"What about the chopper?"

"Watson Island. Nine tonight," Wilson said. "The pilot's cool. Free-lance man. Does some jobs for the Marine Patrol, the DEA and the blockade-runners, too. Long as the price is nice."

"And the goodies?" Wiley asked.

"Safe and sound," Tommy Tigertail reported.

"Nobody got hurt?"

The Indian smiled—these white men! "No, of course not," he said. "Everybody had a ball."

Wiley sighed. "Good, then we're on—with or without our Cuban friend." He reached into a pocket and came out with something in the palm of his hand. To Viceroy Wilson the object looked like a pink castanet.

"What the hell," Wiley said. He carefully placed the object on the keyboard of Jesus Bernal's abandoned typewriter. "Just in case he comes back."

It was a brand-new set of dentures.

Cab Mulcahy had waited all night for Skip Wiley to call again. He'd attached a small tape recorder to the telephone next to the bed and slept restlessly, if at all. There was no question of Wiley reaching him if he'd wanted—Skip knew the number, and had never been shy about calling. Back when he was writing in full stride, Wiley would phone Mulcahy at least once a week to demand the firing or public humiliation of some mid-level editor who had dared to alter the column. These tirades normally lasted about thirty minutes until Wiley's voice gave out and he hung up. Once in a while Mulcahy discovered that Skip was right—somebody indeed had mangled a phrase or even edited a fact error into the column; in these instances the managing editor would issue a firm yet discreet rebuke, but Wiley seldom was satisfied. He was constantly threatening to murder or sexually mutilate somebody in the newsroom and, on one occasion, actually fired a speargun at an unsuspecting editor at the city desk. For weeks there was talk of a lawsuit, but eventually the poor shaken fellow simply quit and took a job with a public-relations firm in Tampa. Wiley had been remorseless; as far as he was concerned, anyone who couldn't weather a little criticism had no business in journalism anyway. Cab Mulcahy had been dismayed: firing a spear at an editor was a sure way to bring in the unions. To punish Wiley, Mulcahy had forced him to drive out to the Deauville Hotel one morning and interview Wayne Newton. To no one's surprise, the resulting column was unprintable. The speargun episode eventually was forgiven.

As a habit Skip Wiley called Mulcahy's home only in moments of rage and only in the merciless wee hours of the morning, when Wiley could be sure of holding the boss's undivided attention.

Which is why Cab Mulcahy scarcely slept Friday night, and why he was so fretful by Saturday morning when Skip still hadn't phoned. Keyes called twice to see if Wiley had made contact, but there was nothing to report; both of them worried that Skip might have changed his mind. By midafternoon Mulcahy—still unshaven, and rambling the house in a rumpled bathrobe—was battling a serious depression. He feared that he had missed the only chance to reason with Wiley or bring him in for help.

He was fixing a tuna sandwich on toast when the phone finally rang at half-past five. He hurried into the bedroom, closed the door, punched the tape recorder.

"Hello?"

"You viper!"

"Skip?"

"What kind of snake would let Bloodworth sodomize a Christmas column!"

"Where are you, buddy?"

"At the Gates of Hell, waiting. I told 'em to save you a ringside seat at the inferno."

Mulcahy was impressed by Wiley's vitriol; not bad for a five-day-old rage. "I'm sorry, Skip. I should never have done it. It was wrong."

"Immoral is what it was."

"Yes, you're right. I apologize. But I don't think morality is your strong suit, at the moment."

"Whoa," Wiley said. "Blowing up Ricky Bloodworth was notmy idea, Cab. It was one of those things that happens in the fever of revolution. Corrective measures are under way."

"He's going to recuperate. You're damn lucky, Skip."

"Yeah, I paid a visit to the hospital."

"You did? But there's supposed to be a police guard!"

Wiley said, "Don't get all upset. The kid was thrilled to see me. I brought him a stuffed skunk."

Mulcahy decided to make his move. A conversation with Wiley was like a freight train: you either got aboard fast or you missed the whole damn thing.

"If you're in town, why don't you stop by the house?"

"Thanks, but I'm extremely busy, Cab."

"I could meet you somewhere. At the club, maybe."

"Let's cut the crap, okay?"

"Sure, Skip."

"Keyes isn't as smart as he thinks."

"Oh."

"Neither are you."

"What do you mean?"

"In due time, old friend."

"Why are you doing this?" The wrong thing to say—Mulcahy knew it immediately.

"Why am I doing this? Cab, don't you read your own newspaper? Are you blind? What do you see when you stare out that big bay window, anyway? Maybe you can't understand because you weren't here thirty years ago, when it was paradise. Before they put parking meters on the beach. Before the beach disappeared. God, Cab, don't tell me you're like the rest of these migratory loons. They think it's heaven down here as long as the sun's out, long as they don't have to put chains on the tires, it's marvelous. They thinkit's really paradise, because, compared to Buffalo, it is. But, Cab, compared to paradise ... "

"Skip, I know how you feel, believe me. But it'll never work."

"Why not?"

"You can't evacuate South Florida, for God's sake. These people are here to stay."

"That's what the cavemen said about tyrannosaurs."

"Skip, listen to me. They won't leave for a bloody hurricane—what makes you think they'll move out after a few lousy bombs?"

"When the condos fail, the banks fail. When the banks fail, it's bye-bye lemmings." Wiley sounded impatient. "I explained all this to Keyes."

"Okay, I understand it," Mulcahy said. "I understand perfectly. Just tell me, what's this business about Violating a sacred virgin'? How does that fit into your theory?"

"I thought you smartasses had it all figured out."

"Well, if it's the Orange Bowl queen, forget it. The police are everywhere."

"Maybe, maybe not."

Mulcalay said, "Skip, you're going to get yourself shot."

"I'm not planning on it."

"What areyou planning?"

"To be on the front page of your newspaper again tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Mulcahy found it difficult to sound nonchalant. "But the parade's not for two days."

"This is a little preview, Cab."

Mulcahy was flustered. "What kind of preview?"

Wiley said, "You'll have to wait and see. As a courtesy, I'm advising you to budget some space for tomorrow's front page."

Mulcahy took a deep breath. "No, Skip."

There was a pause; then Wiley laughed disbelievingly. "What do you mean no?"

"I won't put the Nights of December on page one. I'll bury the story, so help me God."

"You can't," Wiley said, sounding vastly amused. "Don't you see, you're powerless. You can't ignore the news unless you're ready to forsake the public trust—and you're not, Cab. I'll bet on it. You're too honorable, too ethical, too everything. The integrity of that newspaper is sacred to you, probably the only thing sacred in your life. Diddling around with my column is one thing, but censorship's another. You wouldn't do it, not in a million years. You're at the mercy of the news, old friend, and right now the news is me."

"Skip, I still run this paper," said Mulcahy, his voice taut. He was choking the phone with both hands.

"And you do a swell job running the paper," Wiley said. "But if you don't think I know how to make the front page after all these years, then it's yourbrain that's turned to Rice-a-Roni. Now I've really got to sign off. My schedule is extremely tight."