Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

Ever since a ping-pong mishap had felled their only Roman Catholic member, the Potussies had steered to less strenuous hobbies such as golf and duplicate bridge. They wintered in Palm Beach mainly for the sunshine, gilded charity circuit and cosmetic surgery advances, but what bonded them as a unit was their unshakable devotion to the perpetually besieged President. Throughout the long deep-state witch hunt—the doctored Minsk defecation video, the phony tax-evasion probe, the counterfeit porn-star diaries, the bogus Moscow skyscraper investigation, the hoax penile-enhancement scandal, the fake witness-tampering charges, and both fraudulent impeachment trials—the Potussies had remained steadfast, vociferous, adoring defenders.

It was more than political loyalty; it was cultish fervor, with Casa Bellicosa as the opulent shrine of worship. There, in the darkest of times, the group would make a swooshing entrance wearing haute floor-length renditions of the Stars and Stripes, and Edwardian coiffures spangled with red, white and blue baubles. Led by Fay Alex Riptoad (or, as a stand-in, Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons), the women moved in an adulatory procession, exfoliated chins held high. On one much-discussed occasion, they boldly displayed—upon preternaturally taut, polished cleavages—matching henna tattoos of POTUS’s resolutely pursed, fondly retouched visage.

Other Casa Bellicosans weren’t embarrassed by the flamboyant fan group; just the opposite. The President had many die-hard supporters who preferred to demonstrate their allegiance in more subtle ways such as writing six-figure checks to political-action committees, or loaning out their private jets for the discreet delivery of certain presidential “friends.” (Except for official trips and White House events, the First Lady was seldom seen with her husband. It was well known they slept in different quarters. Her aloofness grated on the Potussies, who found POTUS enormously attractive and in any case deserving of intimate companionship. They were, of course, also miffed by the First Lady’s non-negotiable avoidance of the Palm Beach society scene.)

Fay Alex Riptoad waited until the others got their drinks before she told them the big news about the investigation of Kiki Pew’s death.

“I’ve been fully briefed by the police chief,” she began. “One man’s in custody, and they’re hunting for another.”

“Who did they arrest?” asked Kelly Bean Drummond and Dorothea “Dottie” Mars Bristol simultaneously, though a full octave apart.

Fay Alex sipped her peach Melba mimosa.

Sighed.

Set down her glass.

Touched a linen napkin to the corners of her lips.

With both hands gripped the edge of the table.

Leaned forward, mostly with her neck, like a mildly arthritic condor.

“The man is Hispanic,” Fay Alex hissed, “ and illegal.”

The other Potussies variously recoiled, moaned, or gasped. Immediately they began croaking out questions, most of which Fay Alex was unable to answer.

“This much I do know,” she said. “His name is Diego something-or-other, and they found one of Kiki Pew’s pearls in his pocket when they caught him.”

“Oh, dear God, no!”

“That greasy heathen!”

“Monster!”

“One of her pink pearls?”

“Oh, yes,” Fay Alex confirmed, “from the necklace she was wearing the night of the White Ibis.”

A discussion produced the unanimous sentiment that court trials in such brutal cases were a waste of public tax dollars, and that the culprit should be dragged by his hairy nut sack straight from the booking desk to the death chamber.

“Do not pass Go!” erupted Deirdre Cobo Lancôme. It was a quip favored by one of her late husbands, who’d heard it from a squash partner who worked as a Human Resources specialist, laying off middle-aged executives.

“Does POTUS know about this Diego person?” asked Dee Wyndham Wittlefield, whose close friends were required to call her “Dee Witty.”

Fay Alex said she wasn’t sure if the President was aware of the latest developments. “Although I’m sure he’d be keenly interested,” she added. “He was quite fond of Kiki Pew.”

“As he is of us all,” said Dee Witty. “And this sort of foreign-bred… fiend is exactly what he’s been warning us about. Murderous invaders, rapist clans and so forth. I will definitely be speaking with my brother.”

Dee Witty’s brother Barnette was a presidential confidant, one of seventeen lawyers working full-time to suppress, mislead or discredit ongoing investigations of the executive branch. Barnette Wittlefield met with the commander-in-chief every morning at four-thirty a.m. bringing news of the latest subpoenas along with four bags of Egg McMuffins.

“That’s a good idea,” said Fay Alex. “POTUS listens to Barney. A phone call from the Oval Office would fast-track this Diego character to the flaming gates of hell. It’s the least we can do for our dear, sweet, magnificent friend.”

She raised her mimosa. “To Kiki Pew! To justice!”

The other Potussies, moist-eyed, joined in the toast.

In truth, the President didn’t know Katherine Pew Fitzsimmons from any of the other lacquered weekend warriors. Casa Bellicosa was always stocked with fans who applauded on cue every time he appeared—so many worshipful faces that the leader of the free world couldn’t possibly remember them all.

He did, however, occasionally pay attention to the things Barnette Wittlefield told him at four-thirty in the morning.

—

Diego Beltrán was surprised that the police chief came alone to interview him. The man listened to the whole story without once interrupting.

Then he said, “Diego, can you show me the railroad tracks where you say you found the pearl?”

“Yeah, sure. I offered to take the detectives there, but they weren’t interested.”

“Well, I am,” said Jerry Crosby.

“Do I have to wear handcuffs?”

“Yup. There’ll be another armed officer riding with us.”

Diego said, “Don’t worry, I’m not running.”

“No, you don’t strike me as stupid.”

“You mean because my English is so good.”

Crosby smiled. “That’s got nothing to do with it. I know plenty of English-speaking morons.”

With his wrists cuffed in front of him, Diego was placed in the caged back seat of the chief’s SUV. The other cop, a county sheriff’s deputy, sat up front with the chief. Diego gave directions to the railway crossing. Crosby pulled off the road near the striped warning gates and switched on his red-and-blue roof lights. Diego led him to the section of tracks where he’d picked up the pink pearl.

The deputy stood in the middle of the crossing with his arms up, stopping the cars, while Diego and Crosby walked side-by-side, scanning the debris in the gravel between the ties. Crosby didn’t seem to be faking an interest, and he caught Diego off guard by suggesting they split up to cover more ground.

“Sounds good,” said Diego warily.

“But try to run off, and you’ll be visiting one of our modern emergency rooms.”

“I get it. Can I ask what we’re looking for?”

“Anything,” the chief said, “that might make your story remotely believable.”

There was a cloudless sky, no breeze and a bright sun. If it had been August, ripples of heat would have been rising from the steel rails. Diego’s eyesight was sharp. Between the ties lay a sooty scattering of coins, soda straws, batteries, unmatched socks, condom wrappers, bottle caps, moldy wine corks, bird skeletons, used syringes, bent needles, copper BBs, Styrofoam cups, a rusted harmonica, a large fish hook, a turtle shell, a partial set of vintage dentures, and a filthy baby’s mitten.

Diego had no intention of touching anything; none of the items had any clear connection to his predicament. He looked up when he heard the deputy holler. Warning bells rang from the crossing gates. Diego stepped back and waited while a mile-long train passed between him and the police chief. Diego didn’t even consider running. After the last freight car rolled by, he saw Crosby beckoning from the other side of the tracks.