TOURIST SEASON by Carl Hiaasen

Al Garcia did not want his career to end this way, in a stale little office on a parking lot full of police cars.

He was still furious about the two goons from I.A.D. who had foraged through his house, hunting for a typewriter that wasn’t there. They’d each carried Xerox copies of the El Fuego letters to compare with anything they found. But all they’d discovered was a bunch of hand-scrawled hate letters Garcia had once written to Lee Iacocca, the president of Chrysler Motors. For some reason almost every cop car in America is made by Chrysler, and Al Garcia calculated that he’d spent at least forty thousand hours of his life riding in Chrysler-made automobiles: Furies, Le-Barons, Diplomats, Monacos, Darts, you-name-it. Al Garcia was an expert on Chryslers, and he hated the damn things. Hated the steering, hated the shocks, hated the brakes, hated the radios. Garcia especially hated the seats. He had hemorrhoids the size of bell peppers and it was all Lee lacocca’s fault. So Garcia had dashed off a few appropriate missives, which he wisely never sent. Typically the letters would begin: “Dear Shit-for-Brains.” For some reason the guys from I.A.D. found this fascinating. They sealed the letters in a plastic bag and exchanged congratulatory whispers. Garcia gave them the finger on their way out the door.

He didn’t really expect to see the I.A.D. boys again anytime soon, so he was mildly surprised when one of the assholes appeared that night at the motor pool. Garcia remembered that his name was Lieutenant Bozeman. He was very young to be a lieutenant, and much too sharply dressed to be a good cop.

“I hope you need a car,” Garcia said. “You like cats?”

Bozeman helped himself to a seat. He took a notebook from his coat.

“Just a few questions, sergeant, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind, dipshit. I’m very busy right now, in case you didn’t notice. I got six marked units waiting to have the tires rotated, I got a rear bumper missing off a paddy wagon, and the transmission just dropped out of an undercover car in the middle of the Rickenbacker Causeway. Much as I’d love to help you, I got no time.”

Bozeman said, “Harold Keefe thinks you wrote the Fuego letters.”

“Why would I do a stupid thing like that?”

“To make him look bad.”

“Hal doesn’t need my help.”

Bozeman scribbled something in the notebook.

“Weren’t you passed over for a promotion last year?”

“Yeah,” Garcia said. “Failed the swimsuit competition. So what?”

Scribble, scribble. The scratch of the pen jangled Garcia’s nerves.

“You don’t like Detective Keefe very much, do you, Garcia?”

“I love Detective Keefe,” Garcia said. He leaned over and beckoned Bozeman with a fat brown finger. “I love Hal very much,” Garcia whispered. “In fact, I want him.”

“That’s not funny,” Bozeman said stiffly.

“You’re right, it’s very sad. See, Hal doesn’t want me … what did you say your first name was?”

“I didn’t.”

Bozeman started jotting again. Garcia firmly took him by the wrist. “I like you, too, lieutenant.”

“Stop it!”

“Please don’t be shy. Are you married?”

“Sergeant, that’s enough.”

Garcia frowned. “You don’t want me either?”

“No!”

“Then why are you getting a lump in your pants, you little fruit!”

Bozeman pulled away, as if burned on a stove. Garcia wheezed with laughter and pounded on the desk.

“You!” Bozeman tried very hard to look icy, Bronson-style, but was betrayed by his crimson blush. “You’re nothing but a psychopath, Sergeant Garcia.”

“And you’re nothing but a well-dressed sack of shit.” Garcia stood up and exhaled straight into the lieutenant’s face. “Now get out of here before I launch that Bic pen up your Brooks Brothers ass. And put this in your notebook: whoever wrote those Fuego letters is crazier than me, and he’s for real.”

After the I.A.D. guy left, Garcia didn’t have much to do so he scrounged up a police manual and looked up “moral turpitude.” The definition wasn’t so bad but, Christ, those two words really jumped off the page. Especially turpitude, which inspired images of Great Danes and Reddi Wip and double-jointed cheerleaders. Certainly wouldn’t go over very big back at the homestead. If I.A.D. dumps on me, Garcia thought, maybe they’ll have the decency to go with simple “insubordination.” With a creep like Bozeman, who could tell.

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