“Same typewriter as the first one,” he said.
Keyes wasn’t surprised.
“The Beach police think it’s a crackpot,” Garcia added in a noncommittal way.
“What do you think, Al?”
“I think it’s too hinky for a crackpot. I think to myself, how would this Fuego know about Bellamy so soon? Almost before the cops! And I think, where’s the connection between this Bellamy guy and B. D. Harper? They didn’t even know each other, yet after each one comes these death letters. Too hinky, like I said.”
“So you’re ready to spring Cabal?”
Garcia laughed, pounding on the steering wheel. “You’re hilarious, Brian.”
“But Ernesto didn’t kill Harper and he damn sure didn’t snatch this drunk Shriner.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” Keyes said, “the guy’s a burglar, not a psychopath.”
“Know what I think, brother? I think Ernesto is El Fuego”
“Give me a break, Al.”
“Let me finish.” Garcia pulled the Dodge into a shopping center and parked near a Cuban cafe. He rolled down the window and toyed with another cigarette. “I think your little scuzzball client is El Fuego, but I also think he didn’t dream up this scheme all by his lonesome. I agree with you: Cabal ain’t exactly a master criminal, he’s a fuckin’ burglar, and not very good at that. This whole thing sounds like a bad extortion scam, and our pal Ernesto, he don’t have the brains to extort a blow-job from a legless whore. So he had help. Who? you’re asking me. Don’t know for sure, but I’ll bet it’s this mysterious superhuman black dude Cabal’s been crying about … “
Keyes related his encounter with Viceroy Wilson at Pauly’s Bar.
“You deserve a good whack on the head for showing your shiny angel-food face in that snakepit,” the detective said. “You wanna file A-and-B on the sonofabitch?”
“Just find him, Al.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Taxpayer, I’ll get right on it.”
“This might help.” Keyes handed Garcia a scribbled note that said “GATOR 2.” “It’s the tag on the Caddy that Wilson was driving.”
“Hey, you do good work. This’ll be easy,” Garcia said. “Come on, let’s get a sandwich and some coffee.”
Both of them ordered a hot Cuban mix and ate in the car, wax paper spread across their laps.
“Al,” Keyes said, savoring the tangy sandwich, “what do you make of the name of this group? Las Noches de Diciembre—the Nights of December, right?”
Garcia shrugged. “Usually Cuban groups name themselves after some great date in their history, but the only thing I know happened in December is Castro came to power—nothing they’d want to celebrate. ‘Course, there is another possibility.”
“What’s that?”
Garcia paused for another enormous bite. Somehow he was still able to speak. “They got something planned for this December. As in, right now. And if what we’ve seen already is any indication—he glanced over at Keyes—”it’s gonna be a treat.”
Daniel “Viceroy” Wilson stood six feet, two inches tall and weighed 237 pounds. He usually wore his hair in a short Afro, or sometimes plaited, but he always kept enough of a gritty beard to make him look about half as mean as he really was.
One of the things Wilson fervently wished this afternoon, skulking in the parking lot of the world-famous Miami Seaquarium, was that he could own this fine Cadillac he was driving. It didn’t seem right that it belonged to the Indian, who didn’t appreciate it, didn’t even use the goddamn tape deck. One time Wilson had left a Herbie Hancock cassette on the front seat, and the Indian had thrown it out the window with a bunch of Juicy Fruit wrappers and bingo tickets onto I-95. At that moment Wilson had contemplated killing the Indian, but when it came to Seminoles, one had to be careful. There was a wealth of mystical shit to be considered: eagle feathers, panther gonads, and so on. Wilson was much more fearful of Indian magic than of jail, so he let the Herbie Hancock episode slide. Besides, for the first time in years, Wilson had something to look forward to. He didn’t want to spoil it by pissing off the Indian.
Still, he’d have loved to own the Caddy.