“Imposing is my specialty,” Keyes said. “But you want to know why they didn’t send a big gorilla cop instead of a skinny private eye.”
Kara Lynn nodded. Her eyes were just dynamite.
Keyes said, “The eminent Orange Bowl Committee felt that it would be a catastrophe, image-wise, if it became known that the Orange Bowl queen was under police protection. The eminent Orange Bowl Committee felt that the scoundrels of the press would seize upon such a nugget and blow it way out of proportion. They feared that surrounding a beauty queen with heavily armed police would create the wrong kind of publicity. Detract from their splendid program. Make people too scared to come to the parade. So the civic fathers decided to hide the cops and hire a freelance undercover baby-sitter. Me.”
“Unbelievable,” Kara Lynn said. “Those jerks.”
“I know you’d feel safer with Clint Eastwood,” Keyes said. “So would I.”
“You’ll do fine.”
“Your dad doesn’t like me.”
“But I do,” Kara Lynn said, “and I’m the queen, remember? When do you start?”
“My stuffs in the car.”
“The gun, too?”
“Would you forget about the gun!”
“As long as you don’t forget whose adorable little ass is on the line here.” Kara Lynn patted her blue-jeaned rump. “Mine! I know you’re no Dirty Harry, but promise me that you actually know how to use the gun, Brian. Promise me that much, please?”
The next day was Christmas Eve, and Skip Wiley assembled three-fourths of the Nights of December in his rented villa near Lyford Cay, on the outskirts of Nassau.
Tommy Tigertail had elected to stay deep in the Everglades, tending to bingo business, but Jesus Bernal and Viceroy Wilson had jumped at the chance to get out of South Florida, particularly since their photographs had been published on the front page of the Miami Sun. To be sure, neither picture bore much resemblance to the two men sitting on Skip Wiley’s sundeck. The photograph of Jesus Bernal with a Snidely Whiplash mustache had been taken in 1977 after his arrest for illegal possession of a surface-to-air missile. He looked about fourteen years old. The picture of Viceroy Wilson was no better; it actually had been clipped from an old Miami Dolphins yearbook. Wilson was decked out in his aqua jersey and shoulder pads, pretending to stiff-arm an invisible tackier. He was wearing the same phony scowl that all the bubblegum companies want football players to wear in their pictures; Viceroy Wilson’s real scowl was much more effective.
No photograph of the Indian had appeared in the Miami media because no photograph was known to exist.
Skip Wiley didn’t seem too concerned about the mug shots as he cracked jokes and handed out cold Heinekens to his visitors.
Viceroy Wilson peered over the rims of his sunglasses. “How come the papers don’t mention your name?” he asked Wiley.
“Because Mr. Brian Keyes apparently is covering up for me. Don’t ask me why, boys. A misguided act of friendship, I suppose.”
“The cops searched my mother’s house this morning,” Jesus Bernal blurted angrily. “My sister’s house, last night. They’re all over Little Havana, like rats, those cops.”
“An occupational hazard,” Wiley said. “You should be used to it by now.”
“But they broke down her door!” Bernal cried. “Fucking animals. This guy Garcia, he’s going to pay. ‘Scum of the earth,’ he called us. It was in the papers. Scum of the earth! Cubans know how to deal with traitors like that.”
“Here we go again,” Viceroy Wilson said. ‘The Masked Avenger.’ “
“You shut up!”
Wilson laughed and attacked a plate of johnny cake.
“Go easy on the bread,” Wiley said. “Remember, you’ve got to drop ten pounds this week.”
Viceroy Wilson shoveled a thick slice into his cheeks. “And who the fuck are you,” he said, spitting crumbs, “Don Shula?”
“Aren’t we testy this morning? You boys must have had a bumpy flight.” Wiley festively stacked the empty green beer bottles. “I know just the thing to cheer you up. Jenna’s doing a plum pudding!”
“Count me in,” said Viceroy Wilson.
“And I think there might be a little something for both of you under the Christmas tree.”