Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

She said, “Yeah, he showed it to me.”

“Then how is it possible I’m still sitting here?”

“Because the whole country thinks you’re a political terrorist, knocking off rich old white ladies who love the President. A hard ugly mood has taken hold, and you’re the metaphorical bug under the boot heel.”

“Squashed flat.”

“Not just yet,” said Angie, sliding her chair forward. “Tell me everything you told the police chief.”

“I told it to the Secret Service, too.”

“So now tell it to me, beginning the night you and the others got off the boat.”

“What’s the point?’’ Diego said wearily.

“I’d like to hear the story in your own words.”

“Meanwhile, the dude in the cell next to me, he got busted for doing a llama on the ranch where he works.”

Angie said, “Okay, yes, that’s truly awful.”

“It wasn’t even his llama. You get what I’m saying? He took the damn llama on a date!”

“We’ll get you out of here, Diego.”

“I’m so over this. Not that I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m sick of talking to people and then nothing happens. Nada. ”

“Just one question, then,” said Angie. “Do you know Keever Bracco or Uric Burns?”

“No!” Diego practically shouted. “Jesus Christ.”

“Never met ’em?”

“No, no, and no! I already told Chief Crosby, and also the Secret Service man.”

Angie said, “I believe you. I do.”

“That’s what they told me, too, but I’m still here. Me and the llama fucker. Sometimes he falls asleep jacking off in the sink. You get the visual? And yet after all this I still want to be an American, which is insane.”

“Try to hold on, Diego.”

“What are my other options?”

Angie rose to leave. “If any of the deputies ask, I’m your lawyer’s paralegal.”

“Don’t forget your pretend briefcase.”

“Hey, did it not work like a charm?”

“You hear those crazies chanting out there?” he said.

“The protesters?” Angie asked.

“Yeah. Who else.” Diego closed his eyes to listen.

“Honestly, I don’t hear them.”

“Well, I can,” he murmured. “All day, all night.”

—

She met Spalding for a late lunch at the crab shack on the island. He brought along a co-worker named Christian. Angie was annoyed when friends tried to set her up, especially if the friend trying to set her up was somebody with whom she’d once plotted having sex.

Christian was from Denmark and naturally spoke flawless English. He was handsome enough—bleach-toothed, blond and blue-eyed—but he was too short. Angie’s ex-husband stood six-one, and she’d grown accustomed to feeling a chest against her cheek during stand-up hugs. The young Dane was only five-seven in thick-soled Rockports. Angie knew that having a height requirement for prospective dates was shallow criteria but—in the words of Emily Dickinson, Selena Gomez and Darius, the guy who sprayed her apartment for roaches—the heart wants what it wants.

Spalding said that Christian worked the winter season at Casa Bellicosa.

“Guess what his job is, Angie?”

“Pastry chef?” She could be clumsy when aiming for polite conversation.

“God, no.” Spalding laughed. “Chris, tell Lady Tarzan what you do.”

“I service the President’s personal tanning beds,” Christian said, raising his beer mug in a wry self-toast.

Angie was intrigued. “And how does one secure such a prized position?”

“I worked for the manufacturer in Hamburg. One day the Secret Service called and said they needed a technician to take care of two new Cabo Royales—those are our premium models—one here in Palm Beach, the other at the White House.”

“I assume those machines were custom-built,” Angie said.

“I can’t really talk about that, but…”

“Like, big enough for a manatee.”

“No comment,” said Christian, grinning. “The pay was good, and they promised free health insurance, including dental. So right away I said yes. Two visas arrived the next day, one for me and one for my fiancée. Unfortunately, she got homesick after a few weeks and went back to Germany—”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Angie interrupted, “how does one ‘service’ a tanning bed? Meaning what exactly is involved?”

Christian explained he was responsible for checking the fan, capacitors, relay contacts, timer, gas springs, hinges, and ultraviolet lamps.

“And cleaning the whole Cabo after every use,” he added with a queasy wince, “Wiping down the surfaces, and all that.”

Spalding piped up: “He’s got some blood-curdling tales. Tell her what you found that one time in the canopy chamber.’’

“No, do not tell me—” Angie tried waving him off, too late.

“An extra-large Depends,” Christian reported mirthlessly, “burnt to a crisp.”

Angie said she wasn’t hungry anymore. The tanning-bed specialist apologized. He asked if she was seeing anyone.

“I’m sure Spalding told you I’m not,” she said.

“I didn’t know if I should believe him.”

“This time you can. Other times, no.”

“Screw both of you,” said Spalding. “I’m stepping out for a smoke.”

When they were alone, Christian made the rookie mistake of looking Angie in the eyes and saying, “Tell me about yourself.”

“You’re joking.”

“All right, then I’ll start. I just turned twenty-nine, my parents own a chain of coffee shops in Copenhagen, I’ve got two older brothers—”

“Hold it.” Angie made a slashing motion across her neck.

“What, really?”

“I’m sorry, but you’re not my type.”

He blinked in slow motion, like a frost-stunned lizard. “Harsh,” he said.

“No, Chris, it’s merciful honesty. I’m not your type, either.”

“How can you know that already? We haven’t even gotten our entrées.”

Angie felt a bit guilty, even though Christian had met her only twelve minutes ago and therefore couldn’t credibly claim that his feelings were hurt.

Still she said, “You’re right. Let’s see how it goes. I’ll text Spalding and tell him to leave us alone.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“Yeah, he can eat at the bar. That smartass.”

“Thank you, Angie.”

Lunch was fine. Christian ordered fried shrimp and crab cakes, and didn’t make a mess. He seemed good-natured and earnest. Twice he made her laugh.

But, alas, he didn’t grow any taller.

So when the police chief texted Angie asking her to hurry to a place called Blue Pelican Shoals, she lay a twenty on the table, and said farewell to young Christian with a handshake. On the way out, she cut through the bar to alert Spalding that his Scandinavian friend might need some cheering up.

FOURTEEN

The bright afternoon was cool and windy. Angie put on a fleece.

Agent Ryskamp wore a slate hoodie, jeans and black sneakers. Jerry Crosby showed up in the long-sleeved version of his chief’s uniform. It was the first time the two men had met, and they were deep in conversation when Angie arrived.

The purpling corpse of Uric Burns still hung from the bridge abutment. Photographers clambered around like coked-up marmosets. Every agency wanted its own set of photos—the Secret Service, the FBI, the sheriff’s office, the medical examiner’s office, the Palm Beach cops, even the U.S. Marshals. An unprofessional air of amusement was elicited by the colorful fishing lure hooked to the zipper fold of the dead man’s trousers. A secondary point of curiosity was the long-healed ding in the corpse’s forehead.

Meanwhile the media had been roped off in an area beside Soldier’s Creek, where the TV reporters could stage their stand-ups with the death scene in the background. They were also well positioned to observe a dirty white Dodge van being cranked onto a flatbed truck.