“The sad truth is, we’ve lost our psychological advantage,” Skip Wiley said, “and we’ve got to get it back. That’s why I’ve divined a new plan.”
“What new plan?” asked Viceroy Wilson. He couldn’t bear the thought of learning a whole new plan; he thought the old plan was all right.
“Nupid! Mus plain nupid!” Jesus Bernal whined. Not only was it stupid, it was downright suicidal to change the plan so late in the game; it went against all basic terrorist training. It was unthinkable.
“Lighten up, comrades,” Skip Wiley said. “We’re not tossing out the old plan, just embellishing it.”
“Tell them,” the Indian said. “Tell them your idea.”
So Wiley told them all about it. “Not just one princess, but two!” he concluded merrily. “Double your pleasure, double your fun!”
Viceroy Wilson liked what he heard; the new plan was Wiley’s cleverest yet. Phase One would wreak bedlam, knock everybody off-balance; the perfect setup. Phase One also required a helicopter, and Viceroy Wilson had always wanted to ride in a helicopter. Tommy Tigertail approved of the plan too, mainly because it afforded him a couple days of working deep in the Everglades, alone with his people.
Only Jesus Bernal opposed Skip Wiley’s new plan. He lay on the warehouse floor, carping unintelligibly, growing more and more miserable as Wiley issued orders. The beating he’d gotten from that maricon Keyes and the cruel scolding he’d gotten from El Fuego had plunged Jesus Bernal into a familiar well of self-pity. Unable to be understood in any language, he found himself ignored. And worse, patronized. That Wiley had decided upon such a reckless change of strategy without consulting him—him, the most seasoned of all the terrorists!—infuriated Jesus Bernal. It was infamy repeating itself; it was the First Weekend in July Movement all over again.
When it came time for the Cuban’s assignment, Skip Wiley announced that Las Noches once again would be needing Bernal’s unique skills at the Smith-Corona; there were historic communiques to be written! Jesus assented halfheartedly, hoping that in the dim light the other conspirators could not see the disloyalty in his eyes, or his sneer of contempt. Jesus Bernal made a private and fateful decision: he would proceed with a plan of his own. He would humble them all: the arrogant Indian, the stoned-freak nigger and the culebra cop Garcia. Keyes, too; Keyes would suffer in failure. And when it was over, on New Year’s Day, El Comandante would beg Jesus Bernal to return and lead the holy struggle against the Bearded One. It would be most satisfying to watch the old man grovel. Ha!
And Wiley, damn him—who said he was such a genius? If Wiley was so smart, Jesus thought, how could he have forgotten about the third bomb, the most powerful of all? How could he forget to inquire what had become of it? What kind of leader was so careless to let such a thing pass?
So tonight when it becomes an issue, thought Jesus Bernal, I can look him square in the eye, on the way out the door, and say: But, El Fuego, you never asked. You never asked.
Richard L. Bloodworth had spent the day at the Metro-Dade police station, lying in wait for Sergeant Al Garcia. Bloodworth could be excruciatingly patient. He passed the time introducing himself to secretaries and patrolmen, upon whom he proudly foisted newly printed business cards on which the “Ricky” had been replaced with the staid “Richard L.” Most of those who received Bloodworth’s business card tore it up the minute he was out of sight, but a few tucked it away in a drawer or a wallet. Someday, Bloodworth hoped, one of these drones would call with a hot tip, maybe even a ticket to the front page.
At first Al Garcia had no intention of letting Ricky Bloodworth slither within striking distance. Their last exchange had been brief and unfortunate:
Bloodworth: Sergeant, these terrorists act like real scum of the earth, don’t they?
Garcia: Yeah. Get out of my office.
The next morning the detective had picked up the paper and seen this impolitic headline: Cop Labels Terrorists Scum of Earth.
Al Garcia believed that no good could ever come from a newspaper interview, and that only idiots spoke to newspaper reporters. He explained this to the chief when the chief phoned to ask why the Miami Sun was getting jerked around. As often happened, the chief did not agree with Al Garcia’s philosophy and remarked on the detective’s poor attitude. The chief argued that it was vital for the head of the Fuego One Task Force to keep a high law-and-order profile until the Orange Bowl Parade. That meant cooperating with the press.