Tourist Season

Mulcahy sat round-shouldered on the edge of the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "It concerns Skip Wiley," he said fuzzily.

He told Cardoza about Wiley's criminal involvement with the Nights of December, omitting nothing except his own knowledge.

"Goddamn!" Cardoza exclaimed. "Maybe that explains it."

"What?"

"Wiley sent me a New Year's column yesterday but I damn near tossed it out. I thought it was a fake, some asshole playing a joke."

"What does it say?" Mulcahy asked. He was not surprised that Wiley had ignored the chain of command and appealed directly to the publisher. Skip knew how much Cardoza loved his stuff.

Cardoza read part of the column aloud over the phone.

"It sounds like a confession," Mulcahy said. It was actually quite remarkable. "Mr. Cardoza, we have to write about all this."

"Are you kidding?"

"It's our job," Mulcahy said.

"Making a blue-chip newspaper look like a nuthouse—that's our job?"

"Our job is printing the truth. Even if it's painful and even if it makes us look foolish."

"Speak for yourself," Cardoza said. "So what exactly do we do with this column? It's not the least bit fu

"I think we run it as is—right next to a lengthy story explaining everything that's happened the last month."

Cardoza was appalled. In no other business would you wave your stinky laundry in the customers' faces; this wasn't ethics, it was idiocy.

"Don't go off half-cocked," Cardoza told Mulcahy. "I heard on the radio that the whole gang is dead. I assume that means Mr. Wiley, too."

"Well, tonight's the big parade," Mulcahy said. "Let's wait and see."

Cardoza was stu

"You sure we have to print this?" Cardoza said.

"Absolutely," Cab Mulcahy replied.

"Then go ahead," the publisher growled, "but when the calls start pouring in, remember—I'm out of town."

The crusty businessman in Cardoza—which was to say, allof Cardoza—immediately thought of selling the newspaper, getting out before they straitjacketed the whole building. Just last week he'd had an excellent offer from the Krolman Corporation, makers of world-famous French bidets. A bit overcapitalized, but they'd cleared thirty million last year after taxes. Cardoza had been impressed by the bottom line—thirty mil was a lot of douching. Now the Krolman boys were looking to diversify.

The publisher's fingers were flying through the Rolodex even as he hung up on Cab Mulcahy.

Reed Shivers pounded loudly on the door to, the guest room. "Young man, I want to speak with you!"

"Later," Keyes mumbled.

"No, not later. Right now! Open this door!"

Keyes let Shivers in and met him with a scowl. "Open this door right now!What do I look like, the Beaver? Gee, Dad, I was only trying to get some sleep."

"That's enough, Mr. Keyes. You said you were going to be gone for one hour last night—one hour! The housekeeper says you got in at six."

"A situation came up. I couldn't help it."

"So you just run off and forget all about my daughter," Reed Shivers said.

"There was a squad car at each end of the block."

"All alone, the night before the big parade!"

"I said I couldn't help it," Keyes said.

Kara Ly

"Hi, guys," she said. "What's all the racket?"

Right away she saw that Brian had slept in his street clothes. She stared at the sticky brown stain on his clothes, somehow knowing what it was. She also noticed that he still wore his shoulder holster. The Browning semiautomatic lay on a night stand next to the bed. It was the first time she had ever seen it. It seemed unwieldy, and out of place in a bedroom.

"The Cuban's dead," Keyes said flatly.

Reed Shivers rubbed his chin sheepishly. It occurred to him that he had underestimated Keyes or, worse, misread him entirely.

"Bernal kidnapped Garcia last night and I had to shoot him," Keyes said.

Kara Ly

Keyes said, "I expect there'll be some police coming by a little later to ask me some questions."

Reed Shivers folded his arms and said, "Actually this is extremely good news. It means all those damn Nachos are dead. According to the papers, this Cuban fellow was the last one." He tugged his daughter safely back to arm's reach. "Pumpkin, don't you see? The parade's going to be wonderful—there's no more threat. We won't be needing Mr. Keyes anymore."

Kara Ly

"Let's play it safe, Mr. Shivers. I've got my doubts about that helicopter crash. Sergeant Garcia and I agree that everything should stay the same for tonight. Nothing changes."

"But it was on TV. All these maniacs are dead."

"And what if they're not?" Kara Ly

"All right, cupcake, if you'll sleep easier. But as of tomorrow morning, no more bodyguard." Reed Shivers marched down the hall, still wondering about that hug.

Brian Keyes closed the door quietly and locked it. He took Kara Ly

"We don't have to talk about it," Kara Ly

"I had no choice. He shot Garcia."

"This was the same man we saw outside the country club. You're certain?"

Keyes nodded.

He said, "Maybe I ought to say a prayer or something. Isn't that what you're supposed to do when you kill somebody?"

"Only in spaghetti westerns." She slid her arms around his waist. "Try to get some rest. You did the right thing."

"I know," he said dully. "The only thing I feel guilty about is not feeling guilty. The sonofabitch deserved to die."

The words came out soulless. Kara Ly

"Hey, Sundance, you want to see my gown?"