TOURIST SEASON by Carl Hiaasen

“Security guards,” Wilson said, “for the Orange Bowl Parade.”

“I see,” said the Southern lady, warily handing each of them a job application. “And you both have some experience?”

“Do we ever,” said Viceroy Wilson, smiling his touchdown smile.

When Brian Keyes awoke, the first thing he noticed was a woman on top of him in the hospital bed. Her blond head lay on his shoulder, and she seemed to be sleeping. Keyes strained to get a glimpse of her face, but every little movement brought a fresh jolt of pain.

The woman weighed heavily on his chest; his ribs still ached from the surgery. Keyes stared down at the soft hair and sniffed for fragrant clues; it wasn’t easy, especially with the tube up his nose.

“Jenna?” he rasped.

The woman on his chest stirred and gave a little hum of a reply.

“Jenna, that you?”

She looked up with a sleepy-eyed hello.

“You sound just like George Burns. Want some water?”

Keyes nodded. He let out a sigh when Jenna climbed out of bed.

“Where’d you get the nurse’s uniform?”

“You like it?” She hitched up the hem. “Check out the white stockings.”

Keyes sipped at the cold water; his throat was a furnace.

“What time is it? What day?”

“December 10, my love. Ten-thirty P.M. Way past visiting hours. That’s why I had to wear this silly outfit.”

“You’d make a spectacular nurse. I’m getting better by the second.”

Jenna blushed. She sat at the foot of the bed. “You looked so precious when you were asleep.”

Keyes shut his eyes and faked a snore.

“Now stop!” Jenna laughed. “You look precious anyway. Aw, Brian, I’m so sorry. What happened out there?”

“Skip didn’t tell you?”

She looked away. “I haven’t talked to him.”

Keyes thought: She must think I’ve had brain surgery.

“What happened out there?” she asked again.

“I got knifed by one of Skip’s caballeros “

“I don’t believe it,” Jenna said.

Pausing only for gulps of water, Keyes related the sad tale of Mrs. Kimmelman. For once Jenna seemed to focus on every word. She was curious, but unalarmed.

“That poor woman. Do you think she died?”

Keyes nodded patiently. “I’m pretty sure.”

Jenna stood up and walked to the window. “The weather got muggy again,” she remarked. “Three gorgeous days with a little winter, and then poof, Sauna City. My folks already had three feet of snow.”

“Jenna?”

When she turned to face him, her eyes were moist. She was trying to keep it inside, trying to recoup like the magnificent actress she was.

“I’m s-s-so sorry,” she cried. “I didn’t know you’d get hurt.”

Keyes held out his hand. “I’m all right. C’mere.”

She climbed back into bed, sobbing on his shoulder. At first the pain was murderous, but Jenna’s perfume was better than morphine. Keyes wondered what he’d say if a real nurse walked in.

Jenna sniffed, “How’s Skip?”

“Skip’s a little crazy, Jenna.”

“Of course he is.”

“Slightly crazier than usual,” Keyes said. “He’s killing off tourists.”

“I figured it’d be something like that. But it’s not really murder, is it? I mean murder in the criminal way.”

“Jenna, he fed an old lady to a crocodile!”

“He sent me a Mailgram,” she said.

“A Mailgram?”

“It said: ‘Dear Jenna, burn all my Rolodex cards at once. Love, Skip.’ “

Keyes asked, “Did you do it? Did you burn the Rolodex?”

“Of course not,” Jenna said, as if the suggestion were preposterous. “The message obviously is in code, which I haven’t yet figured out. Besides, he keeps the Rolodex inside that darned coffin, which gives me the creeps.”

Keyes grimaced, not from pain.

“Look at all these tubes,” Jenna said. “There’s one in your chest and one up your nose and another stuck in your arm. What’s in that bottle?”

“Glucose. Tomorrow I’m back on solids and in three days I’ll be out of here. Jenna, where’s Skip now?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“You’ve got to find him. He’s killed four people.”

“Not personally he hasn’t.” Jenna pulled back the sheet. “Let me see your stitches.”

Keyes turned to one side and lifted his right arm.

“Oh, boy,” said Jenna, whistling.