Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

Angie was looking forward to an explanation of his nickname. When none was offered, she asked, “You must’ve played pro football.”

“Nope,” said The Knob. “I hate organized sports.”

Christian pointed at the empty chair. “Saved you a seat, bro.”

Spalding told Angie that The Knob worked closely with Christian.

“Tuning the presidential tanning bed?” she asked.

“No, testing it,” Christian said.

The Knob had nothing to add; he was already immersed in the menu. The subject of his unconventional occupation didn’t arise again until after they’d finished lunch, which took longer than expected because The Knob, acting alone, devoured three orders of lump crab cakes, two plates of linguine, and half of Christian’s fragrant scallop entree.

“He’s got basically the same height and frame as the President,” Christian explained, “so we use him for the trial tan, just to make sure there’s no temperature issues or electrical glitches.”

The Knob glanced over at Angie. “Thirteen minutes on my back,” he said with a salacious hitch of an eyebrow. “Easy money, babe.”

“Has the bed ever malfunctioned?”

“Like how?” He guffawed and licked the scallop drippings from his lips.

Christian said, “The President’s weight goes up and down, and The Knob’s supposed to match it pound-for-pound. Some days he needs to drop a few, and other times—like today, obviously—he’s got to pack it on.”

“What’s your current target number?” Angie asked.

The Knob said it was top secret. Christian chuckled and, behind The Knob’s head, he flashed two fingers, then six, then nine.

Angie also intended to inquire about the freaky wig, which the tanning-bed test pilot had hung on the corner of his chair, but Spalding asked first.

“It’s made from the President’s real hair,” The Knob revealed. “I shit you not.”

Christian elaborated: “It’s part of our testing protocol, so we can check off the flammability box.”

Angie heard the phone vibrating in her handbag. She didn’t answer the call but peeked at the frantic follow-up text: A woman from Boca said an errant hawk was trapped inside her daughter’s birthday bounce house. It was a life-or-death crisis, of course. Angie texted back and said she’d be there in forty-five minutes.

The Knob left the table to go weigh himself. When the check came, Spalding grabbed it, as promised.

Angie said, “What’s the occasion? You win the scratch-off?”

“No, I brokered a big deal. My cut was eleven hundred bucks.”

“Drugs?”

“Jewels, actually.”

“Would not have been my second guess.”

“Conch pearls from South Africa. My brother sent two beauties and we split the commission.”

Angie had never seen a conch pearl. Spalding found the photos on his phone.

Christian leaned in and said, “Tell her who the customer was.”

Angie struck a comely pose, chin in hands. “Let me guess—Duchess of Cambridge? Diana Ross?”

“No, it’s that Secret Service dude I told you about,” whispered Spalding. “Mockingbird’s private joy stick.”

“Back up. Who’s Mockingbird?” Angie said.

“It’s the agents’ name for the First Lady.”

“The guy’s totally in love with her,” Christian cut in. “Can’t get enough.”

Spalding confirmed with a lewd hand gesture. “He was bummed the pearls didn’t get here in time for Valentine’s Day, so he made ’em an early birthday present. Word is some famous jeweler in Pensacola did a rush job on the earrings. Last night Mockingbird wore ’em to a pig roast for the Uzbekistan minister of antiquities. You don’t believe me, she’s all over the Shiny Sheet.”

The first time Angie had heard Spalding’s rumor about the First Lady’s fling, she hadn’t believed it—and hadn’t cared enough to press for verification. However, now that she was dating Ryskamp, the story made her curious. She asked Spalding for the agent’s name.

“Keith is all he’d tell me.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Middle Eastern. Tall. Ripped. Early forties.”

Angie laughed. “A Middle Eastern ‘Keith’?”

“Hey, I didn’t ask to see a bloody birth certificate.”

“Does the President know what’s going on?”

Christian sniggered. “How could he not ?”

“Well, he doesn’t,” Spalding declared. “That’s the word in the kitchen, and the kitchen’s never wrong. So neither of you better say a damn word.”

Christian raised his hands like a teller in a bank robbery. “Don’t worry, bro. I need my job.”

Angie smiled innocently at Spalding. “Oh, come on. Who on earth would I tell—and why?”

But of course she’d already thought of someone.

SIXTEEN

Katherine Fitzsimmons was the only person whose approval had mattered to her sons, for it was she who’d controlled the money and, thus, their future lifestyles. Consequently, her unexpected death liberated Chase and Chance from the chore of maintaining a responsible-appearing adulthood; the probate of Kiki Pew’s estate was moving along smoothly and, as anticipated, the brothers alone stood to inherit the fortunes left by their mother and both husbands who predeceased her. The final sum promised to be obscene, and the young Cornbrights waited only a short time after the funeral before they started pissing it away.

Their first brainless purchase was a one-hundred-and-sixteen-foot yacht that came with a crew of seven and a pair of coal-black Jet Skis powered by supercharged inline four-strokes. Like most watercraft, Jet Skis have no brakes, though theoretically the Ultra 310s acquired by the brothers could safely be piloted at sixty miles per hour—if the surface was flat calm and free of obstacles. However, that was not the prevailing maritime condition when Chase and Chance decided to race each other, unencumbered by life vests, on the morning the President returned to Casa Bellicosa.

The Intracoastal Waterway was choppy and crowded, yet the two cackling yahoos drove at full throttle, jumping wakes and spraying rooster tails as they swerved recklessly among the other vessels. Chance took the lead from Chase, but then he picked the worst possible moment to turn around and raise his middle finger. He failed to see in his path the pallid, bloating form of Ajax “Hammerhead” Huppler, which his Jet Ski struck mid-torso before flipping with a roar, catapulting Chance like a sack of potting soil. A split second later, his brother went airborne in a similar arc when his water bike smacked the dead fisherman in the same place. Partiers on a nearby catamaran hooted and clapped, believing the young men were performing stunts for a Yamaha video.

The crew of a passing tug plucked the injured fuckwits from the current. They were lucky to be alive—Chase displayed only a fractured kneecap and a few chipped teeth; Chance had torn both rotator cuffs. Because the accident happened near the secure marine perimeter behind Casa Bellicosa, Coast Guard and ICE vessels were swiftly on-scene, circling slowly. The mewling Cornbrights were transported to a hospital, while the nude corpse of Ajax Huppler—entangled in the rope of a crabber’s buoy—was winched onto the stern of a police boat.

An autopsy confirmed that the damage to Huppler’s body had been caused post-mortem by the speeding Jet Skis. Drowning was the official cause of the angler’s death, with a contributing factor of alcohol intoxication. There was no indication he’d been bitten, constricted, or harmed in any way by the large python found aboard his skiff. Huppler’s lack of clothing raised a suspicion of foul play until his parents informed the medical examiner that he often fished naked at night. Police Chief Jerry Crosby was glad to close the file, and happier still that the media missed the story.