Tourist Season by Carl Hiaasen Read Free Book Online

who says she sold them to a skinny little Cuban guy on November 29.”
    “Ernesto?”
    “She’s eighty percent sure. The creep was wearing a floppy hat, so she’s not absolutely certain.”
    “Give her time,” Keyes said glumly. Things were looking bleak for Señor Cabal. Keyes wondered if he’d been wrong about the little guy. Maybe he wasn’t just a crummy car burglar trying to get by.
    Garcia knotted the top of the evidence bag and scanned the room to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. “Time for you to hit the road,” he told Keyes. “And remember, I don’t know your fucking name.”
    “Right, Al.”
    Keyes was in the parking lot, strolling toward the MG, when he heard Garcia call from a balcony.
    “Hey, Brian, you wanna really help your client?”
    “You bet.”
    “It’s easy,” Garcia shouted. “Find the black guy.”
     
    Keyes arrived at the county jail just as Mitch Klein was leaving. Klein was a scruffy young lawyer with the public defender’s office who apparently had drawn the short straw when they farmed out Ernesto Cabal’s case. As he walked out of the jail, his shirt damp and his tie loose, Klein did not look like a happy man. He looked like a man who couldn’t wait to get into private practice.
    Klein greeted Keyes with a lugubrious nod and said, “What’s the bad news for the day?”
    “They found a motel room on the beach with Harper’s clothes and some blood on the floor. Little Cuban guy rented it the night before Harper vanished.”
    “Beautiful,” Klein grumbled.
    “The good news is, a big black guy was working with the Cuban. He matches the description of the character Ernesto says sold him the Oldsmobile. Maybe I can find him.”
    Klein rolled his eyes and made a lewd pumping motion with his right hand. “I think Ernesto is full of shit,” he said.
    Wonderful, Keyes thought, the guy’s own lawyer is dumping on him.
    When Keyes entered the cell, he noticed that Ernesto lay stark naked on the cot. Ernesto blinked at Keyes like a gecko lizard stunned by the sunlight.
    “Dey took my close.”
    “Why?”
    “ ‘Fraid I’m gonna hang myself.”
    “Are you?”
    “Not now.”
    “Glad to hear it.”
    Ernesto rolled over on his stomach, exposing stringy white buttocks. Two prisoners in another cell hooted in appreciation. Ernesto ignored them.
    “That man Klein wants me to cop a plea. Says he’s trying to save my life. He says dey strap my ass in a lektric chair if diss case go to jury. You thin’ he’s right?”
    Keyes said, “I’m no lawyer.”
    “Too bad. That Klein, he’s got nice shoes. You could use some nice shoes, no?”
    Keyes told Cabal about the Flamingo Isles motel. The Cuban sat up excitedly when he heard the part about the black man and B. D. Harper.
    “Was the black guy wearing Carrera frames?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “I’ll bet it’s the same dude who sold me that goddamn car.”
    “I’ll try to find him, Ernesto.”
    “Hey, you tell Klein?”
    “Yes.”
    “What’d he say?”
    “He said it sounded very promising.”
    “I seen the black guy before.” Ernesto stood up and started pacing the cell. Keyes found his nakedness a little disconcerting. Mainly it was the tattoo: a commendable likeness of Fidel Castro’s face, stenciled deftly on the tip of Ernesto’s most private appendage.
    “Think hard, Ernesto. Where did you see the black guy? On the beach? In a bar? At Sunday school?”
    “Sone-thin like dat.” Ernesto clasped his hands behind his back and stared through the bars of the cell. “I’m gone thin about it.”
    Keyes decided it was time to break the bad news. He told Ernesto about the desk clerk at the Flamingo Isles and the saleswoman at the clothing store, about how they had looked at his mug shot and were almost positive that he was the one.
    “Dumb bitches,” Ernesto said stoically.
    Keyes said, “A skinny Cuban rented that motel room, and a skinny Cuban bought those loud clothes for B. D. Harper.”
    “Not