“Don’t you think this has gone far enough?” Keyes asked.
“I was waiting for you to say that,” Wiley said, marching ahead. “Mr. I’m-Only-Trying-to-Help, that’s you. A real killjoy.”
Keyes stopped walking. The blue water curled over his tennis shoes. “I hate to see people die, that’s all,” he said to Wiley.
“I know you do,” Wiley said, looking back. “So do I. Believe it or not.” He didn’t need to say any more. They were both remembering little Callie Davenport.
Up ahead a crowd of bathers gathered noisily in a circle under some slash pines. Keyes and Wiley heard the sound of men shouting and, in the distance, a siren.
Keyes thought of Burt and James and started running, his sneakers squishing in the sand. Wiley put on a sudden burst of speed and caught him by the arm.
“Wait a minute, Ace, better let me check this out.”
On the fringe of the melee Keyes counted four Bahamian policemen, each wearing a pith helmet and crisp white uniform. They carried hard plastic batons but no sidearms. Wiley strolled up and started chatting with one of the cops; he came back with the bad news.
“I’m afraid your friends had to learn the hard way.”
From a distance Keyes watched the Bahamian officers lead Burt and James away from the beach. The purple fez hats were easy to follow, bobbing above the jolly crowd.
“What the hell happened?” Keyes asked, contemplating a rescue attempt.
“Stay here,” Wiley cautioned, “unless you’re into bondage.”
What had happened was this: on their reluctant trek down Cable Beach, the keen-eyed Shriners had sported none other than Viceroy Wilson, the fugitive football star, coming toward them. As usual Wilson was wrapped safely behind his Carrera sunglasses and, as usual, he was stoked to the gills, having scored some prime Jamaican herb off a busboy at the hotel. Viceroy Wilson had never been to the islands, and the striking display of Bahamian womanhood along the beach had seriously diverted his attention from the revolution. Wilson was so preoccupied that he hadn’t noticed the two husky purple-hatted honkies in gray suits stalking him among the bathers.
The Shriners had struck swiftly, with a sinister rustle of polyester. Burt had seized Viceroy Wilson’s left arm and James had grabbed the right, pivoting and twisting in a very sophisticated karate maneuver. Unfortunately, the people who invented karate never got to practice on 235-pound former NFL fullbacks with sequoia-sized arms. Viceroy Wilson had disrespectfully flattened the Shriners and broken hard for the hotel. Robbed of agility by the marijuana, he’d tripped on an Igloo cooler and gone down. The Shriners had been upon him quickly, puffing and grunting and attaching themselves to his powerful torso. Somehow Viceroy Wilson had risen to his feet and galvanized his famous legs. The old reflexes had taken command; with Shriners clinging to his thighs, Wilson churned along the beach. It was a memorable sight, and several quick-witted tourists had turned their home-movie cameras toward the combat. Viceroy Wilson was all elbows and knees and speed, and the Shriners had fallen away, tassels spinning. Eventually the police had arrived and arrested Burt and James for assault. The officers apologized profusely to Skip Wiley, for they specifically had been recruited to keep watch over Wiley’s entourage, a commitment guaranteed by a generous cash gratuity.
“I told your bookends to behave,” Wiley said reproachfully as they watched the police van drive off.
Keyes asked wearily, “Are they going to jail?”
“Naw, to the airport. They’ll be deported as undesirables. Certainly can’t argue with that.”
They returned to the shade of the blue umbrella. Keyes sat down in the cool sand. Wiley stretched out on the patio chair.
“They’re going to figure out it’s you,” Keyes said. “The cops, the press. Somebody’ll put it together.”
“Not for a while.” Wiley squinted into the sun. “You weren’t thinking about squealing, were you?”
Keyes shook his head and looked away, out at the gentle waves. Of course I’m thinking about it, you jerk.
“Because I meant what I said before,” Wiley said. “If the cops catch on to me too soon, we’re in trouble. And if they do catch on, I’ll know it was you. Nobody else.”