“It’s much more than that,” the Orange Bowl chairman snapped. “NBC is here! Let’s not forget that. And let’s not forget the theme of this year’s parade: ‘Tropical Tranquillity.’ “
Brian Keyes desperately looked across the table at Cab Mulcahy. The managing editor’s eyelids closed slowly, like a dying iguana’s.
“Look,” Garcia said, “you guys have to put on a parade and I have to solve murders. Maybe even prevent ‘em, if possible. So listen real good ‘cause here’s the plan: we’re gonna have cops crawling all over Biscayne Boulevard on New Year’s Eve. We’re gonna have the Orange Bowl queen so completely surrounded by police that you might as well paint a badge on her goddamn float. I don’t care what it looks like on television. Fuck NBC. Fuck Jane Pauley. Fuck Alf Landon.”
“Michael Landon,” Keyes whispered.
“Him, too.”
The Orange Bowl chairman looked like he’d have killed for a Maalox. He said, “Sergeant, that’s the worst plan I ever heard. It would be a catastrophe, image-wise.”
“I agree,” said Sparky Harper’s successor.
“This is not a military parade,” scoffed another Chamber of Commerce man.
“Now, wait a minute,” said one of the orange-blazer guys. “Maybe we can compromise. Suppose we have the police wave batons and march in lockstep behind the queen’s float! I’d say that would look mighty darn impressive. And no one would suspect a thing.”
“How about screw the batons,” said Al Garcia.
“Then plainclothes,” suggested the Dade County police chief.
“Maybe,” Garcia said.
“And have them hiding in the crowd,” the Orange Bowl chairman said. “Not in the blessed parade.”
“Won’t work,” Keyes said. “I’ve been stuck in that crowd before, when I covered the parade for the Sun. You can’t move—it’s like acres of human taffy. Something happens and it’d take you five minutes to reach the float, and that’s too long.”
The Orange Bowl chairman was not persuaded. He scrunched his blackberry eyes and said, “There will be no police marching in this parade! We’re selling Tropical Tranquillity, not Dragnet”
“Okay, if that’s the way you want it,” Garcia said. “How about we just stash a midget with a MAC-10 underneath the queen’s gown?”
“Al, please,” groaned the Dade County police chief.
“No one would notice a thing,” Garcia said mischieviously, “except maybe the midget.”
“Don’t you have another plan?” pleaded one of the blazers.
“Yeah, matter of fact, I do.” Garcia winked at Brian Keyes. “I sure do.”
Skip Wiley’s Christmas column arrived from Nassau by telex on Saturday, December 22.
Cab Mulcahy read it carefully before he summoned Ricky Bloodworth to his office.
“You’ve been doing a fine job on the terrorist story,” Mulcahy said. This was a shameless lie, but Mulcahy had no choice. Bloodworth was a sucker for phony compliments.
‘Thanks, Cab,” he said. “Did you hear? Time magazine called.”
“Really.”
“Yup. Wanted all my clips on Las Nachos”
“Las Noches,” Mulcahy corrected.
“Right. But isn’t that great? About Time magazine?”
“Terrific,” Cab Mulcahy said, thinking: Does this chowderhead really believe Time magazine wants to hire him?
“Ricky, I need your help.”
Bloodworth’s squirrelly features furrowed. “Sure, Cab, anything at all.”
“I got this column from Skip Wiley”—Mulcahy waved the telex—”and, frankly, it’s not up to par.”
Ricky Bloodworth didn’t say anything immediately, but his eyes brightened with an it’s-too-good-to-be-true look.
“You want to substitute one of mine!”
“Not exactly,” Mulcahy said.
“I’ve already got a Christmas column worked up,” Bloodworth persisted. “Christmas in Palm Beach. I interviewed Rose Kennedy’s butler. It’s a nice little story, Cab. Rose Kennedy bought the butler a Chevrolet last Christmas, and you know what he got for her? You’ll never guess.”
“Probably not.”
“Two tickets to Torch Song Trilogy.”
“Ricky … “
“Don’t you think that’s a good Christmas story?”
“Very moving, but not precisely what I had in mind.”
God forgive me, thought Cab Mulcahy as he handed Wiley’s column to Ricky Bloodworth.
“I want you to punch up Skip’s piece,” Mulcahy said. “Really make it sing.”
Bloodworth skimmed the column warily. “Geez, Cab, I don’t know about this.”
“Do it as a favor,” Mulcahy said, “for me.”
“But what’s Skip going to say?”
“Let me worry about that.”
“He can get pretty nasty, Cab. He punched me once,” Bloodworth said, “in the groin area.”