They hit heavy traffic, then construction, and the boys lost City and Country just past the American Gladiators Dinner Theater.

“Where’d the girls go?” asked Sammy.

“Shhhh!” said Joe, trying to listen to the engine.

They noticed the engine sound growing louder as they drove through Lakeland. It was a rhythmic noise, a whap-whap-whap like a baseball card in the spokes of a bike. Joe leaned toward the dash.

“I’ve heard engines about to go, and this doesn’t sound the same,” said Joe. “We’re pretty close to Tampa. We’ll make it.”

He was right. It wasn’t the engine. The problem was the air-conditioning. One of the fan blades was rubbing. Only a little at first. The blade had shifted slightly and began clipping some plastic in the cowling. As the clipping wore on, the plastic became frayed and gave the fan blade more to dig into, which tore up more of the plastic.

By the time they took the exit ramp into downtown Tampa, the puttering sound filled the car. Sammy read the map and said where to turn. Joe made a right on Polk, and Sammy pointed at the bus station a block ahead. “That’s where we’re supposed to meet the guy’s cousin.”

Something they didn’t know: The plastic that the fan blade was clipping wasn’t supposed to be there. It was the tight outer binding of a kilo of cocaine. As Joe and Sammy rounded the corner, the slightest aperture opened through the last bit of plastic wrap and a thin, invisible current of coke blew out the vents.

Sammy sniffed the air. “Smells musty in here.”

The fan now had something to work with. Once that first hole had broken the seal, the blade ripped open the rest in short order like a Christmas present.

Suddenly, the air conditioner blew a swift, solid cloud of white dust that filled the passenger compartment, blinding and choking them. Joe began hitting parking meters and garbage cans all down the right side of the street until he crashed into the back of a van outside the bus terminal.

A police officer ran from a sandwich shop. The electric windows rolled down and a thick cloud of cocaine billowed out. Joe and Sammy opened their doors and fell to the ground, gagging. The officer pulled his gun.

I n all, the cocaine in the air conditioner and other parts of the Lexus tipped police scales at just over four hundred and ten pounds, a weight which, under new federal law, required a roomful of politicians to appear at the press conference announcing the arrests. Seven hours into the interrogation of Joe and Sammy, a team of detectives, prosecutors and city officials met secretly in a conference room at police headquarters. Something had happened for the first time in their collective crime-fighting experience. Suspects found in a car full of drugs-actually covered in drugs-appeared to be innocent. But since they had already held the press conference, the two young men would have to be convicted and imprisoned.

While they discussed the case, a corporal walked around the conference table with plastic fast-food sacks, placing a child’s Happy Meal, complete with toy prize, in front of each top official. The embattled and paranoid chief of police looked around the room at a Who’s Who of Tampa ’s power structure. He looked down at the Happy Meals in front of them and thought: This is political-someone in the department is trying to make me look like an idiot. The officials discussed legal and strategic options and made a decision. They would let the suspects go and keep them under surveillance.

The surveillance team, however, lost Joe and Sammy in the heavy traffic of TV and radio vans following the suspects, so they had to break off and track them on live TV back at police headquarters. Outside the command room, a disgruntled police major slipped a corporal a hundred-dollar bill for making the chief look like an idiot with the Happy Meals.

After nightfall, when the news helicopters returned to the airport, Joe and Sammy were kidnapped outside a convenience store in Dunedin by a van with TV news markings. Inside were their new friends from Daytona Beach, the Diaz Boys, three brothers and a cousin.

“Hey, you’re really drug smugglers!” Sammy said as the men gave them injections of sodium pentothal.

They drove to a motel room, where Joe and Sammy were tied to tropical chairs. The men made drinks and got the hockey game on TV. Under the truth serum, Joe and Sammy told them about the police interrogations. A man arrived with a deli tray and chips.

“Did you go by the wedding rental shop?” asked Tommy Diaz.

“I forgot,” said Juan Diaz, still holding the platter of cold cuts and cheeses.

“Better get going before it closes,” said Tommy.

“How come I always have to go?” asked Juan. “It’s because I’m the cousin, isn’t it? The rest of you are brothers, so it’s always ‘Send Juan to do it.’”

“Absolutely not,” said Tommy.

“You know who I feel like?” said Juan. “Norman Durkee.”

“Who the hell’s Norman Durkee?” asked Rafael.

“You don’t know, do you?” said Juan. “He was the guy in Bachman-Turner Overdrive whose name wasn’t Bachman or Turner.”

“He just played piano,” said Tommy Diaz. “The piano guy never counts. In concert, they’re always way over on the side in the dark, with the guy who plays those tall bongos and the three chicks singing backup.”

“What about Rick Wakeman from Yes?” countered Juan. “Or Keith Emerson from Emerson, Lake and Palmer?”

“Those were keyboard-dominated bands,” said Tommy. “BTO was wall-of-sound guitar.”

“Excuse me?” Sammy interrupted. “Is this a Latin thing?”

Everyone glowered at him, including Joe Varsity.

“Sorry,” said Sammy. He grinned nervously, then made a straight face.

Tommy turned back to Juan. “What are you talking about? You’re one of us! Your name’s Diaz, too! We’re the Diaz Boys!”

“Yeah, but it could be the Diaz Brothers. Like in Scarface! I know that’s what you’ve really always wanted. Like the Garcia Brothers and the Rodriguez Brothers. You only let me in the group because you felt sorry for me and you promised my mom.”

“Where do you get these ideas?” said Tommy. “You’re family!”

Tommy gave Juan a big hug and kissed him on both cheeks. “I don’t want to hear any more of this foolishness. Now get going before the wedding shop closes.”

Juan wiped a tear and smiled and rushed out the door.

As soon as he was gone, Rafael Diaz said, “Let’s get rid of that guy. Then we can finally be the Diaz Brothers.”

“I can’t,” said Tommy. “I feel sorry for the guy and I promised his mom. Besides, he runs all the errands.”

“Can we at least change the s to a z?” asked Rafael. “We could be the Diaz Boyz.”

Tommy Diaz looked at Rafael like he had an extra nose. “Okay, follow me carefully. We smuggle cocaine. We don’t sing fuckin’ doo-wop.”

Juan Diaz returned from the wedding shop in thirty minutes with a giant box of deflated balloons and a floor-standing tank of helium. Everyone drank heavily watching the hockey game. They untied Joe’s and Sammy’s hands so they could eat roast beef sandwiches and drink beer. There weren’t enough chairs so Juan had to sit on the cooler because he was the cousin, and he complained about having to get up every time someone wanted a beer.

“It’s because I’m the cousin, isn’t it?”

“Nonsense!”

They all cheered when the Lightning scored the go-ahead goal in the third period. After the game, Florida Cable News’ Blaine Crease appeared on TV at the top of the Sunshine Skyway bridge.

“…And this is where the bloody trail of the Keys Killer came to an end, where he jumped to certain death and was swept out to sea in the powerful currents at the mouth of Tampa Bay…”

Crease stopped to pull a folded piece of paper from his pocket.

“…Just before he decided to take his own life, the notorious murderer wrote an exclusive letter to me, Blaine Crease…”