Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

When Diego crossed over, he found the chief holding a plastic fixture bearing the stylized letters SS.

“What is it?” Diego asked. “Some Nazi thing?”

The deputy, an auto buff, explained that the SS stood for Super Sport. “That means it came off a Chevy. We’ve got a guy can find out the exact make and model.”

“But what’s a car logo got to do with my case?”

Crosby said, “Maybe nothing. But this little beauty was lying in the rocks underneath it.”

With his other hand he held up a small pink sphere.

Diego Beltrán sucked in his breath and said, “No shit!”

“My reaction exactly,” said Crosby.

On the ride back to jail, Diego closed his eyes and propped his head sideways against the rear window. After a while the police chief and county deputy started speaking low, thinking Diego was asleep.

“You didn’t hear about that?” the deputy was saying. “I was workin’ traffic for the motorcade. It was all over the TV and Facebook.”

“When did this happen?” Crosby asked.

“Few days ago. I can’t believe you didn’t know.”

“Was the President in the car?”

“Naw, but his wife was. The route was blocked off for, like, fifteen minutes. But those Secret Service, they know how to button down a scene.”

“All because of a dead snake?” Crosby said.

“You shoulda seen the size of the damn thing. Twenty-footer, at least—and that’s with no fuckin’ head.”

“And you’re sure it was at the same railroad crossing?”

“Positive.” The deputy shook his head and laughed. “What’re the odds, right?”

“Actually, that’s a damn good question,” said Crosby.

In the back seat, Diego Beltrán kept his eyes closed. While he was entertained by the deputy’s tale of the mutant headless snake in the road, his thoughts kept returning to the pink pearl that the chief had collected from the tracks. It was solid proof that Diego was telling the truth about where and how he’d found his own pearl—and that he’d had no involvement with the robbery and murder of the old lady on the island.

Diego was confident he’d be freed from jail the next morning and taken back to the immigration detention center, where he would join the others and resume work on his asylum application.

In a place like South Florida, such heart-bound faith in the justice system could best be described as quaint.

TEN

Angie said, “Tell the truth. As a man, do you find any of this arousing?”

Spalding answered carefully. “Not at all.”

“The dancing’s awful, the music sucks, the drinks are piss.”

“It’s a strip joint, Angie.”

They were seated among the late-nighters at Prime Vegas Showgirls. Angie had asked Spalding to come along as backup. Nonetheless, she had three times been approached by couples asking hopefully if she was bisexual.

“It’s the khaki thing,” Spalding said. “You should’ve worn a skirt.”

“I told you, I was working late.”

“So was I, Lady Tarzan, but you don’t see me in my damn butler suit.”

A performer who called herself Karma paused at their table to offer a private dance. Angie gave her five bucks and showed her a mug shot of Keever Bracco, which the woman pretended to study. “Nope, never seen him before,” she murmured with a medicated smile, and wandered on.

Angie had already scoped out the stage-side bar patrons; in the dim reddish light, almost all of them in some way looked like Keever Bracco. She had little hope that the dancers would be much help, particularly if he was a good customer. It was also possible that Germaine Bracco had lied to her about the name of the club where he’d met his brother and the man known as Uric.

To Spalding she said, “Tell me about the new job.”

“The lily-whitest place I’ve ever worked. Practically everyone’s on visas from the Eastern bloc—it’s like a Romanian Hell’s Kitchen .”

“What does the staff say about our commander-in-chief?”

“Check this out: His Secret Service code name is Mastodon.”

“Could’ve been worse,” said Angie.

“The guy drinks between eighteen and twenty-one Dr. Peppers a day, room temperature only. And right before bed, every single night, he eats an entire Key Lime pie topped with Chantilly cream.”

“Glorious!”

“And there’s this one dude on the payroll,” Spalding went on, “his only job is to disinfect and tune the President’s tanning bed.”

“Eewww.”

“Yeah, times ten.”

“What about the First Lady?”

“They say she’s nice, but super lonely,” Spalding said. “Supposedly she’s banging one of the agents who’s guarding her. The prevailing sentiment is, ‘You go, girl.’ ”

“Keep a diary, please. By the way, this is the worst gin I’ve ever tasted.”

“It’s a strip joint, Angie.”

A tall raven-haired dancer approached the table. With a heavy Russian accent she said her name was Farrah Moans. She wore see-through platform heels and a satin thong exposing matching tattoos on each buttock. This time Angie laid a ten-dollar bill next to Keever Bracco’s photo.

The dancer eyed it and asked, “Are you also police?”

“Seriously?” Spalding rolled his eyes toward Angie. “Look how she’s dressed.”

Farrah Moans plucked the money off the table and folded it into the V of her thong. “Police too ask me about this person. But the other one, his friend, he liked me. Had big dimple here.” She pointed.

“The middle of his forehead?” Angie said.

“Yes, the forehead.”

“Was his name Uric?”

The Russian held out her hand. Angie took a ten from Spalding and handed it to the dancer.

“Uric, yes. Was him,” she said.

“Last name?”

Again Farrah Moans put out her hand.

Angie frowned. “Come on, sister. We’re out of cash.”

“I really like your top,” the dancer said, stroking one of the sleeves.

Spalding laughed. “That’s a total burn, by the way.”

“No. Top is fresh,” said Farrah Moans.

Angie’s shirt was a short-sleeved khaki with a smudge of squirrel shit on the collar. The “Discreet Captures” logo was stitched in forest-green thread above the left breast pocket.

“It’s too small for you,” she said to the dancer.

“No. Is just right.”

“Fine. You’re the one in show business.”

Angie took off the shirt and handed it to the Russian, who lit up and said, “Last name of Uric is Burns. B-U-R-N-S. He wrote it on dollar bill for me. Also his phone number.”

“Which you didn’t save.”

“Why would I keep? One dollar for what?” the stripper mused. “Also he is not my type.”

Angie self-consciously covered her chest. Farrah Moans inquired about the bandage on her left arm.

“Animal bite,” Angie said, hoping the customers at the next table couldn’t hear her over the music.

“You mean was a man? Why did he bite you?” the dancer asked.

“It wasn’t a man. It was a marsupial. Did you give Uric’s name to the police detectives?”

“I tell them I don’t know.”

“Why did you hold back?”

“Because when it’s for free, I don’t remember things so good.”

“If either of these bozos come back, call me,” Angie said. “Next time I’ll bring you some swamp boots.” She handed one of her business cards to the Russian, who put it with all the dollar bills in the waistband of her thong.

Spalding kept his eyes away from Angie’s cleavage by focusing on the dancer’s butt: “Sweetheart, are those Jiminy freaking Crickets?”

“Yes!” Farrah Moans spun and bent over to show off her ink. “I love so much the Disney World!”