“Straighten up,” Wilson said, stubbing out the joint. “Somebody’s coming.”
A man with a walkie-talkie charged up the aisle. He was the chief of security for all Orange Bowl festivities.
“What’s that smell?” he demanded, looking straight at Jesus Bernal.
“No se,” Bernal replied.
“Caught some kids smoking dope in the back row and threw ‘em out,” Wilson said. “Broke their fingers first.”
“Good work, Mr. Wilson.”
The security chief was a big Dolphins fan, so he was overjoyed to have the legendary Viceroy Wilson on his staff.
“So, you enjoying the pageant?” he chirped.
“Loving it,” Wilson said. “Who’s your pick?”
“Rory McAllister. Little redhead with the nice ass. Second from the right.”
“Si, es muy bonita,” Jesus Bernal said.
“Tell me, my man, why don’t I see any black women up on that stage?”
The security chief lost his locker-room grin and wilted back a few steps. “Gosh, I don’t know. That’s a stumper. Want me to ask the judges?”
“Yeah,” Viceroy Wilson said. “Do that.”
“Right away, Mr. Wilson. And, hey, good work rousting those dopers!” The security chief hurried away.
Jesus Bernal and Viceroy Wilson strolled to the foot of the stage and stared up at the beauty contestants, who were practicing the winner’s walk. Back straight, boobs out, buttocks tight, big smile. To Jesus Bernal each of the women seemed six feet tall, perfect and impenetrable.
“Number five,” Wilson said in a disinterested tone. “That’s your winner.”
Jesus Bernal found a program and read aloud: “Kara Lynn Shivers. Sophomore, University of Miami. Majoring in public relations. Hobbies: Swimming, mime, and French horn. Hair: blond. Eyes: hazel.”
“Height?” Wilson said.
“Five-eight.”
“She weighs one-twenty.”
“One hundred ten,” Bernal said. “That’s what it says here.”
“Vanity,” Wilson coughed. “The bitch is lying.”
Bernal shrugged. “Whatever you say. Is one-twenty too heavy?”
Wilson smiled, thinking of all those NFL linebackers. Somebody yelled “Cut!” and the emcee swaggered across the stage, trailing a microphone cord. He leaned over and spoke to Wilson and Bernal. “You guys are too close to the action. We got the top of your heads in that last shot.”
The emcee sounded quite annoyed. Viceroy Wilson had never seen such large bright teeth on a white person. You could tile a swimming pool with teeth like that.
Jesus Bernal stuck out his chest and tapped the badge that was pinned to the pocket of his gray security-guard uniform.
The emcee said, “Hey, I’m super-impressed, okay? Now, get away from the stage. You’re making the girls nervous and you’re fucking up the take. Comprende?”
From somewhere inside Viceroy Wilson came a wet growling noise. Jesus Bernal seized him by the arm and tried to pull him away from the stage, but it was too late. Wilson reached up and grabbed one of the emcee’s black nylon ankles.
“Let go, you!” the emcee cried.
“Let go, Viceroy,” Jesus Bernal pleaded.
“Aarrrummmm, rrmmmmm,” Viceroy Wilson said.
Then the emcee was a blur, the microphone flying one way, a black shoe flying the other. The emcee’s blow-dried head hit the stage with a crack that carried to every corner of the acoustically perfect auditorium. A few of the beauty contestants shrieked “Oh Jerry!” and ran to the young man’s aid; others just stared with pained expressions at the prone tuxedo.
The security chief sprinted down the aisle and bounded onstage. “My God, what happened here? Back off, girls, give him air. Give him air.”
Jesus Bernal glanced at Viceroy Wilson and thought: The dumb spade just ruined everything.
“The man slipped on a puddle,” Bernal told the security chief.
“Naw, it was an epileptic attack,” said Viceroy Wilson.
“Get a doctor!” the security chief hollered into his K-Mart walkie-talkie. “Somebody get a doctor.”
“An epilepsy doctor,” advised Viceroy Wilson.
Kara Lynn Shivers gracefully dropped to her knees and cradled the emcee’s head. Discreetly she removed some tissue from the left cup of her bathing suit and began dabbing the emcee’s forehead. The injured man gazed up at Kara Lynn’s perfect sophomore breasts with a stunned but tranquil look.
“I told you she’s gonna win,” Viceroy Wilson whispered. “This’ll be so damn easy.”
“Let’s move,” Jesus Bernal said, commando style. “We’ve got to find the golf course before it gets dark.”