TOURIST SEASON by Carl Hiaasen

The drive to the airport was vintage Jenna—no recognition or regard for curbs, stop signs, traffic lights, or pedestrians. Brian Keyes kept a distance of two or three blocks, wincing at Jenna’s close calls. He had borrowed a rental car from one of the Shriners because Jenna surely would’ve recognized the MG, by sound if not by sight.

She parked in the long-term garage at Miami International. Slouching low in the driver’s seat, Keyes whizzed right past her and found a spot on the next level. He bolted from the car, raced down the stairwell, and caught sight of Jenna disappearing into the elevator. He ran all the way to the terminal building and waited.

Even in a crowd she was impossible to miss. She had a classic airport walk, sensual but aloof; men always moved out of the way to watch Jenna’s jeans go by, back and forth, a divine natural metronome.

Keyes followed her until she stopped at the Bahamasair ticket counter. He hid behind a pillar, scouting for Skip Wiley.

“Want us to take over?”

Keyes wheeled around. “Jesus Christ!”

“Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

It was Burt the Shriner.

“Where’d you come from?” Keyes asked.

“Right behind you. Ever since you came in.”

“And your pal?”

“He’s around the corner. Keeping an eye on your lady friend.”

Keyes was impressed; these guys weren’t half-bad.

“She’s on her way to Nassau,” Burt reported. “Her ticket was prepaid.”

“By whom?”

“The Seminole Nation of Florida, Incorporated. Does that make any sense, Mr. Keyes?”

“I’ll explain later.”

Keyes peered around the pillar at the Bahamasair counter, but Jenna was gone.

“Shit!”

“Don’t worry,” Burt said. “James is close behind.”

“We’re too damn late.” Keyes broke into a run.

Because of the phenomenal number of airplane hijackings from Miami, the FAA had installed sophisticated new security measures designed to prevent anyone with bombs, guns, or invalid coach-class tickets from entering the flight concourse. The most effective of all these security steps was the hiring of squads of fat, foul-tempered, non-English-speaking women to obstruct all runways and harass all passengers.

In tracking Jenna, James the Shriner made it no farther than Concourse G, where a corpulent security guard named Lupee pinned him to the wall and questioned him relentlessly in Portuguese. The focus of her concern was the fez that James was wearing, which she tore off his head and ran through the X-ray machine several times, mashing it in the process. In the meantime Bahamasair Flight 123 to Nassau departed.

“I blew it,” James apologized afterward in the coffee shop. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” Keyes said. “You didn’t have a chance.”

“Not one-on-one,” Burt agreed. “Mr. Keyes, our information says that your lady friend is traveling alone.”

Somehow Burt had secured a printout of the passenger manifest (he wouldn’t say how, and Keyes could only assume a fraternal Masonic connection with one of the ticket agents). With the Shriners staring over his shoulder, Keyes ran his finger down the passenger list. Wiley wouldn’t be using his own name, nor would he settle for a simple Smith or Jones as an alias.

“Who are we hunting?” Burt asked.

“A very cunning fruitcake.”

“What did you say his name was?”

“I didn’t,” Keyes said.

He found whom he was looking for, assigned to seats 15-A and 15-B:

“Karamazov, Viceroy.”

“Karamazov, Skip.”

Keyes crumpled the passenger manifest into a ball and disgustedly tossed it over his shoulder. The Shriners smoothed it out and studied the names.

“A real wiseass,” Burt said. “This friend of yours, he seems to be enjoying all this, doesn’t he?”

“Sure looks that way,” Keyes grumbled, trying to remember where the hell he’d left his passport.

16

They found Skip Wiley snoring beneath a baby-blue umbrella on Cable Beach. He wore ragged denim cutoffs and no shirt. A pornographic novel titled Crack of Dawn was open across his lap. A half-empty bottle of Myers’s rum perspired in a plastic bucket of ice, protected by the shade of Wiley’s torso.

Brian Keyes removed the rum and dumped the ice cubes over Wiley’s naked chest.

“Christ on a bike!” Wiley sat up like a bolt.

“Hello, Skip.”

“You’re one cruel fucker.” Wiley reached for a towel. “Introduce me to your friends.”

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