Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

“That’s your truck burning,” Joel said.

“Well, I’m not surprised.”

“Whatever he threw at us went off like a grenade.”

“Probably homemade.”

“That’s still fucked up, Angie.”

“Stay where are you are. Don’t move,” she told him.

“Duh. I actually can’t walk.”

“I’ll find you.”

“You won’t need a flashlight,” Joel said. “It’s a big-ass fire.”

—

Paul Ryskamp spent part of his Sunday afternoon interviewing Diego Beltrán at the county jail. Despite the uptight presence of a lawyer from the Public Defender’s Office, Beltrán seemed eager to answer questions from the Secret Service agent, who came away convinced that the young Honduran had no role in the death of Katherine Pew Fitzsimmons. Ryskamp expected the Palm Beach police chief to confirm Beltrán’s exculpatory revelation that the chief had found a second conch pearl along the railroad tracks.

Later, at the office, Ryskamp gathered the other agents and handed out the Potussies directive from the head of Mastodon’s security detail.

“These are all elderly white females,” one agent observed as he skimmed the roster, which included dates of birth.

“That’s correct,” Ryskamp said. “Mastodon requested that each of these individuals receive round-the-clock protection, beginning tomorrow. Washington has promised to send us warm bodies to fill the shifts.”

“Does Washington understand how ridiculous this is?” asked another agent, reflecting the mood of the room.

“Of course they understand,” said Ryskamp. “No one’s pretending this assignment is anything but a colossal waste.”

“Paul, what does ‘Potussies’ even mean?”

“It stands for ‘POTUS Pussies.’ The name might suggest they’ve got a sense of humor, but I’m told they take themselves quite seriously. They’re infatuated with Mastodon, and they’re getting a ton of media since his press conference.”

A third agent spoke up: “The deceased woman—has anyone got a speck of evidence she was really murdered by terrorists? Or that the Guatemalan kid they busted, Diego Whatever-the-fuck, is connected to a radical cell?’

“The answer to both questions is a hard no,” said Ryskamp. “And the young man is from Honduras, not Guatemala. I just spent two hours interviewing him.”

“So where did Mastodon come up with this crazy conspiracy shit?”

“He just pulled it out of his ass, like everything else. Plays huge with his fans.”

“Paul, how long do we have to hang with these old birds?”

“The memo says indefinitely, but that could also mean short-term.”

Ryskamp was trying to sound an optimistic note, for he was sensitive to the demoralizing effect of Mastodon’s antics. As a price for her silence, one of his West Coast mistresses demanded to be met by the Secret Service every time she flew into Dulles. The ride to the White House always included a leisurely stop at a luxe mall in Chevy Chase, where the woman would hang full shopping bags on the arm of whichever miserable agent had been assigned to accompany her. If nosy GAO investigators ever asked to examine the duty logs, that particular guest of the President would show up as a visiting niece of the Taiwanese ambassador, not the twice-divorced manager of a wine bar in east San Francisco.

After Ryskamp ended the briefing about the Potussies, a female agent named Jennifer Rose stayed behind in the room. She told him she had something to report from Casa Bellicosa.

“Just a rumor, but you need to hear it,” she said.

Ryskamp closed the door. “Is this a security issue?”

“Potentially. There’s a new hire on the wait staff, a South African named Spalding. Yesterday I overheard him tell another server that Mockingbird is having a ‘super-sloppy hot affair.’ He claimed he saw the man.”

“The First Lady’s sleeping with someone here in Palm Beach?”

“Worse. On the property.”

“Oh, fun.”

“Up at the White House, too,” Jennifer Rose said. “According to the kitchen gossip, it’s a traveling hump fest.”

Ryskamp wouldn’t have been shocked if the story checked out, but there was a limit to what could be done. Mastodon and Mockingbird were seldom in the same room, much less the same bed. Regardless of whom they were screwing, the Secret Service’s mission was to keep them safe from harm. Keeping them safe from scandal was supposed to be somebody else’s job.

“The rumor’s strictly from Spalding?” he asked Agent Rose.

“It’s been floating around, but this was the first time I picked up the name of the supposed boyfriend.”

“So who is he? We’ll need a background check right away.”

“Actually, we won’t,” said Jennifer Rose.

“We’ve already got a file on him?”

“Everything, Paul.”

“Uh-oh.”

“The First Lady’s lover is Agent Josephson. Supposedly. Allegedly.”

“Great. Cute. Perfect.” Ryskamp banged a fist on the desk. “ Fuck!”

“At least he’s not one of yours,” Jennifer Rose said. “Still, I figured you might want to kick it up the ladder—”

“Whoa.” Ryskamp raised a hand. “Has anyone actually witnessed Mockingbird and Agent Josephson in the act?”

“Of fucking their brains out? Not that I’m aware.”

“Kissing? Holding hands? Exchanging sultry glances?”

Agent Rose shook her head. “But we haven’t questioned any of the staff yet.”

“And we sure as hell ain’t gonna start now,” said Ryskamp.

“What about Josephson?”

“I’ll have a talk with him, Jen.”

Among the other agents it was common knowledge that Josephson was actually Ahmet Youssef. They also knew why his name had been changed.

“You’re not in his chain-of-command,” Jennifer Rose pointed out.

“True, but I am in the brotherhood of men who’ve made astoundingly poor decisions about women.”

She smiled and asked Ryskamp if he’d be joining the after-work bitch session at the bar on Clematis. He said no, he was going home to watch a hockey game.

But as soon as she left, he locked the door, took out a calculator, and began working up the numbers for an early retirement.

—

Joel’s ankle was sprained, not fractured, but he still scored a full-siren ambulance ride to the hospital. Angie’s pickup was charred to a husk, smoldering on bare rims. A sheriff’s deputy who gave her a lift back to Lake Worth said Pruitt would be arrested soon; officers were staking out his apartment building.

As soon as she got home, Angie emailed pictures of her burned pickup to the insurance company. She had a tricky job scheduled for the next morning—a momma skunk with four kits had taken up residence in the backyard of a retired Wall Street broker and his wife, who together had fled to a suite at the Breakers. The couple lived in a gate-with-a-guard community, so Angie planned to rent a truck and attach the magnetic “Discreet Capture” signs that Joel had designed for the pickup. Fortunately, not all her wrangling equipment had melted in Pruitt’s firebombing; at home she kept a spare pole for noose jobs, and plenty of extra traps and transport kennels.

Spalding called and asked to meet for a late drink. Angie said she was too tired.

“But I got some face-time with the First Lady! Don’t you want to hear about it?”

“Maybe later. Like on my death bed.”

“In person she’s super hot,” Spalding went on excitedly, “even hotter than her modeling pictures. And she smells just incredible.”

“A grateful nation thanks you for your service.”

“And, yo, I’m ninety-nine-point-nine-percent sure she’s shagging one of her Secret Service guys!”

“Really? I heard it was Orlando Bloom.”