At North Miami Avenue, one of the undercover cops calmly called over the radio for assistance. Some ex-Nicaraguan National Guardsmen who were picketing the U.S. immigration office now threatened to crash the parade if they did not immediately receive their green cards. A consignment of six officers responded and easily quelled the disturbance.
A block later, one of the motorcycle cops disguised as a Shriner reported sighting a heavyset black male resembling Daniel “Viceroy” Wilson, watching the parade from the steps of the county courthouse.
As the queen’s float passed the building, Keyes leaned out of the octopus’s mouth to see a squad of officers swarm up the marble steps like indigo ants. The search proved fruitless, however; three large black men were briefly detained, questioned, and released. They were, in order of size, a Boca Raton stockbroker, a city councilman from Cleveland, and a seven-foot Rastafarian marijuana wholesaler. None bore the slightest resemblance to Viceroy Wilson, and the motorcycle cop’s radio alert was dismissed as a false alarm.
Al Garcia refused to take any painkillers while he watched the parade from his hospital room in Homestead. He wanted to be fully cognizant, and he wanted his vision clear. Two young nurses asked if they could sit and watch with him, and Garcia was delighted to have company. One of the nurses remarked that Michael Landon was the second-handsomest man on television, next to Rick Springfield, the singer.
As the floats rolled by, Garcia impatiently drummed the plaster cast that was glued to his left side. He worried that if trouble broke out, the TV cameras wouldn’t show it; that’s the way it worked at baseball games, when fans ran onto the field. Prime time was too precious to waste on misfits.
Finally the queen’s float came into view, emitting a tremulous screech that Garcia took for brake trouble, when actually it was just the whale music. One of the nurses remarked on how gorgeous Kara Lynn looked, but Garcia wasn’t paying attention. He put on his glasses and squinted at the dopey octopus’s smile until he spotted Keyes, his schoolboy face bobbing in and out of the shadow. Pain and all, Garcia had to chuckle. Poor Brian looked wretched.
At 8:55, the last marching band clanged into view playing something by Neil Diamond. The NEC cameras cut back to Jane Pauley and Michael Landon in the blue booth:
Pauley: Another thrilling Orange Bowl spectacle! I don’t know how they do it, year after year. [Cut to Landon.]
Landon: It’s amazing, isn’t it, Jane? I’d just like to thank NEC and the Orange Bowl organizers for inviting us to spend New Year’s Eve in beautiful South Florida. One of the local weathermen just handed me a list of temperatures around the country and, before we sign off, I’d like to share some of these [holds up temp list]. New York, twenty-one …
Pauley [VOJ]: Brrrrr.
Landon: Wichita, nine below; Knoxville, thirty-nine; Chicago, three degrees and snow! Indianapolis—Jane, are you ready? [Cut to Pauley.]
Pauley: Oh boy, let’s have it.
Landon: Six degrees!
Pauley [pinning on a Go Irish! button]: Home sweet home. Well, I promised everyone I’d bring back some fresh oranges, but I’m just sorry there’s no way to package this magnificent Miami sunshine. Thanks for joining us … good night, everybody.
Landon [two-shot, both waving, major smiles]. ‘Night, everybody. Happy New Year!
Garcia reached for the remote control and turned the channel. A show about humorous TV bloopers came on and Garcia asked the nurses for a shot of Demerol. He lay thinking about the killing of Jesus Bernal and the peaceful parade, and contemplated the possibility that the madness was really over. He felt immense relief.
Ten minutes later the phone rang, sounding five miles away. It was the chief of police.
“Hey, Al, how you feeling?”
“Pretty damn good, boss.”
“We did it, huh?”
Garcia didn’t want to quibble. “Yeah,” he said.
“Did you see the pageant?”
“Yeah, it was just great.”
“Looks like the Nachos are history, buddy.”
“Looks that way,” Garcia said, thinking: This is the same bozo who thought I wrote the Fuego letters. But this time he just might be right. It looks like Wiley took the deep-six after all.