Tourist Season by Carl Hiaasen Page A

elevators.
    “Cab, just a second.” It was the city editor, looking febrile.
    “If Wiley doesn’t show, run a feature story in his slot,” Mulcahy instructed, still walking.
    “A parade story, something mild like that. And at the bottom run a small box in italics. Say Wiley’s out sick. Say the column will resume shortly.”
    The city editor didn’t skulk off the way Mulcahy expected him to. Mulcahy stopped short of the elevators and asked, “What’s the matter?”
    “The highway patrol just called,” the city editor said uneasily. “They found Wiley’s car, the old Pontiac.”
    “Where?’
    “In the middle of Interstate 95. At rush hour.”
    “No Wiley?”
    The city editor shook his head grimly. “Engine was running, and Clapton was blasting on the tape deck. The car was just sitting there empty in traffic. They’re towing it to Miami police headquarters. I’ve sent Bloodworth over to see what he can find out. Want me to call you later at home?”
    “Sure,” said Cab Mulcahy, more puzzled than before.
    “About the column, Cab … “
    “Yeah?”
    “Sure you won’t give Ricky a shot?”
    Mulcahy rarely frowned or raised his voice, but he was on the verge of doing both. “You got a parade story for tomorrow? Don’t tell me you don’t. There’s always a parade in this goddamn town.”
    ‘‘Yes, Cab. However, it was a very small parade today.”
    “I don’t care.”
    “Belize Nationalism Day?”
    “Perfect. Go with it. Run a nice big picture, too.”
    “But, Cab … “
    “And call Jenna. Right away.”
     
    The screen door on Pauly’s Bar was humming with flies. Inside there were six bar-stools, a gutted pinball machine, a boar’s head, and a life-size cutout of Victoria Principal, a bourbon stain on her right breast. The bar itself was made of cheap pine and appeared to be recently repaired, bristling with fresh nails and splinters. Behind the bar was a long horizontal mirror, its fissures secured with brown hurricane tape.
    At first glance Pauly’s was not a raucous joint, but a careful person could sense an ominous lethargy.
    Brian Keyes decided to be the perfect customer. He slipped the lumpy-faced bartender a twenty-dollar bill and discreetly assured him that no, he wasn’t a cop, he was just trying to buy some information.
    The bartender, who wore a mesh tank top and a shiny mail-order toupee, turned out to be somewhat helpful; after all, twenty dollars was a banner night at Pauly’s. Keyes knew from looking around the place that the man he hunted would be remembered here, and he was right.
    “Don’t get many big niggers in here,” the bartender remarked, secreting the money in a pocket. “Then again, they all look big at night.” The bartender laughed, and so did a greasy wino two stools down. Keyes smiled and said ha-ha, pretty funny, but this one you’d remember especially because of the fancy black sunglasses.
    The bartender and the greasy wino exchanged looks, their grins getting bigger and dirtier. “Viceroy!” the bartender said. “Viceroy Wilson.”
    “The football player?”
    “Sure.”
    “I don’t believe it!” Keyes said.
    “Well, take a look here,” and then the bartender tossed an official NFL football at Brian Keyes, knocking over his Budweiser. Viceroy Wilson, former star fullback for the Miami Dolphins, had autographed the ball with a magnificent flourish, in red ink right under the stitch.
    “He’s a regular,” the bartender boasted.
    “No!”
    “He sure is!”
    “Well, I really need to talk to him.”
    “He don’t give autographs to just anybody.”
    “I don’t want an autograph.”
    “Then why you asking for him? He’s not a man that likes to be asked for.”
    “It’s personal,” Keyes said. “Very important.”
    “I’ll bet,” croaked the wino. Keyes ignored him. He had a feeling these guys were full of shit anyway. Keyes was an avid football fan and, looking around, he wasn’t able to picture the great Viceroy Wilson—bad