Free Tourist Season by Carl Hiaasen

about Bellamy so soon? Almost before the cops! And I think, where’s the connection between this Bellamy guy and B. D. Harper? They didn’t even know each other, yet after each one comes these death letters. Too hinky, like I said.”
    â€œSo you’re ready to spring Cabal?”
    Garcia laughed, pounding on the steering wheel. “You’re hilarious, Brian.”
    â€œBut Ernesto didn’t kill Harper and he damn sure didn’t snatch this drunk Shriner.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œBecause,” Keyes said, “the guy’s a burglar, not a psychopath.”
    â€œKnow what I think, brother? I think Ernesto is El Fuego.”
    â€œGive me a break, Al.”
    â€œLet me finish.” Garcia pulled the Dodge into a shopping center and parked near a Cuban café. He rolled down the window and toyed with another cigarette. “I think your little scuzzball client is El Fuego , but I also think he didn’t dream up this scheme all by his lonesome. I agree with you: Cabal ain’t exactly a master criminal, he’s a fuckin’ burglar, and not very good at that. This whole thing sounds like a bad extortion scam, and our pal Ernesto, he don’t have the brains to extort a blow-job from a legless whore. So he had help. Who? you’re asking me. Don’t know for sure, but I’ll bet it’s this mysterious superhuman black dude Cabal’s been crying about ...”
    Keyes related his encounter with Viceroy Wilson at Pauly’s Bar.
    â€œYou deserve a good whack on the head for showing your shiny angel-food face in that snakepit,” the detective said. “You wanna file A-and-B on the sonofabitch?”
    â€œJust find him, Al. ”
    â€œYes sir, Mr. Taxpayer, I’ll get right on it.”
    â€œThis might help.” Keyes handed Garcia a scribbled note that said “GATOR 2.” “It’s the tag on the Caddy that Wilson was driving.”
    â€œHey, you do good work. This’ll be easy,” Garcia said. “Come on, let’s get a sandwich and some coffee.”
    Both of them ordered a hot Cuban mix and ate in the car, wax paper spread across their laps.
    â€œAl,” Keyes said, savoring the tangy sandwich, “what do you make of the name of this group? Las Noches de Diciembre —the Nights of December, right?”
    García shrugged. “Usually Cuban groups name themselves after some great date in their history, but the only thing I know happened in December is Castro came to power—nothing they’d want to celebrate. ’Course, there is another possibility.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    García paused for another enormous bite. Somehow he was still able to speak. “They got something planned for this December. As in, right now. And if what we’ve seen already is any indication”—he glanced over at Keyes—“it’s gonna be a treat.”
    Â 
    Daniel “Viceroy” Wilson stood six feet, two inches tall and weighed 237½ pounds. He usually wore his hair in a short Afro, or sometimes plaited, but he always kept enough of a gritty beard to make him look about half as mean as he really was.
    One of the things Wilson fervently wished this afternoon, skulking in the parking lot of the world-famous Miami Seaquarium, was that he could own this fine Cadillac he was driving. It didn’t seem right that it belonged to the Indian, who didn’t appreciate it, didn’t even use the goddamn tape deck. One time Wilson had left a Herbie Hancock cassette on the front seat, and the Indian had thrown it out the window with a bunch of Juicy Fruit wrappers and bingo tickets onto 1-95. At that moment Wilson had contemplated killing the Indian, but when it came to Seminoles, one had to be careful. There was a wealth of mystical shit to be considered: eagle feathers, panther gonads, and so on. Wilson was much more fearful of Indian magic than of jail, so he