TOURIST SEASON by Carl Hiaasen

“Al, they’ve got to call off the parade.”

“Not in a billion years,” Garcia said.

“But this clinches it—it proves these idiots are serious about taking Kara Lynn. After yesterday they’re going to try twice as hard.”

“We’ll be ready.” Garcia slugged down the coffee; he figured he’d need a gallon of caffeine to brave the waiting shitstorm.

“How’s the queen holding up?” he asked.

“Mildly terrified. All of a sudden she’s not sure who’s more dangerous, Las Noches or me. She wants to call the whole thing off but Daddy’s leaning hard. It’s been a very lively morning.”

Garcia asked, “Did you call your Shriner pals up North?”

“Yeah. They’re on board.”

“Excellent! Remember, chico, not a word to a soul.”

“You got it.”

“The dudes in the orange blazers, they’d have a stroke.”

“Not to mention your badge,” Keyes said.

Jesus Bernal lay shirtless on a blue shag carpet remnant. His eyes were shut and his breath whistled through raw gums. His throat shone purple and swollen. Every once in a while his hands tremored and drew into bony fists. Macho dreaming, Viceroy Wilson thought. Intermittently he checked on Bernal, then went ahead hammering and sawing and drilling as if he were alone in the warehouse, which was no bigger than a garage.

Time was running out. The Indian had sent lumber and palmetto trimmings, but no manpower. Wilson had been working like hell, living on wheat germ milkshakes; he’d dropped five pounds in two days.

The sound of an automobile outside startled him. It wasn’t the Seville, either; Wilson knew the hum of the Caddy like he knew his own mother’s voice. Stealthily he set down the tools and picked up a sawed-off shotgun. He heard footsteps at the warehouse door. The lock rattled. Wilson brought the gun to his shoulder.

The door opened and Skip Wiley stalked in.

“A little jumpy, aren’t we?” he said.

Tommy Tigertail stood behind him.

They stared at Viceroy Wilson until he lowered the sawed-off. Wiley came up and gave him a hug. “You’re doing damn fine,” he said. “Damn fine.”

Viceroy Wilson was not wild about hugs; a handshake would have sufficed. “So you’re back from the tropics,” he said to Wiley, “looking tan and tough.”

“Horseshit. I look like hell.” But he didn’t. Wiley’s face was bronze and his beard was golden-red from the sun. He was wearing a brightly striped soccer jersey with the words “Cap Harden” printed across the front pocket.

“D’you join a fucking spa?” Wilson said.

“Hardly.” Wiley stooped over the snoring, sawdust-sprinkled form of Jesus Bernal. “Looks meaner with no teeth, doesn’t he?”

“Sorry sack of shit,” Wilson said.

“I know, I know. That’s Item One on the agenda.”

Skip Wiley removed his panama hat and prowled the small warehouse, examining Viceroy Wilson’s creation in the bleak light of the bare sixty-watt bulb. Tommy Tigertail stood in a corner, his features unreadable in the shadow. Viceroy Wilson popped a can of Heineken and waited for the fun to begin; he needed a breather, anyway.

Wiley sat down on a sawhorse and folded his arms. “Wake him up,” he told the Indian.

Tommy prodded Jesus Bernal with the hard toe of his boot. The Cuban moaned and rolled over, burying his face in the crook of an elbow. Tommy poked him again, decisively. Jesus sat up snuffling and rubbing his eyes. His fractured nose was the shape of a question mark and the rest of his face was a grid: the perfect imprint of a Spalding tennis racket.

“How you feeling?” Skip Wiley asked.

“Thiddy,” the Cuban said. “Damn thiddy.”

“I’ll get you some new teeth,” Wiley promised.

“Manks a mot.” Jesus sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of marbles.

Wiley clasped his hands evangelically. “Well,” he said, “I’m delighted we’re all here. The rainbow coalition, together again. And only four days left!”

“Mank God,” muttered Jesus Bernal. “Idth aah turding dub thid.” It’s all turning to shit, is what Jesus was trying to say.

Skip Wiley took a loud breath and stared down at the dusty floor. All at once the cheeriness seemed to drain from his expression; his mouth, always on the verge of smiling, suddenly turned thin and severe; the merry brown eyes shrank and turned dull. The transformation was so palpable and so volcanic that even Jesus Bernal was moved to silence.