“Absolutely.”
“Good. We’d like to tag along.”
“Nellie’s going back to Evanston,” James said protectively. “Tonight.”
“But not us, sir, we have a score to settle,” Burt declared. “What about it, Mr. Keyes? We’re not professionals, not like you, but we can take care of ourselves. I’m pretty good with a handgun—”
“Pretty good!” James interjected. “Jeez.”
“And James himself has some martial-arts experience. Black belt, yellow belt, you name it. Plus a pilot’s license. What about it, Mr. Keyes, think you could use some help?”
Well hell, thought Brian Keyes, why not?
“I’d be grateful,” Keyes told them.
“Good, then it’s settled.”
“Just one thing.”
“Yes, Mr. Keyes?”
“About those hats. You have to wear them all the time?”
There was an awkward moment of silence, as if Keyes had breached some sacred Shriner wont. Burt and James glanced at one another, and even Nell Bellamy looked up, her face mostly hidden by a mask of pink tissue.
“It’s a fez,” Burt said, touching the purple crown. “What about it?”
“Would you like one?” James offered. “Maybe without a tassel.”
“Never mind,” Keyes said. He pressed the button to ring for a nurse. It was time to check out.
The annual competition for Miami’s Orange Bowl queen had attracted the usual chorus line of debutantes, fashion models, ex-cheerleaders, and slick sorority tarts.
Jesus Bernal, who’d spent the whole day building a bomb, was overwhelmed. As far as he was concerned, this was a dandy way to take your mind off plastique.
“You ever seen this much pussy?” he asked Viceroy Wilson.
“Sure,” Wilson said. “Dallas. Super Bowl Eight.”
Two touchdowns, three blow-jobs, and a cowgirl sandwich. God, he was such a lowlife in those days. All hard-on, no purpose. Wilson shook his head at the memory and lighted a joint.
“Not here!” Bernal snapped. “Remember, we’re supposed to be security guards.”
“Well, I feel so secure I’m gonna smoke some weed.”
They stood in darkness at the rear of the Civic Center. The stage was bathed in kliegs. It was dress rehearsal and the auditorium was empty, except for a skeleton orchestra, some TV technicians, and the contestants themselves. The women milled onstage, tugging at their gumdrop-colored swimsuits and poofing their hair. The air conditioning was running full blast, and Jesus Bernal had never seen so many erect nipples in one congregation.
“The fourth one from the left,” Bernal said. “Her name is Maria.”
“No way,” said Viceroy Wilson. He really couldn’t see a damn thing with the sunglasses on.
“How about the redhead? Rory McWhat’s-her-face.”
“Forget it, Hay-zoos. She don’t have a prayer. Freckles look rotten on TV.”
“She made it to the semifinals,” Bernal said.
“Sympathy vote. Mark my words.”
Viceroy Wilson was having as good a time as his abstemious revolutionary ethic would allow. Whenever Wilson found himself distracted by lust, he sublimated rigorously. And whenever he sublimated, he was struck by a vestigial urge to run with a football. Right now he wanted to run down the center aisle, hurdle onstage, and steamroller the emcee. The emcee had a voice that could take the paint off your car.
“They’re going to fire your ass for smoking,” Bernal scolded. “You’ll wreck everything.”
“Know what you need? You need about eight Quaaludes. Calm your Cuban ass right down.”
Jesus Bernal was appalled at the lack of regimentation within Las Noches de Diciembre. Viceroy Wilson, who personified this insubordination, wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes with the First Weekend in July. Using drugs during a mission! The Cubans would have wasted him immediately.
“Any sisters make the semis?” Wilson asked.
“Nada,” Jesus Bernal reported. “Seven Anglos, three Cubans.”
“God damn, that figures.”
Jesus Bernal could no longer see Viceroy Wilson’s face, only a sphere of bluish smoke behind the sunglasses. Bernal knew that Wilson was worried about the Indian’s Cadillac, which they’d double-parked in front of the Hyatt Regency. Bernal himself was anxious about the car, and for the same reason. The double-parking had nothing to do with it.
Skip Wiley had ordered them to interrupt their mission and stop at the Civic Center. A scouting assignment, Wiley had explained, extremely important.
Drive carefully, Wiley had added. Very carefully.
Which only reinforced Jesus Bernal’s belief that Wiley was especially crazy when it came to risking other people’s asses. A reputable terrorist simply would not dally in downtown Miami with a freshly assembled bomb in the trunk of his Cadillac. Bombs, like pizzas, are made for speedy delivery.