Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

Since Kiki Pew’s sons were involved, news of the messy accident in the Intracoastal quickly reached Fay Alex Riptoad, who tried leveraging it to extend her time with William, the terse but handsome Secret Service agent. Fay Alex had been basking in the prestige of being escorted everywhere by a young, armed lawman, but the agency had recently decided to terminate the Potussy detail due to plummeting morale.

Fay Alex argued that a dead body floating toward Casa Bellicosa was cause for heightened vigilance, and she implored the President’s under-assistant chief of staff to intercede with the Secret Service. An hour later, the aide called back to report that the victim was a local resident named Huppler who’d drowned after diving off his boat while drunk.

“There’s no security issue, Mrs. Riptoad,” he said. “It wasn’t a homicide.”

“How do you know the DBC-88 didn’t murder that poor man and make it look like an accident?”

“What’s the DBC-88?”

“Seriously, are you not on Breitbart? It’s the Diego Border Cartel.”

“Yes, of course,” said the aide. “And remind me what the ‘88’ signifies.”

“How the hell I should I know? It’s probably gang code.”

“But why would they target an unemployed transmission mechanic?”

“For his political loyalties!” Fay Alex snapped. “Same reason they killed Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons—for standing loudly and proudly with POTUS.”

“According to our information, Mr. Huppler had no involvement in politics. In fact, he’d never registered to vote.”

Flustered, Fay Alex shot back that she intended to discuss the Potussies’ Secret Service needs with the President himself that evening at Casa Bellicosa.

“Well, enjoy your dinner,” the aide said.

“It’s just a damn shellfish buffet!”

“Goodbye, Mrs. Riptoad.”

—

Angie was home, lying in bed next to Special Agent Paul Ryskamp, waiting for the sun to come up. He’d been telling her how amazing she was, which is what gentlemen were conditioned to say after sex. Angie knew it hadn’t been her best effort—she couldn’t clear her thoughts of Diego Beltrán in the county jail. Additionally she’d been distracted by Ryskamp’s glossy Silk Rocket condoms; Angie had never heard of the brand, and verbalized some concerns about reliability. Ryskamp had assured her there was nothing to worry about; Silk Rockets were the world’s finest prophylactics, manufactured by quality-conscious, hyper-precise Swedes. Five stars on Amazon.

And they didn’t break during intercourse, so that was good.

The experience had been more than fine—not mind-bending, not Top Ten—but very encouraging for a first night together. Angie hadn’t let on that she wasn’t fully engrossed. After they were done, Ryskamp’s first breath was: “You were amazing.”

And naturally she said, “So were you, Paul. Wow.”

The “wow” being a tender reflex, because she really did like the guy.

“Hey, I need to ask you something,” she said, bunching a pillow under her head.

“Uh-oh. What’d I do wrong?”

“Relax. New subject.”

“Then fire away.”

“Is there an agent named Keith guarding the First Lady?”

Ryskamp sat up and turned on the light. “Why do you ask?”

Angie groaned and buried her head. “You’re totally killing the afterglow. Can’t we talk in the dark?”

“No, this is important. What’ve you heard?”

“He’s screwing the First Lady. A.K.A. Mockingbird, right?”

“Don’t ever use that name for her,” Ryskamp said. “Please.”

“What about Agent Keith?”

“Let it go, Angie.”

“He bought her a pair of pink pearl earrings, which she wears in public. Did you know that?”

“Where’d you get all this?”

“And her husband, the most powerful human on the planet, doesn’t have a clue,” said Angie. “That’s the word in the kitchen.”

Ryskamp slumped and murmured, “Fuck me.”

She peeked one eye from beneath the pillow. “Paul, when is your official retirement date?”

“What’s that got to do with this?”

“Promise not to freak.”

But freak he did, when she told him her idea. He was dressed and gone from her apartment in three minutes and twenty seconds, tying the record set by a pharmaceuticals rep that Angie had Tazed on the thigh after he’d said she should consider a boob job and offered to line her up with a cosmetic surgeon who also happened to be his uncle.

The morning passed with no follow-up texts or phone calls from Ryskamp, so Angie assumed she’d run him off. She left an apologetic-sounding voicemail that drew no response. At noon she drove to a stable in Wellington to remove what the owner described as a “seriously fucked-up squirrel.” He claimed it was terrorizing the show horses.

Angie parked beside a long, flat-roofed barn where she was surprised to see Alexandria, her ex-husband’s girlfriend, who was in a state of florid agitation. Pursued by a rake-wielding groom, the squirrel had taken refuge inside one of Alexandria’s imported riding boots, which she’d left in a corner of the stall.

“How’s your pelvis?” Angie asked nicely. “Have you returned to the soul-soothing universe of yoga?”

“Please help. We didn’t know who else to call.”

They hadn’t spoken since a chance encounter at a craft store, months before Alexandria’s riding accident. It was awkward then, and awkward now.

The stable owner and groom hovered by the stall door, poised to dive aside if the deranged squirrel bolted for daylight. Alexandria’s horse, a bay warmblood, snorted and pawed at the hay.

“Which boot?” Angie said.

“The left one. Do you think he’s pooping in there?”

“Oh, absolutely. How’s Dustin?”

“Fine. Just fine.”

“Yeah?” Angie knew from Joel that her ex had hit bumpy times and been forced to unload his latest sports car, a trite yellow Lambo. The chicory-edible company that employed Dustin had gone bankrupt after several shipments were found to have cat litter as an additive.

As Alexandria sidled protectively between her horse and her eight-hundred-dollar footwear, Angie observed a limp and she momentarily felt shitty for having harbored such mean thoughts. Nor was she proud of noticing that the hobbled equestrian must have dined well during her recovery, for she had acquired a double chin.

Angie approached the squirrel’s hiding place and peeked inside. Then she turned to the young stable groom and said, “May I borrow your shirt?”

Unhurriedly he set down the rake, peeled off his sweaty tee, and handed it to her.

“What are you doing?” Alexandria asked Angie.

“Hush, princess.”

She balled up the groom’s shirt and crammed it into the shaft of the occupied boot, trapping the frightened rodent. With Alexandria trailing at a faint-hearted distance, Angie carried the chittering animal to her truck and transferred it into a small travel kennel. She snapped the door shut, tossed the shirt back to the groom and held out the vacated boot for Alexandria, who shook her head disgustedly saying, “I don’t want that thing now! Throw it away, please.”

Angie placed the boot upright in her pickup, next to the kennel, where the squirrel sat panting on its haunches, twitching its bottle-brush tail. The stable owner blurted a question that Angie heard on practically every wild-mammal call: “Is that damn thing rabid?”

“Naw, just lost,” she replied.

Alexandria thanked her for the swift, bloodless capture. “Hope it wasn’t too uncomfortable seeing me here. I’ll tell Dustin you asked about him.”

“My fee is three hundred dollars,” said Angie.

“Okay. Fair enough.”

“What size shoe do you wear?”