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The address label had been typed neatly：
To Sgt。 Alberto Garcia； Maggot and Traitor
Metro…Dade Police Pig Department
Miami； City of Pigs； Florida
Ricky Bloodworth excitedly opened his notebook and copied everything。
In the upper…left…hand corner； on the top of the box； the sender had written：
〃De un guerrero y patriota。〃
From a warrior and patriot。
Ricky Bloodworth went to the door and peered down the hallway。 Amazingly； the TV lights were still blazing away。 God Almighty； he thought； not even Joe Wambaugh yaps this much。
Bloodworth returned to the desk and picked up the brown box。 It was much lighter than he expected。 Bloodworth shook it cautiously at first； then briskly。 Nothing。 It was packed solid。
Bloodworth trembled at the thought of what he was about to do。
We're talking felony； he told himself。 This is police evidence； no doubt about it。
But screw Garcia…he busted my tape recorder。
Ricky Bloodworth put the box under one arm and hurried out of the Homicide office。 He went down three flights of stairs and came out in the Traffic Division； which was deserted。 He found an empty rest room and locked himself in a stall that reeked of ammonia and bad cologne。
The reporter sat on a toilet and set the box on his lap。 He propped his notebook on the tissue rack。 He stuck the red pen behind his left ear。
Bloodworth's heart was drumming。 He actually felt himself getting hard…that's how much he loved this job。 Ricky savored his coup： a treasure chest of clues from the Nights of December。 An exclusive； too 。。。 that was the part that gave him a hard…on。
He had already decided what he would do。
As soon as he was done peeking； he'd send the package right back to Garcia。 He'd wrap it exactly the same and steam the labels…who would ever know？
Lovingly Ricky Bloodworth rubbed the smooth brown paper； fingered the frayed twine。
Then he pinched one end of the magnificent bow and pulled； pulled on it until the knot popped。
And a savage furnace swallowed him。
Tore the air from his lungs。
And the flesh from his cheeks。
Until the universe turned molten white。
It had always puzzled Cab Mulcahy that Mr。 Cardoza took such an ardent personal interest in the Miami Sun。 Traditionally publishers love to meddle with the news operation （because that's the most exciting part of a newspaper； the only part worth dicking around with）； but Cardoza was not a typical publisher。 He had little understanding of the tenets of journalism with no paternal affection for the newspaper； for his fortunes did not singularly rise or plummet with the Sun。 Rather； Cardoza was a boundless entrepreneur； a man who loved the variety of making money； a man with dozens of incongruous irons in the fire。 He owned a soccer team in St。 Kitts； a stock car in Darlington； a chain of family cinemas； four butcher shops； a Liberian oil tanker； three thousand coin…operated condom machines； and a phosphate mine。 Any single one of those enterprises； Cab Mulcahy thought； was infinitely more amusing as a money toy than the frequently struggling Miami Sun； of which Cardoza owned fifty…one percent。 Which automatically made him publisher and meddler…for…life。 On the evening of December 28； a Friday； Cab Mulcahy was summoned from an opulent pre…Orange Bowl cocktail party to explain to Mr。 Cardoza why Skip Wiley's column had not appeared in the paper since Christmas Eve。
The publisher did not particularly wish to see Mulcahy in person； and he certainly had no intention of visiting the newsroom。 Cardoza preferred to do business office…to…office； by telephone…distance yields perspective； he liked to say。 Also； he got a kick out of hanging up on people。
At the appointed hour； Cardoza dialed Mulcahy's desk。
〃I didn't think much of that Christmas Eve column；〃 he began。
〃Me neither；〃 Mulcahy said。
〃Who gives a shit about some native fisherman who can't swim？ It seems to me Mr。 Wiley can do better。〃
〃He's still not himself；〃 Mulcahy said。
〃He gets paid to be himself；〃 Cardoza said。 〃A small fortune； he gets paid。 And here it's Christmas week； tourist season； when our circulation's supposed to shoot sky…high； and where's our star clean…up hitter？ Every day I pick up the newspaper； and nothing。 No Skip Wiley。 The Sun's dead without him。 Lies there like a dog turd on my front lawn。〃
Mulcahy said； 〃Really； Mr。 Cardoza； I wouldn't go that far。〃
〃Oh you wouldn't？ You'd like to hear the cancellation figures； maybe。 Or take a few hours to read some of the mail we've been getting。〃
〃That's not necessary。〃
For years Cab Mulcahy had tried to tell Cardoza that he overestimated Wiley's popularity； that no single writer could pull enough support to significantly boost or bust the circulation numbers。 Whether that was true or not； it was what Mulcahy chose to believe。 However； as a pure businessman Cardoza felt that he appreciated the concept of a Good Product far better than some ivory…tower editor。 And in Cardoza's predominant and immutable view； what made the Miami Sun a Good Product were Skip Wiley； Ann Landers； and Dagwood Bumstead。 On some days Wiley alone was worth the twenty…five cents。
〃Where the hell is he？〃 Cardoza demanded。
〃I don't know；〃 Mulcahy said。 〃I expected him back in town on Christmas Day。〃
〃Send someone to Nassau；〃 Cardoza barked through the speaker box。 〃Do whatever you have to do。〃
Mulcahy rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes。 It was fortunate that Cardoza couldn't see him。 〃Skip's not in the Bahamas anymore；〃 he said。 〃Apparently he was deported from the islands on the twenty…fourth。〃
〃Deported！〃 Cardoza huffed。 〃For what？〃
〃It's quite a long list； sir。〃
〃Give me the high points。〃
〃Attempted bribery； possession of a controlled substance； and behaving as an undesirable； whatever that means。 For what it's worth； the embassy says Wiley was set up。 Apparently that column about the fisherman didn't go over too well with the Bahamian government。〃
〃Now everybody's a goddamn critic；〃 Cardoza said。
〃All I know is that they put him on a plane；〃 Mulcahy said。 〃At gunpoint。〃
〃Why didn't we think of that？〃
Though miserly with pliments； Cardoza privately held great admiration for Cab Mulcahy； he couldn't imagine anyone trying to manage so many deeply disturbed individuals as there were in the newsroom。 It was a disorderly place where eccentricity； torpor； petulance； even insubordination were tolerated； so Cardoza stayed far away； where it was safe。 He stayed near the money。
〃God knows I'd never tell you how to run that operation； Cab； but I do want to see Skip Wiley in my newspaper again。 That means you'd better find him。 I want a New Year's column from that crazy sonofabitch； you understand？ Don't tell me he's sick and don't tell me he's exhausted； and don't fucking tell me that he's not himself。 Just tell me that he's writing again； understand？〃
〃Yes； sir； but apparently…〃
And Cardoza hung up。
All week long Cab Mulcahy had been waiting for the phone call or telegram； waiting for that familiar profane foghorn greeting。 Waiting in vain。 He couldn't believe that Skip Wiley had docilely accepted the butchery of the Christmas column； he couldn't belie