Tourist Season (44 page)

There was even more firepower: thirty undercover officers armed with machine pistols (and a mug shot of Viceroy Wilson burned into their memories) would move through the crowd, flanking Kara Lynn’s float. From above, eight police sharpshooters with nightscopes would watch from various downtown buildings along Biscayne Boulevard and Flagler Street, the parade routes.

The queen’s float shimmered gold and royal blue, by virtue of seventy-thousand polyethylene flower petals stapled to a bed of plywood, plaster, and chickenwire. The motif was “Mermaid Magic,” featuring Kara Lynn in a clinging burnt-orange gown, her hair in tendrils under the Orange Bowl tiara, her cheeks glistening as if kissed by the sea. There had been a brief debate about whether or not she should wear a rubber fish tail, and though her father endorsed the idea (“More camera time, sweetcakes”), she declined firmly.

Kara Lynn’s throne was a simulated coral reef built on the front end of the float. From this perch she would smile and wave to the throngs while a hidden stereo broadcasted actual underwater recordings of migrating sperm whales. Meanwhile the four runner-up contestants, dressed in matching tuna-blue mermaid gowns, would pretend to cavort in an imaginary lagoon behind Kara Lynn’s reef. In rehearsal, with all the blond beauty queens making swimming motions with their arms, someone remarked that it looked like a Swedish version of the Supremes.

The queen’s float had been constructed around a Datsun pickup truck, which would power it along Biscayne Boulevard. The truck’s cab had been camouflaged as a friendly octopus in the mermaid lagoon; the driver of the float and Brian Keyes would be sitting inside. The windshield of the pickup had been removed to permit a sudden exit, just in case.

Despite these extraordinary precautions and the preponderance of high-powered guns, the pre-parade atmosphere was anything but tense. Even the Orange Bowl committeemen seemed loose and confident.

The sight of so many policemen, or the knowledge of their presence, was reassurance enough for those to whom the parade meant everything. These, of course, were the same buoyant optimists who believed that the violent events of the weekend had conclusively ended Miami’s drama.

The parade was due to begin at seven-thirty P.M. sharp, but it was delayed several minutes because of a problem with one of the floats. Acting on a confidential tip, U.S. customs agents had impounded the colorful entry sponsored by the city of Bogota, Colombia, and were busily hammering sharp steel tubes through the sides of the float in search of a particular white flaky powder. Failing in that, they brought in four excitable police dogs to sniff every crevice for drugs. Though no contraband was found, one of the German shepherds peed all over the Colombian coffee princess and the float immediately was withdrawn. It was the only one in the whole pageant made with real carnations.

At 7:47 P.M., the West Stowe, Ohio, High School Marching Band and Honor Guard stepped onto Biscayne Boulevard, struck up a unique rendition of Jim Morrison’s “Light My Fire,” and the King Orange Jamboree Parade was under way. The skies were cloudy but the wind had steadied and there was no trace of rain. Standing five-deep along both sides of the boulevard was an enormous crowd of 200,000, most of whom had paid at least twelve bucks to park their expensive late-model cars in one of the most dangerous urban neighborhoods in the western hemisphere.

At precisely 8:01, the kliegs lighted up in the blue NBC booth, washing co-hosts Jane Pauley and Michael Landon in an unremitting white glare.

A teleprompter mounted on brackets above the cameras began to scroll. His cheeks burnished and his New Testament curls showing spangles of sun-induced blondness, Michael Landon spoke first to America, sticking faithfully to the script:

Hello everybody and welcome to Miami, Florida. What a night for a parade! [Cut to three-second shot of majorette with baton.] It’s a mild sixty-seven degrees here in South Florida, with a tangy sea breeze reminding us that beautiful Biscayne Bay and the Atlantic Ocean are just over my shoulder. Down below, on Biscayne Boulevard, the King Orange Jamboree is in full swing. [Cut for four-second shot of swaying palm trees and Cooley Motors float.] The theme of this year’s pageant is Tropical Tranquillity, and for the past week I’ve been enjoying just that, as you can see from my sunburn [sheepish smile]. Now I’d like to introduce my co-host for tonight’s Orange Bowl pageant, the lovely and talented Jane Pauley. [Cut to close-up Pauley, then two-shot.]

Pauley: Thanks, Michael. We have had a great stay down here, though it looks like you spent a bit more time at the beach than I did. [Landon medium smile.] There’s a lot of excitement in this town, and not just over the parade. As you know, tomorrow night the University of Nebraska Cornhuskers and the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame square off for the national college football championship in the Orange Bowl. NBC will carry that game live, and it looks like the weather’s going to be perfect. Michael, who’re you rooting for? [Cut to Landon close-up.]

Landon: I like Nebraska, Jane.

Pauley: Well, I think I’m going with Notre Dame.

Landon: Ah, still an Indiana girl.

Pauley [laughing]: You betcha. [Cut from two-camera to close-up.] On a serious note [turning to camera], if you’ve been following the news recently you probably know that this South Florida community has been struggling with a tragic and frightening crisis for the past month. A terrorist group calling itself the Nights of December has taken credit for a series of bombings, kidnappings, and other crimes in the Miami area. At least ten persons, many of them tourists, are known to have been killed. Now, as you may have heard, several alleged members of this terrorist group are believed to have died in a helicopter accident over the weekend. And last night, the last known member of this extremist cell was shot to death after abducting a Dade County police officer. It has been a trying time for the citizens down here, and in spite of all this difficulty they still managed to make us feel warm and welcome. [Cut to Landon, nodding appreciatively.] And, Michael, I know you’ll agree as we watch some of these amazing floats go by: It’s shaping up as another spectacular Orange Bowl extravaganza! [Cut to shot over Landon shoulder as he enjoys parade.]

Landon [big smile]: Is it ever! And look at some of these bathing beauties! I may never go back to Malibu.

The parade slowly headed north up the boulevard, past the massive gray public library and Bayfront Park, wino mecca of the eastern seaboard.

The cab of the pickup truck was oppressively stuffy under heavy layers of plaster and plastic. To keep from suffocating, Keyes held his face close to the open windshield, which also functioned as the smiling mouth of the friendly octopus. The driver of the float noticed the gun beneath Keyes’s jacket, but said nothing and appeared unconcerned.

From inside the float, Keyes found it difficult to see much of anything past the prancing rear-ends of the four blue mermaids. Occasionally, when they parted, he caught a glimpse of Kara Lynn’s bare shoulders on the front of the float. As for peripheral vision, he had none; the faces of the spectators were invisible to him.

To offset the racket from the Shriners’ Harley Davidsons, the sperm-whale music had been cranked up to maximum volume. Keyes ranked the whales in the same melodic category as Yoko Ono and high-speed dental drills. It took every ounce of concentration to follow the chatter on the portable police radio that linked him to the command center. Each new block brought the same report: everything calm, so far.

When Kara Lynn’s float reached the main grandstands, it came to a stop so that she and the other Orange Bowl finalists could wave at the VIP’s and pose for the still photographers. Brian Keyes tensed as soon as he felt the Datsun brake; it was during this pause, scheduled for precisely three minutes and twenty seconds, that Keyes expected Skip Wiley to make his move, while the TV cameras settled on Kara Lynn. Forewarned, the police snipers focused their infrared scopes while the plain-clothesmen slid through the cheering crowd to take pre-assigned positions along the curb. On cue, Burt and James led the Shriner cavalcade into an intricate figure-eight that effectively encircled the queen’s float with skull-buzzing motorcycles.

But nothing happened.

Kara Lynn dutifully waved at everyone who vaguely looked important, flash bulbs popped, and the parade crawled on. The floats crossed the median at NE Fifth Street and headed south back down the boulevard, past the heart of the city’s infant skyline. At Flagler Street the procession turned west, and away from the bright television lights. Instantly everyone relaxed and the floats picked up speed for the final leg. Kara Lynn quit waving; her arms were killing her. It was all she could do to smile.

At North Miami Avenue, one of the undercover cops calmly called over the radio for assistance. Some ex-Nicaraguan National Guardsmen who were picketing the U.S. immigration office now threatened to crash the parade if they did not immediately receive their green cards. A consignment of six officers responded and easily quelled the disturbance.

A block later, one of the motorcycle cops disguised as a Shriner reported sighting a heavyset black male resembling Daniel “Viceroy” Wilson, watching the parade from the steps of the county courthouse.

As the queen’s float passed the building, Keyes leaned out of the octopus’s mouth to see a squad of officers swarm up the marble steps like indigo ants. The search proved fruitless, however; three large black men were briefly detained, questioned, and released. They were, in order of size, a Boca Raton stockbroker, a city councilman from Cleveland, and a seven-foot Rastafarian marijuana wholesaler. None bore the slightest resemblance to Viceroy Wilson, and the motorcycle cop’s radio alert was dismissed as a false alarm.

Al Garcia refused to take any painkillers while he watched the parade from his hospital room in Homestead. He wanted to be fully cognizant, and he wanted his vision clear. Two young nurses asked if they could sit and watch with him, and Garcia was delighted to have company. One of the nurses remarked that Michael Landon was the second-handsomest man on television, next to Rick Springfield, the singer.

As the floats rolled by, Garcia impatiently drummed the plaster cast that was glued to his left side. He worried that if trouble broke out, the TV cameras wouldn’t show it; that’s the way it worked at baseball games, when fans ran onto the field. Prime time was too precious to waste on misfits.

Finally the queen’s float came into view, emitting a tremulous screech that Garcia took for brake trouble, when actually it was just the whale music. One of the nurses remarked on how gorgeous Kara Lynn looked, but Garcia wasn’t paying attention. He put on his glasses and squinted at the dopey octopus’s smile until he spotted Keyes, his schoolboy face bobbing in and out of the shadow. Pain and all, Garcia had to chuckle. Poor Brian looked wretched.

At 8:55, the last marching band clanged into view playing something by Neil Diamond. The NEC cameras cut back to Jane Pauley and Michael Landon in the blue booth:

Pauley: Another thrilling Orange Bowl spectacle! I don’t know how they do it, year after year. [Cut to Landon.]

Landon: It’s amazing, isn’t it, Jane? I’d just like to thank NEC and the Orange Bowl organizers for inviting us to spend New Year’s Eve in beautiful South Florida. One of the local weathermen just handed me a list of temperatures around the country and, before we sign off, I’d like to share some of these [holds up temp list]. New York, twenty-one …

Pauley [VOJ]: Brrrrr.

Landon: Wichita, nine below; Knoxville, thirty-nine; Chicago, three degrees and snow! Indianapolis—Jane, are you ready? [Cut to Pauley.]

Pauley: Oh boy, let’s have it.

Landon: Six degrees!

Pauley [pinning on a Go Irish! button]: Home sweet home. Well, I promised everyone I’d bring back some fresh oranges, but I’m just sorry there’s no way to package this magnificent Miami sunshine. Thanks for joining us … good night, everybody.

Landon [two-shot, both waving, major smiles]. ‘Night, everybody. Happy New Year!

Garcia reached for the remote control and turned the channel. A show about humorous TV bloopers came on and Garcia asked the nurses for a shot of Demerol. He lay thinking about the killing of Jesus Bernal and the peaceful parade, and contemplated the possibility that the madness was really over. He felt immense relief.

Ten minutes later the phone rang, sounding five miles away. It was the chief of police.

“Hey, Al, how you feeling?”

“Pretty damn good, boss.”

“We did it, huh?”

Garcia didn’t want to quibble. “Yeah,” he said.

“Did you see the pageant?”

“Yeah, it was just great.”

“Looks like the Nachos are history, buddy.”

“Looks that way,” Garcia said, thinking: This is the same bozo who thought I wrote the
Fuego
letters. But this time he just might be right. It looks like Wiley took the deep-six after all.

“What do you say we shitcan the task force?” the chief said.

“Sure.” There was no good argument against it. The parade was over, the girl was safe.

“First thing tomorrow I’ll do up a release.”

“Fine, boss.”

“And, Al, on my honor: you’re getting all the credit on this one. All the credit you deserve.”