The lead of the story focused on the ominous El Fuego letter discovered in Ida Kimmelman’s condominium mailbox. A trusting Broward County detective had read the contents to Ricky Bloodworth (Dear Otter Creek Shuffleboard Club. Welcome to the Revolution!) and Bloodworth realized he had a hot one. He worked the phones like a boiler-room pro, pestering every cop he knew until he unearthed the fact that this Fuego letter was the fourth of its kind. Thus the murder of B. D. “Sparky” Harper finally was linked to the disappearance of the Shriner, the abduction of the Canadian woman at the Seaquarium, and now the unsolved kidnapping of Ida Kimmelman. Of course, neither the police nor Ricky Bloodworth knew precisely what had happened to the last three victims—who could have guessed?—but it was still quite a list. Especially if you tacked on the savage stabbing of private investigator Brian Keyes.
This front-page attention thrilled Skip Wiley, and in a brief campfire ceremony he thanked his fellow radicals for their patience. “Remember ye this day!” he told them. “On this day we are born to the eyes of America. Today the Miami Sun, tomorrow USA Today!”
None of the conspirators were identified in Bloodworth’s story, and Brian Keyes’s description of his “Slavic” abductors was repeated as if it were an established fact. Wiley admired the yarn as a stroke of originality.
There was one significant error in Ricky Bloodworth’s story which, when read aloud by Jesus Bernal, made Skip Wiley roll his eyes, Viceroy Wilson laugh out loud, and Tommy Tigertail shrug. It was a shrug Tommy saved for extremely stupid behavior by white people. Somehow Ricky Bloodworth had managed to screw up the name of Wiley’s group and referred to it throughout the story as Las Nachos de Diciembre, which translates exactly as one might suppose. Skip Wiley had been in the newspaper business too long not to be tickled by this mistake, but Jesus Bernal was apoplectic. “Nachos!” he shrieked. “This is your brilliant publicity coup? We are now world-famous nachos!” With that Jesus Bernal shredded the newspaper and declared that he’d never experienced such humiliation in all his days in the underground. Skip Wiley suspected that, more than anything, Bernal resented the Mexican insinuation.
“Relax,” he told Jesus. “We’ll straighten this out soon enough, won’t we?”
Several persons were deeply displeased to see Ricky Bloodworth’s story. One was Cab Mulcahy, who sensed Skip Wiley’s demented hand behind the El Fuego caper. Mulcahy could see disaster looming. For the newspaper. For himself. For all Miami. He shriveled at the vision of a handcuffed Wiley being led up the steps of the Dade County Courthouse—wild-eyed and foamy-mouthed, bellowing one of his dark axioms. Every major paper in America would cover the extravaganza: Columnist Goes on Trial as Mass Murderer. It would be better than Manson because Skip Wiley was more coherent. Skip Wiley was a hell of a quote.
Despite his premonitions, Cab Mulcahy knew there was little he could do until he was absolutely sure.
Another person who cringed at the sight of Richard L. Bloodworth’s byline was Detective Harold Keefe, who’d nearly succeeded in convincing the police hierarchy that a renegade cop had dreamed up those crazy letters. Harold Keefe had refused to speak with Bloodworth the night before and now was sorry he hadn’t. Keefe could have used the opportunity to drop the dime on Al Garcia and derail all this freaky Las Noches crap. Now it was too late, a veritable disaster. The chief was furious, I.A.D. was on red alert, and the Chamber of Commerce was handing out cyanide capsules.
As Harold Keefe studied the front page of the Miami Sun, he decided to retaliate swiftly, utilizing the police department’s vast apparatus for equivocation. He would compose a public statement to put the whole Nacho case in a sober perspective. The wording would be dicey, considering the publicity, but Keefe would stick to the original platform: The murder of B. D. Harper is unrelated to the subsequent disappearance of tourists … No evidence of foul play … The Fuego letters are a sick hoax perpetrated by a disgruntled policeman (for support, quote from Dr. Remond Courtney’s report to the chief) … Close by saying the whole matter remains under investigation … an internal investigation. Pretty tidy, Keefe thought.