Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

He said, “Come on, baby. Be a team player.”

“I’m not your baby. Is that what you call the pole dancer you’re sleeping with?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Liar,” said Mockingbird. “You got her a cabana over at the Breakers. Anyway, I can’t stand those rich old vultures and I’m not doing their selfies.”

“Hell, no, use the White House photographer! Two minutes and you’re done. Christ, they’ve been trying to get a picture with you for years,” the President said. “I need to throw ’em a bone. They donate a shit-ton of cash.”

He wore silk burgundy pajamas and sat barefoot on the edge of the bed. His feet were like moist loaves, the tiny toes appearing more decorative than functional. Mockingbird sometimes found it hard to believe this was the same man she’d married; he looked like a different person now—as if someone had put a fire hose up his ass and inflated him with meringue. His ego seemed to have swollen proportionally.

It wasn’t that long ago when she’d fallen hard for him; now he was a raging, gaseous oaf. Gone was any trace of the sly charm and tenderness. In their early years he could actually laugh at himself, but Mockingbird couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen an honest smile on his face.

“Come on,” he said, “I don’t ask you for much.”

They both knew what he meant.

Mockingbird said, “All right. One group photo, that’s it.”

“Good girl. I like those earrings, by the way.”

She felt her cheeks flush.

“Didn’t even know pearls came in pink. Did I buy those for you?”

“You did,” she said, which was true in a roundabout way. Keith Josephson got a government salary, and her husband was the head of the government.

“The Potussies will be here for lunch tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll set up the photo op for when they’re done.”

“And probably drunk.”

“Sure, but you’re a pro at this shit.”

“The best,” Mockingbird said thinly.

“Listen—whatever you heard about that woman at the Breakers, it’s a total fake lie. She’s not a stripper, she’s my nutritionist.”

“And doing a fine job, I can see.”

Mockingbird had returned to her room and sobbed, though not as loudly as she had on that first election night. She hated the emotional cage, the brittle charade. Her romance with Keith was the only unscripted part of her life, and she felt grateful that he was reckless enough to fall for her. The seduction had been a challenge—like all the Secret Service, he was conditioned to be steely and methodical. It had taken weeks just to make him smile, but that was the moment she knew the deal was done.

Several of her friends cheated on their cheating husbands, but they weren’t surrounded by handlers and media every time they stepped outdoors. For Mockingbird, it would have been impossible to sustain a secret affair anywhere but inside the hermetic orbit of the White House; the only men with whom she spent private time were those assigned to protect her. She was lucky that the one she loved was just a little bit weak.

When she was done with lunch, Keith approached her table and said, “The Potussies are ready for their photo-up.”

“Oh, are they now.”

“Would you like to see the list of names?”

“God, no,” the First Lady said.

The White House photographer had arranged the women in a standing semicircle before a decommissioned fireplace in the Poisonwood Room. Mockingbird positioned herself in the middle and was nearly overcome by a riotous clash of odors—perfumes, hairsprays, and top-shelf booze. The Potussies were tipsy though not incapacitated.

“I’m Fay Alex Riptoad,” said the one on Mockingbird’s immediate right. “We’ve met a few times before.”

“Why, of course. So lovely to see you again.”

“Your husband is a great, great American hero.”

“That’s very…kind.” Mockingbird gave the photographer a look that could not be misunderstood: Hurry up and take the fucking picture.

“As a matter of fact, I saw the President here last night at dinner,” the Riptoad creature continued, “but couldn’t catch his attention. I was hoping to speak with him about the termination of our Secret Service protection—it seems terribly risky, given all that’s happened. I’d be surprised if he was even aware of the decision.”

“What? I’m sorry—Secret Service?”

“Oh yes. Each of us had our own personal agent, ever since Kiki Pew was butchered by that horrid Diego gang.”

“Your own personal agent,” Mockingbird repeated, incredulous and also appalled at the waste of manpower. Silently she counted all the tinted little heads—there were six of them. It was unbelievable. Surely Keith would know the full story.

The photographer aimed his camera. “Say ‘brie,’ ” he chirped at the women, and snapped off a dozen frames.

Afterward Mockingbird dutifully shook hands with each of the Potussies, who as they dispersed were cordial if not especially warm. Fay Alex hung back to make one final pitch:

“Could you please share our security concerns with the President? Sadly, we all know this threat is real—I’m sure he’ll agree that our loyal little tribe can’t endure one more senseless attack.”

With a well-practiced nod, the First Lady said, “I’ll speak with my husband.”

“The agents can be a tremendous comfort,” Fay Alex added with a sly whisper, “as you know.”

“Uh…yes. They’re the best at what they do.” Mockingbird managed to hold a steady gaze though her nerves were jangling.

She mumbled goodbye to the Riptoad gargoyle and followed her Secret Service detail out of the room. It wasn’t until she got in the elevator that she realized she was standing besides Strathman, not Keith.

“Agent Josephson was called into a meeting,” Strathman explained.

“Oh. All right.”

“We’re clearing the gym now. Your regular workout is scheduled in forty-three minutes.”

Mockingbird said, “No, I think I’ll have a nap this afternoon.”

She was vaping in the tub, admiring a chevron of pelicans skimming gracefully over the Intracoastal, when Keith knocked lightly. He came in, shut the bathroom door and haggardly leaned his back against it. His face was drained, his jaw set.

“What’s wrong, hon?” she asked.

“They know.”

“Calm down. Deep breaths.”

“I can’t go on with this. We can’t go on.”

“Come here,” said Mockingbird, sitting up. “Right now.”

—

The Knob stood on the scale and hit the day’s mark, two-hundred-and-sixty-nine pounds. Christian told him to put on the wig made of Mastodon’s hair and lie down in the tanning bed.

“It’s not a fuckin’ wig, it’s a piece,” the Knob shot back. “Wigs are for chicks.”

“Hurry up,” said Christian, and set the timer.

The Knob donned the skull cap and adjusted the hairpiece in the President’s iconic style. Then he squeezed into the acrylic cylinder and lowered the canopy cover. He wore small reflective goggles, a black tee-shirt, sweat pants, and socks. Only his face and arms were exposed to the UVA rays, because that’s how Mastodon did it. There was no need for full-body shading because the commander-in-chief never permitted himself to be photographed shirtless, or in shorts.

As soon as the timer went off, the cover of the Cabo Royale swung open and The Knob emerged. The complexion of his cheeks and nose had darkened from marbled salmon to fawn.

“All done,” he said, peeling off the goggles. “I’m gonna go binge some porn.”

“Hold on—what’s that smell?” Christian asked.

“Maybe I farted. So what?”