Tourist Season

He kicked through guava rinds, putrid cottage cheese, eggshells, tea bags, melon husks, coffee grounds, yogurt cartons, chicken bones and root-beer cans. The newspapers were at the very bottom, soggy and rancid-smelling. Keyes used the toe of his shoe to search for the front page from Friday, December 28. When he found it, he motioned Je

"This is the one he was clipping?" Keyes asked.

"Right."

Keyes got on his knees and went through the newspaper, page by sodden page. Je

He found Skip Wiley's scissor holes in the real-estate section. A long article had been clipped from the bottom of the first page, and a large display advertisement had been cut out of Page F-17.

Keyes held up the shredded newsprint for Je

Three minutes later he was back. He took her by the hand and said, "Let's go, we're ru

"What about this mess?" Je

"This is nothing," Keyes said, yanking her out the front door. "This is a picnic."

They arrived at the Virginia Key marina within minutes of one another, Skip Wiley by car, the Indian by airboat. The Indian's round straw hat had blown off during the ride and his wet black hair was windswept behind his ears. Wiley had changed to a fla

The Mako outboard had been gassed up and tied to a piling. The marina was dark and, once Tommy stopped the airboat, silent. He carefully lifted Kara Ly

"I gave her something to drink," the Indian said, hopping out. "She'll sleep for a time."

"Perfect," Wiley said. "Look, Tom, I'm damn sorry about Viceroy."

"It was my fault."

"Like hell. All he had to do was duck down, but the big black jackass decides to pull a Huey Newton. He really disappointed me, him and his Black Power bullshit—it wasn't the time or place for it, but the sonofabitch couldn't resist. A regular moonchild of the sixties."

Tommy Tigertail's eyes dulled with grief. "I'll miss him," he said.

"Me too, pal."

"I found these in the airboat." Tommy held up Viceroy Wilson's cherished sunglasses.

"Here," Wiley said. He fitted the glitzy Carreras onto the Indian's downcast face. "Hey, right out of GQ!"

"Where's that?" Tommy asked. With the glasses he looked like a Tijuana hit-man.

A pair of pelicans waddled up the dock to see if the two men were generous anglers. The Indian smiled at the goofy-looking birds and said. "Sorry, guys, no fish."

A red pickup truck with oversized tires pulled into the lot. The driver turned the headlights off and sat with the engine ru

Wiley worriedly glanced over his shoulder.

"It's all right," Tommy said. "That's my ride."

"Where you off to?"

"I've got a skiff waiting at Flamingo, down in the back country. There's an old chickee up the Shark River, nobody knows about it. The last few weeks I've had it stocked with supplies—plenty to last me forever." Tommy Tigertail had stored enough for two men. Now there would be only one.

"You've been so damn generous," Wiley said. "I wish you could stay and watch the fun."

"If I remained here," Tommy said, "I'd bring nothing but pain to my people. The police would never leave them alone. It's better to go far away, where I can't be found."

"I'm really sorry," Wiley said.

"Why?" The Indian wore a look of utter serenity. In a voice that carried a note of private triumph he said, "Don't you see? This way I will not die in prison." That much he owed his ancestors.

"If you ever get down to Haiti," Wiley said, "look me up in the phone book. Under E for Exile."

"Stay out of trouble," Tommy Tigertail advised. "Stay free."

Wiley scratched his neck and gri

"Yes," Tommy said. "Outstanding." He shook Wiley's hand and gave him the red kerchief from around his neck. "Good-bye, Skip."

" 'Bye, Tom."

The Indian walked briskly to the pickup truck. An ancient Seminole with thin gray hair and a walnut face sat behind the wheel.

"Let's go, Uncle Billie," Tommy said.

They could see Skip Wiley toiling at the console of the sleek boat, warming the big engine. He was singing in a stentorian ca

Rode a tank, held a general's rank, when the blitzkrieg raged and the bodies stank ...

"Who is the strange one with the beard?" the old Seminole wanted to know.

"With any luck," Tommy Tigertail said affectionately, "the last white man I'll ever see."

When they reached the toll booth to the Rickenbacker Causeway, Je

"For a boat ride," Brian Keyes replied.

"I thought we were going to the police. Don't you think that's a better idea?"

"The goddamn marines would be a better idea, if I had that kind of time."

Keyes knew exactly what the cops were doing—setting up a vast and worthless perimeter around the Orange Bowl. The city was howling with sirens; every squad car in Dade County was in motion. There were no helicopters up because of the bad weather—and without choppers, Keyes knew, the cops could forget about catching the Indian.

Je

Keyes drove faster down the causeway. Years ago—a lifetime ago—he and Je

"Not here, it's way too dangerous," he said. "I'm curious—why'd you stop by the office today?"

"Just lonely," Je

Keyes glanced at her and said, "Your little chore was to keep me company, right?"

"That's the dumbest thing I ever heard."

"You were in on the whole thing."

"I hate you like this," Je

"That's true," Keyes said, remembering how nasty she could get. She sat ramrod straight in the seat, chin out, a portrait of defiance.

"The choice was easy, Brian. You're a totally passive person, an incurable knothole peeper, a spy."

Keyes thought: This is going to be a beaut.

Je

"So did Juan Corona. You two would make a swell couple."

Keyes found himself strangely unperturbed by Je