Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

“It’s work-related,” said Angie.

“Can I come with?” Jesse knew she relocated wild animals for a living; she’d shared a few of her better stories over coffee at Starbucks.

She said, “Not tonight. Maybe another time.”

“This is way rude.”

“I don’t mean to be. It’s a business emergency.”

“Unbelievably rude, Angie.”

“Seriously?”

“My ex used to pull this kind of shit all the time.”

“Well, I wish I could say I’ll make it up to you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Bye.” Angie put down the phone like it was a hot poker. Right away it started ringing. The caller ID displayed a number supposedly in Ketchum, Idaho. Angie didn’t know anyone in that area code.

“Hello, Pruitt,” she said.

“Why the hell do you answer if you know it’s me?”

“You’re late tonight. It’s six-thirty-seven.”

“Fuck you, bitch. Your time is up!”

“Is one of the dogs sick?” Angie asked. “Is that why you’re late—you just got back from the vet’s?”

“Stop talkin’ shit,” Pruitt snapped.

“I know the Bichon struggles with gout. It’s been a tough road, hasn’t it? Lots of emotional ups and downs.”

“Hey, cunt, I’m going to blow up your stupid pickup truck with you inside.”

“Pruitt, listen to me. A one-handed amateur should not be dicking with live explosives. That prosthesis is fine for routine household tasks—washing dishes, folding laundry and so forth—but not wiring a bomb. Just a thought.”

“Anyway, who the fuck told you about my dogs?”

“Gotta run,” said Angie. “Have a peaceful evening, sir.”

She couldn’t reach Paul Ryskamp by phone, so she drove to the hangout bar in West Palm. Along the way, she noticed the roadblocks were down; that meant the President was gone. Angie thought Ryskamp might be unwinding with some of his agent friends and, sure enough, he was.

Angie walked up and said, “You look positively lethal in that suit.”

“What are you drinking?” Ryskamp asked.

“Nothing.”

They moved to a table in the corner. Angie asked Ryskamp if he’d heard the news about Mrs. Fitzsimmons.

The agent nodded. “Your alleged python victim. It’s a bummer.”

“Not alleged. She definitely got eaten. Then whoever stole the snake from my warehouse put her body under two feet of concrete.”

“Like I told you before, it’s a local case. We don’t investigate that kind of crime…whatever you’d call it.”

Angie said, “They took her damn jewelry. I’d call that robbery.”

Ryskamp tapped his beer mug. “The way the statutes are written, I’m not sure you can ‘rob’ a dead person that you didn’t kill yourself. Stealing from a corpse is probably grand theft.”

“Suddenly you’re an attorney?”

“Not suddenly. Georgetown Law, class of ’98.”

Angie shrugged. “Okay. Decent school.”

“It is.”

“You want me to admit I’m impressed?”

Angie was well aware that the Secret Service didn’t normally investigate burglaries and body snatchings. All she wanted from Ryskamp was a little help. She knew that, because of the President’s frequent presence at Casa Bellicosa, the Palm Beach police regularly shared information with Ryskamp’s office.

“What else do the cops know?” she asked him.

“I’m not supposed to—”

“Talk about it? Let me point out that your agency would still have a large mangled reptile in its Sub-Zero, if not for me. Sir.”

“Call me Paul, okay? And it’s not a Sub-Zero, it’s a fucking Kenmore. But I agree—you were punctual and efficient.”

“Don’t forget ‘discreet.’ As advertised.”

“Very discreet,” Ryskamp said good-humoredly. “All right, here’s the latest from the locals, which you did not hear from me. They’re looking for one suspect and interviewing another guy as a possible second.”

“Who’s got him?”

“Immigration, technically. But they moved him over to the county lockup.”

“Do they have a solid ID?” Angie asked.

“We’re waiting to confirm.”

“What about the first dude?”

“His name I’ve got.”

“Outstanding. I’ll take it.” Angie reached in her bag for a pen.

“What the hell are you going to do?” the agent asked.

“Assist my law-enforcement brethren.”

“Don’t. I’m serious.”

“Oh, stop worrying,” said Angie. “It’s not your case, remember?”

—

Uric used a burner phone to dial the hotline, in case the cops were tracing the calls. Nobody ever picked up, so Uric left several recorded messages saying he was ready to claim the $100,000 reward, since it was his tip that had led authorities to Mrs. Fitzsimmons’s body. At the end of each call Uric carefully recited his confidential code—the numerals and letters were still visible in Sharpie ink on his wrist because he hadn’t bathed since disposing of Prince Paladin.

Surely the old woman’s relatives intended to pay in cash; sending a check or wire transfer would require that the tipster provide an ID, defeating the whole point of an anonymous hotline. Uric figured that, once he connected with an actual human, he’d be given directions to the family’s bank. There he would simply show his wrist to a teller and collect his hundred grand.

He’d spent the night in the back of his van, the odor so foul that it kept him awake. He looked forward to buying something newer after collecting the Fitzsimmons reward. For now he was suffering at a Walmart, parked among the vehicles of other budget-conscious overnighters—mostly in RVs and pop-up campers. Although Uric still had some of the pawn money from the dead lady’s jewels, he chose not to waste it on a hotel room. Staying in the Walmart lot was free.

To kill time he wandered the aisles of the store, luridly appraising listless housewives while loading his shopping cart with pet diapers, hoverboard batteries, orchid-scented sun block, fluorescent cross-trainers, candied pomegranates and other useless crap. He abandoned the cart at the deli counter after ordering a pepperoni-and-meatball hoagie. Outside, in the parking lot, he watched a young couple nearly come to blows trying to squeeze a giant flat-screen television into their two-door Honda.

Uric popped a Coors Light and unfolded a stolen lawn chair next to his van. He pulled out the burner phone, dialed the hotline again and was pleased to hear a living person named Judith Asher answer. She sounded friendly, sharp and helpful. After Uric provided his call-in code, she confirmed that his other messages had been received and passed along to the police, as well as to the family of the late Mrs. Fitzsimmons.

Uric said, “Cool. So how long till I get paid?”

“I don’t have that information right now. You’ll have to keep checking in.”

“Here’s a better idea. Just call me as soon as the money’s ready.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s not possible,” Judith Asher said. “To protect the privacy of our tipsters, we don’t file any phone numbers. You should try back on this line in a few days.”

Uric was irritated by her reply. “A few days ? Why so long, Judith? Is there a problem?”

“I don’t have that information.”

“Are you fuckin’ serious? The cops wouldn’t never have found that old lady’s dead body weren’t for me. There wouldn’t be no big fancy funeral ’cause her kids wouldn’t have a damn thing to put in the coffin!”

“Sir, there’s no cause to use profanity. I wish I could help, but I’m just a volunteer. You really need to call back in a couple days—”

“Okay, okay. Whatever.” Uric took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Judith. Really I am. By the way, you’ve got, like, a perfect voice for this line of work. Can I ask, are you single? Because you sound single. Hello? Judith?”