Tourist Season (9 page)

Wilson himself was no longer rich, having been neatly cleaned out by sports agents, orthopedic surgeons, ex-wives, ex-lawyers, accountants, mortgage companies, real-estate swindlers, and an assortment of scag peddlers from Coconut Grove to Liberty City. With a shift in economic fortunes Wilson had been forced to quit shooting heroin, so he'd turned to reading in his spare time. He spent hours upon hours in the old public library at Bayfront Park, amid the snoring winos and bag ladies, and it was there Wilson decided that America sucked, especially white America. It was there that Viceroy Wilson had decided to become a radical.

He soon realized two things: first, that he was ten years too late to find a home in any sort of national radical movement and, second, there were no English-speaking radicals in all of South Florida anyway.

So for years Viceroy Wilson had quietly burgled apartments and scammed dope and boosted cars, all the while nurturing romantic hopes of one day inflicting some serious shit on the white establishment that had mangled his knees and ruined his life. Wilson remained proud of the fact that he'd never robbed a liquor store, or stolen an eight-year-old Chrysler, or snatched a purse bulging with food stamps. Politically, he was careful about picking his victims.

Then
El Fuego
came along and Viceroy Wilson felt redeemed.

He didn't know what the name
El Fuego
actually meant, but it sure sounded bad, and as long as it didn't translate into something like “The Fart,” Wilson could live with it. They shared the name anyway, all of them. They were a team. More of a team than the goddamn Dolphins ever were.

It was four-thirty by the digital clock on the Cadillac's dash, and the last porpoise show had ended at the Seaquarium. Tourists were starting to trickle out in a splash of godawful colors.

Viceroy Wilson adjusted his Carrera sunglasses, lit up a joint, jacked up the a/c, and mellowed out behind the Caddy's blue-tinted windows. He imagined himself an invisible, lethal presence. This was fun. He liked the dirty work. “Thirty-one Z-right,” he called it. That had been his jersey on the Dolphins: number thirty-one. And “thirty-one Z-right” was head-down-over-right-guard, the big ball-buster. Five, six, seven nasty yards every time. Viceroy Wilson had absolutely loved it.

“Pick a pale one.” Those were his orders today. “Pale and comely.”.Now what the fuck did
that
mean? Pale was pale.

Wilson studied the tourists as they strolled by, scouting the parking lot for their precious rental cars. The boss was right: it was a bountiful crop. In no time Wilson selected a redhead, tall and creamy-skinned, with lots of cinnamon-colored freckles. Her hair was thick and permed up to bounce, and she wore a crimson halter over silky blue jogging shorts. Minneapolis, Wilson guessed, maybe Quebec. A real alien. Best of all, her husband-boyfriend-whatever was only about five-two, a hundred-ten pounds, tops. He stood there shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun, squinting pathetically as he searched for the maroon Granada or whatever it was they'd be driving.

Viceroy Wilson polished off the joint and slid out of the Cadillac. That old familiar growl was building in his throat.

 

Brian Keyes felt uncomfortable whenever he ventured back to the newsroom. In a way, he missed the chaos and the adrenalized camaraderie; then again, what did he expect ? Him and his one-man office with a tank full of algae-sucking catfish.

Whenever Keyes revisited the
Sun
, old friends flagged him down, briefed him on the latest atrocities against truth and justice, and offered to get together at the club for a drink. Keyes was grateful for their friendliness, but it made him feel odd. He was something of a stranger now, no longer entrusted with Serious Information, the currency of big-city journalism. Nonetheless, he was glad when they waved and said hello.

This time Ricky Bloodworth was the first to corner him.

“Tell me about Emesto Cabal,” he said breathlessly. “I'm doing a big weekender on the Harper case.”

“Can't help you, Rick. I'm sorry, but he's a client.”

Bloodworth's voice climbed to a whine. “You're talking like a lawyer now, not like the Brian I used to know.”

Keyes shrugged. Bloodworth was irrepressibly annoying.

“At least tell me if you think he's guilty. Surely you can do that, cantcha?”

“I think he's innocent,” Keyes said.

“Right,” Bloodworth said with an exaggerated wink. “Sure, Brian.” He scooted back to his desk.

Keyes figured the cops hadn't told Bloodworth about the
El
Fuego letters, which was just fine. Bloodworth would have gone nuts with that stuff, and then so would the city. Nothing like a little panic to muck up an investigation.

Cab Mulcahy was waiting in his office. Slate-colored suit, crisp white shirt, navy tie. Same civilized handshake, same crinkly smile. And there was the coffeepot steaming on the corner of the desk. Same place it had been the night Brian Keyes had walked in with his resignation.

“It was good of you to come on short notice. Mind if I close the door?”

“Not at all, Cab.” Keyes had been surprised to get the message on his beeper; he'd been wondering about it all afternoon. A new job offer—that was his best guess. But why would the
Sun
want him back? The place was crawling with raw talent, kids who were plenty tough enough.

“Cab, are you going to ask me to come back to work?”

Mulcahy smiled kindly and shifted in his chair. “To be honest, Brian, I hadn't thought about it. But if you're interested, I'm sure we can—”

“No. No, I'm not.” Keyes wondered why he didn't feel more relieved. “I was just curious.”

“I called you,” Mulcahy said, “because I want to hire you as a private investigator. We have a very sensitive case. You're the only one who can handle it.”

Keyes was well-versed in the rudimentary techniques of bullshitting that the
Sun
taught all its top editors. The phrase “You're the only one who can do it” generally translated to “No one else will touch it.” But this time Mulcahy did not appear to be shoveling anything. He appeared to be genuinely upset.

“Brian, Skip Wiley has disappeared.”

Keyes did not move a muscle. He just looked at Mulcahy; a look of disappointment, if not betrayal. Cab Mulcahy had been afraid this might happen. He had dreaded it, but there was no other way.

“I'm sorry, Brian. I'd never ask unless we were desperate.”

“Disappeared?”

“Vanished. They found his car yesterday in the middle of 1-95. He didn't show up at home last night.”

Home
. Keyes chuckled: Come on, Cab, just say it, I'm not going to break down in tears. Wiley didn't show up at
Jenna's
last night. God, the old man was funny sometimes, Keyes thought. Trying to spare me a little pain. It was two years ago that Jenna had dumped him for Wiley—Wiley, of all people! Why couldn't it have been an artist, or a concert musician, or some anorexic-looking poet from the Grove? Anyone but Skip Wiley—and right in the bitter worst of the Callie Davenport business. What a couple: Jenna, who adored Godunov and Bergman; and Wiley, who once launched a write-in campaign to get Marilyn Chambers an Oscar.

“Did you call the cops?” Keyes asked.

Mulcahy shook his head and reached for the coffee. “We decided not to. I've pretty much ruled out foul play.” He told Keyes about Wiley's eccentric behavior, and about his visit to the psychiatrist the day before.

“So you think he's hiding out?”

“I do. So does Dr. Courtney.”

Remond Courtney's opinions didn't carry much weight with Brian Keyes, who knew something of the doctor's meager talent. In the aftermath of the terrible 727 crash, when Keyes was being fingered by imaginary severed limbs, Dr. Courtney had advised him, by way of therapy, to get a job as an air-traffic controller.

“Forget that idiot shrink,” Keyes said. “What about Jenna? What does she think?”

Mulcahy said, “She's pretty worried. She thinks Skip might do something crazy.”

“Would that surprise you, Cab? Wiley may be talented, prolific, tough as hell—all the things you people put a premium on—but he's also a card-carrying flake. He could be anywhere. Vegas, Nassau, Juarez, who knows? Why don't you just wait a few days? He'll get so miserable not seeing his byline in the paper that he'll rush right back with a stack of fresh columns.”

“I don't think so,” Mulcahy said. “I hope you're right but I just don't think so. I need him back now, here—where we can keep an eye on him.”

So that's it, Keyes thought. Mulcahy was worried less about Wiley's well-being than about all the trouble a man like that could create. Wiley presented an explosive public-relations problem for the Miami
Sun
; no newspaper can afford to have its star columnist turn up as the proverbial sniper in the schoolyard.

And in Skip Wiley's case, another factor loomed large: he had an enormous public following. If his column didn't appear for a few days running, lots of readers would stop buying the
Sun
. If the days turned into weeks, the attrition would show up in the next ABC audits. And if that happened, Cab Mulcahy would have to answer to the highest possible authority; good journalism is fine, but circulation is sacred. No wonder Mulcahy was nervous.

“You know him better than any of us,” Mulcahy said. “You sat next to him in the newsroom for three years. You recognize his moods, how he thinks,
if
he thinks ...”

“I haven't seen him since I left the paper.”

Mulcahy leaned forward. “He hasn't changed that much, Brian. True, his behavior is a bit more extreme, and his writing is certainly more irresponsible, but he's still the same Skip Wiley.”

“Cab, you're talking to the worst possible person. You ought to know that: I can't take this case. I'm not ready to deal with him.” Keyes stood up to leave. “Why, Cab? Why would you do this to me?”

“Because Jenna asked for you.”

Keyes sat down hard. His heart was skipping along nicely now. All he could think was: Cab better not be lying.

“I told her I didn't think it was fair,” Mulcahy said with a sigh. “But she's very worried about him. She said it would be a great favor if I asked you to look into it, and not some stranger. ”

Keyes knew it wouldn't do any good to lecture himself about Jenna, and it was pointless to act like he was going to waltz out of Mulcahy's office and forget the whole thing. The old man was right—it wasn't fair.

Mulcahy was careful not to go on too much about Jenna. “Please, Brian, will you try to find Wiley? We'll pay you five hundred a day, plus expenses.”

“Jesus, you guys are really scared of what he might do!”

Mulcahy nodded glumly. “He's got a considerable temper, as you know. Watching him these last few months has been unsettling, to say the least. I'm sure you read the infamous hurricane column, or maybe some of the others. ‘Rats as Big as Bulldogs Stalk Condo.' ‘Snakes Infest Bathroom Plumbing at Posh Resort.' ‘Mystery Disease Sweeps Shuffleboard Tourney.' Wiley was very shrewd about it. One day he'd write a rousing Good Samaritan column, then a funny man-on-the-street piece, then a tearjerker about some little kid with cancer ... and then he'd quietly slip in one of those gems. He became single-minded about it. He became ... perverse.” The editor lowered his voice. “I think this disappearance is part of a plan. I think he intends to embarrass the newspaper in some extraordinary way.”

“You don't think he's playing games just to get a raise?”

Mulcahy shook his head firmly.

“What about the possibility that something really happened? Maybe Skip got kidnapped.”

“Maybe that's what he wants us to think,” Mulcahy said, “but I don't buy it, Brian. No, if I know Wiley, he's out there,”—Mulcahy waved a manicured hand toward the bay window—“biding his time, enjoying the hell out of this. And I want him found. ”

“Suppose I do,” Keyes said.

“Call me immediately. Don't do a thing. I'm not asking you to confront him, I'd never do that. Just find him, tell me where he is. Leave the rest up to us.”

“You and Jenna?”

“He listens to her,” Mulcahy said apologetically.

“He worships her,” Keyes said. “It's not the same thing. ”

“You'll take the case?”

Keyes didn't answer right away, but he knew what he'd say. Of course he'd take the case. Part of it was the money, part of it was Jenna, and part of it was that goddamn brilliant Wiley. A long time ago it would have been pure fun, tracking down an old comrade lost on a binge. But that was before Jenna. Fun was now out of the question.

Keyes told himself: This will be a test, that's all. To see how thick is the scar.

“Let's wait twenty-four hours, Cab. In the meantime, why don't you run one of Ricky Bloodworth's columns in Skip's slot tomorrow? Run the kid's picture, too. If that doesn't make Wiley surface, then maybe you're right. Maybe it's something serious this time.”

“Brian, I don't know about Bloodworth ...”

“I understand he's chomping at the bit. So publish one of his masterpieces. And if that doesn't bring Wiley charging back to the newsroom tomorrow, I'll take the case.”

“It's a deal. And you can start first thing.”

“We'll see,” Keyes said. “Believe it or not, Cab, I've got other clients with worse problems than yours.”

“What could be worse than a maniac like Wiley?”