So Ricky Bloodworth finally got an audience with the sergeant. The reporter came in wearing a lawyerly three-piece suit. He said hello to Garcia and shook hands amiably, as if being forced to wait seven and a half hours was the most natural thing in the world.
Bloodworth took out a notebook, uncapped a red pen, and jotted Garcia’s name at the top of a page. The detective watched the ritual with a sour face.
“Before I forget, I’d like you to have one of these.” Bloodworth handed Garcia a business card.
“I’ll treasure it always,” Garcia said. “What’s the L stand for?”
“Lancelot,” Bloodworth said. That was one of the drawbacks about the new byline; people were always asking about the middle initial. Leon was such a nerdy name that Bloodworth had scrapped it. Lancelot was more fitting.
Bloodworth asked his first question.
“Sergeant, exactly what happened last night?”
“The suspect escaped.”
“Jesus Bernal, the famous terrorist?”
“Yeah.”
“What about the vigilante with the tennis racket?”
“We’re waiting,” Garcia said, “for him to come forward.” Bloodworth scrawled in the notebook.
“Do you intend to press charges?”
“What for?”
“Assault, of course. According to witnesses, he simply walked up to Mr. Bernal and beat him senseless with the tennis racket, without any provocation.”
Garcia said, “That’s still under investigation.”
Bloodworth scribbled some more. He was starting to remind Garcia of that young shithead Bozeman from Internal Affairs.
“Any idea what Mr. Bernal was doing in Coral Gables?”
“Nope,” Garcia said.
Bloodworth dutifully wrote “no idea” in his notebook.
“Sergeant, I’m still puzzled about how this went down.”
Garcia hated it when jerks like Bloodworth tried to talk like cops.
“What do you mean went down? Down where?” Garcia said.
“I mean, how could it happen? Here’s one of the most wanted men in Florida lying unconscious in a pool of blood on a busy public street—and the police still manage to lose him. How in the world did he get away?”
Garcia shrugged. He thought: Let’s see you quote a shrug, asshole.
“It seems simply … inconceivable,” Bloodworth remarked.
Al Garcia realized that, in effect, he’d just been called a Jell-O-brained moron. That was the beauty of a snotty word like inconceivable.
“The one thing everybody wants to know,” Bloodworth continued, “is where the Nights of December are going to attack next.”
“I’d like to know, myself.”
“You have no idea?”
“Nope,” Garcia lied.
Again Bloodworth wrote, “no idea.”
“Let me bum a cigarette,” the detective said.
“Sorry, but I don’t smoke.”
“Then what’s that in your vest? It looks like a pack of cigarettes.”
Bloodworth smiled sheepishly and took out a small Sony Pearlcorder. “A tape recorder,” he explained unnecessarily.
“Oh,” Garcia said. “Is it on?”
“Well, yes.”
“Can I see it?”
Ricky Bloodworth handed the miniature recorder to Garcia.
“Quite a little gadget,” the detective said. “You keep the First Amendment in here, do you?”
“Very funny.” Bloodworth’s bluish mouth opened in a round ratlike smile, all incisors.
Garcia set the Pearlcorder flat on the desktop, its tiny reels still spinning. He reached into his holster and took out his Smith and Wesson service revolver.
“What are you going to do?” Bloodworth asked.
“Watch.”
With the butt of the pistol, Garcia pounded the Sony to tiny pieces. He gave the pieces back to Bloodworth, along with a tangle of brown ribbon.
“Don’t ever tape me again,” Garcia said, “not without asking.”
Bloodworth stared in disbelief at the expensive Japanese debris.
“What’s the matter with you?” he cried. “Everybody uses tape recorders. It’s just a tool, for God’s sake … for accuracy … to make me a better reporter.”
“Brain surgery wouldn’t make you a better reporter,” Garcia said. “Now get out of here before I have you strip-searched.” So much for cooperating with the press.
‘This is … an outrage,” Bloodworth stammered.
“Simply inconceivable,” Garcia agreed.
For half an hour Bloodworth sat on the steps of the police station and morosely flipped through his notebook. Garcia had given him practically nothing, not one damn usable quote. It had been a dry week, too, newswise. Until last night, Las Noches had been quiet: no more kidnappings or murders to goose the story back to page one. Bloodworth was getting itchy. He wondered if Cab Mulcahy would let him do a column about Al Garcia and the bumbling Fuego One Task Force. He wondered what Garcia’s boss would say if he found out about the tape-recorder incident.