“What about your pal from Pauly’s joint, the football hero?”
“Viceroy Wilson. Yeah, him too.”
“He must be El Fuego”
Keyes thought: There it is. Time to shut up or throw in Wiley. Once it was done, there’d be no going back.
“Al, I’m not sure.”
“About what?”
“El Fuego. See, there were four of them, and they never mentioned it.”
Garcia’s cigarette toggled excitedly. “Four of them! Who were the other two?”
‘There was an Indian.”
“A raghead Indian or a Tonto Indian?”
“A Seminole. Tommy Tigertail, they call him.”
“The man with the Cadillac,” Garcia said. He jotted down Tommy’s name and asked,
“How about number four?”
‘White male, late thirties.” Keyes shrugged. “It was dark, like I said.” So that was the decision: to get Skip Wiley himself. Keyes knew he stood a better chance of finding him quietly, with no police sirens. Most of all he was worried about Wiley’s threat of a blood-bath; what had seemed unthinkable three weeks ago seemed imminent now.
Garcia sat back and folded his puffy hands. “Something’s bothering me, amigo. I think to myself, why the hell would these maniacs snatch mild-mannered Brian Keyes, of all people? I mean, if they weren’t gonna kill you, then why take the risk? They just want to chat or what?”
“They wanted me to witness a murder,” Keyes said.
“And did you?”
“Yes, I think so. Ida Kimmelman was the woman’s name.”
“The Broward condo queen,” Garcia muttered, writing intently.
“They fed her to a crocodile,” Keyes said.
“Who?”
“Wilson and Bernal. They threw her in a pond—why are you looking at me like that?”
Al Garcia capped his pen. “Go on, Brian.”
“I’m not making this up. They threw her in the water and a crocodile ate her.”
Lost in thought, Garcia gnawed on a thumbnail. He’d heard about the college kid who got gobbled up in Lauderdale and pondered the connection—after all, how many crocodiles could there be?
Keyes said: “They did it for effect. For headlines, that’s all.”
“Why didn’t you report this a week ago?”
“And read about it on the front page? No way, that’s exactly what they wanted. I wasn’t about to let them use me.”
“Very noble,” Garcia said caustically. “Really showed ‘em who’s boss. By the way, hotshot, you been reading the fucking newspaper this week? Your pals out there in the swamp make Richard Speck look like Soupy Sales.”
“For God’s sake, Al, it’s not like I’ve been on vacation. What do you think I’ve been working on?”
“Tell me more.”
“I’d like to.”
“Excellent.” Garcia tapped his pen on the table.
“Al, they’re planning something big.” Without naming Skip Wiley, Keyes recounted the enigmatic threat to “Violate the most sacred virgin in all Miami.”
“Sounds like Rape City.”
“I think it’s worse than that.”
“Maybe you could find that camp again.”
“Not in a million years,” Keyes said. He was telling the truth.
“I’ll get a chopper and we’ll take a SWAT team.”
“How about the National Guard?”
“Don’t laugh,” Garcia said. “They’ve promised whatever I need.”
“Find the Cuban and the football player,” Keyes advised, “and that’ll be the end of it. No more kidnappings.”
“Brian, I get the feeling you’re holding back.” Garcia peered over the top of his reading glasses. “Tell me you’re not holding back.”
“Al, I don’t remember much. I was busy losing three units of blood.”
“Yeah, well, maybe something’ll come back to you.” Garcia waved good-bye with the cigarette. “We’ll talk again. Sanchez will give you a lift downtown.”
Keyes started to get up from the table.
“By the way,” Garcia said, “that was a helluva funny piece in the Sun today. D’you see it?”
“My paper was in a puddle.”
“Well, I got it in my coat somewhere. Clipped it out. Here it is … I hate to admit it, but I actually started to miss this asshole’s column while he was out sick.”
“May I?” Keyes asked. Apprehensively he lifted the folded newspaper clipping from Garcia’s brown paw. He opened it at arm’s length, as if it were radioactive.
“Go ahead, read it,” Al Garcia said. “It’s funny as hell. All about his vacation in the Bahamas. The guy’s got a regular way with words.”