, tomorrow night the University of Nebraska Cornhuskers and the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame square off for the national college football championship in the Orange Bowl. NBC will carry that game live, and it looks like the weather’s going to be perfect. Michael, who’re you rooting for? [Cut to Landon close-up.]
Landon: I like Nebraska, Jane.
Pauley: Well, I think I’m going with Notre Dame.
Landon: Ah, still an Indiana girl.
Pauley [laughing]: You betcha. [Cut from two-camera to close-up.] On a serious note [turning to camera], if you’ve been following the news recently you probably know that this South Florida community has been struggling with a tragic and frightening crisis for the past month. A terrorist group calling itself the Nights of December has taken credit for a series of bombings, kidnappings, and other crimes in the Miami area. At least ten persons, many of them tourists, are known to have been killed. Now, as you may have heard, several alleged members of this terrorist group are believed to have died in a helicopter accident over the weekend. And last night, the last known member of this extremist cell was shot to death after abducting a Dade County police officer. It has been a trying time for the citizens down here, and in spite of all this difficulty they still managed to make us feel warm and welcome. [Cut to Landon, nodding appreciatively.] And, Michael, I know you’ll agree as we watch some of these amazing floats go by: It’s shaping up as another spectacular Orange Bowl extravaganza! [Cut to shot over Landon shoulder as he enjoys parade.]
Landon [big smile]: Is it ever! And look at some of these bathing beauties! I may never go back to Malibu.
The parade slowly headed north up the boulevard, past the massive gray public library and Bayfront Park, wino mecca of the eastern seaboard.
The cab of the pickup truck was oppressively stuffy under heavy layers of plaster and plastic. To keep from suffocating, Keyes held his face close to the open windshield, which also functioned as the smiling mouth of the friendly octopus. The driver of the float noticed the gun beneath Keyes’s jacket, but said nothing and appeared unconcerned.
From inside the float, Keyes found it difficult to see much of anything past the prancing rear-ends of the four blue mermaids. Occasionally, when they parted, he caught a glimpse of Kara Lynn’s bare shoulders on the front of the float. As for peripheral vision, he had none; the faces of the spectators were invisible to him.
To offset the racket from the Shriners’ Harley Davidsons, the sperm-whale music had been cranked up to maximum volume. Keyes ranked the whales in the same melodic category as Yoko Ono and high-speed dental drills. It took every ounce of concentration to follow the chatter on the portable police radio that linked him to the command center. Each new block brought the same report: everything calm, so far.
When Kara Lynn’s float reached the main grandstands, it came to a stop so that she and the other Orange Bowl finalists could wave at the VIP’s and pose for the still photographers. Brian Keyes tensed as soon as he felt the Datsun brake; it was during this pause, scheduled for precisely three minutes and twenty seconds, that Keyes expected Skip Wiley to make his move, while the TV cameras settled on Kara Lynn. Forewarned, the police snipers focused their infrared scopes while the plain-clothesmen slid through the cheering crowd to take pre-assigned positions along the curb. On cue, Burt and James led the Shriner cavalcade into an intricate figure-eight that effectively encircled the queen’s float with skull-buzzing motorcycles.
But nothing happened.
Kara Lynn dutifully waved at everyone who vaguely looked important, flash bulbs popped, and the parade crawled on. The floats crossed the median at NE Fifth Street and headed south back down the boulevard, past the heart of the city’s infant skyline. At Flagler Street the procession turned west, and away from the bright television lights. Instantly everyone relaxed and the floats picked up speed for the final leg. Kara Lynn quit waving; her arms were killing her. It was all she could do to smile.