The air was blue with cigarette smoke and sharp with the aroma of fresh coffee. Everyone had their own ashtray, their own glass of ice water, and their own packet of press clippings about the tourist murders. The mood of the group was funereal.
“Let’s start with Sergeant Garcia,” the Orange Bowl chairman said, consulting a legal pad. “Did I pronounce that correctly?”
“Yes, sir.” The words hissed through clenched teeth. Garcia had promised the chief he’d be polite. The Orange Bowl chairman was a doughy white-haired Florida cracker who was still getting used to the whole idea of Cubans.
“The name of the gang is Las Noches de Diciembre, or the Nights of December,” Garcia began. “It’s an extremist organization but we’re not sure about its politics or its motives. We do know they use murder, kidnapping, torture, and bombing. So far they haven’t asked for ransom or anything else. All they seem to want is publicity. Their targets are mainly tourists, although we think they also whacked Mr. B D. Harper.”
“Whacked?” said the chairman.
“Murdered,” Keyes explained.
“Yes, murdered,” Al Garcia said, “with a capital M. These bozos mean business.”
“Bozos?” the chairman said tentatively, glancing around the table.
“The bad guys,” Keyes explained.
“Las Noches,” Garcia said.
That was the extent of Garcia’s formal presentation. He hated meetings like this; they reminded him of Sesame Street. Garcia took off his tinted reading glasses and fished in his pockets for a cigarette.
The Orange Bowl man cleared his throat and said: “Sergeant, do we know exactly who these people are?”
“Some of them.”
Garcia took his time with the Bic lighter.
“The gang has at least four members. A white male, mid-thirties, identity unknown.” Garcia gave a sideways glance toward Keyes. “There’s a young Seminole Indian named Tigertail. The bomber, the one who did the Palmetto Country Club job—he’s an old acquaintance. A Cuban right-winger named Jesus Bernal.”
“How do you spell that?” the chairman asked, pen poised over the legal pad.
“J-e-s-u-s,” Garcia said impatiently.
“Oh. Just like our Jesus, only pronounced different.”
“Yeah,” Garcia said. “And the last name is B-e-r-n-a-l.”
“What does that mean?” the chairman asked. “In English.”
“It means ‘Jesus Bernal,’ “ Garcia grumbled. “It’s his fucking name, that’s all.”
The Dade County police chief looked sick to his stomach.
Garcia said, “The fourth suspect you all know. His name is Daniel Wilson, AKA Viceroy.”
“Oh no,” said the chairman. “One of the Dolphins.”
“Old number thirty-one,” one of the vice-mayors lamented.
Everyone at the orange table was a big football fan, and the mention of Viceroy Wilson’s name ignited a paroxysm of nostalgia.
“It’s hard to understand,” the chairman said sadly. “Our town was very good to that boy.”
Brian Keyes didn’t need the NAACP to tell him there were no black faces sitting at the orange table.
“Well,” Garcia said. “Mr. Wilson apparently has a beef against society. A serious beef. They all do.”
“Which one is El Fuego?” somebody asked.
“Don’t know,” Garcia replied.
“What does that mean, El Fuego?” the chairman asked.
“The Fire. The Flame. Take your pick.” Garcia was annoyed. He hadn’t come to teach Spanish 101.
“When can you arrest these men?” the chairman demanded.
“When I find ‘em.” Garcia motioned toward Cab Mulcahy. “There’ll be a story in tomorrow’s newspaper that ID’s the three known suspects and asks for the public’s help in locating them. We sent over some mug shots this morning with Mr. Bloodworth.”
“We’re running the pictures,” Mulcahy said, “on the front page.”
“That’ll help,” Garcia said. “But somehow I don’t think these guys are going to sit still and let us find them. I think we’re going to have to wait till they appear. And they will appear. Mr. Keyes here is a private investigator, a pretty good one. As you know, he was abducted by Las Noches a couple of weeks ago and roughed up pretty good. Brian, tell ‘em the good news.”
Keyes said, “We have reason to believe that they plan to kidnap the Orange Bowl queen.”
Everyone at the table sat back in their chairs like they’d been punched in the chest. There was plenty of nervous whispering.