Free Tourist Season by Carl Hiaasen Page B

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.
    â€œPick 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.
    Thirty-one Z-right!
    Â 
    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.
    â€œTell me about Emesto Cabal,” he said breathlessly. “I’m doing a big weekender on the Harper case.”
    â€œCan’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.
    â€œAt least tell me if you think he’s guilty. Surely you can do that, cantcha?”
    â€œI think he’s innocent,” Keyes said.
    â€œRight,” 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