Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

“That’s quite a structure,” said the one-eyed man’s friend.

“Not up to code, I admit, but it serves the purpose.”

The books were dank and blackening with mold, and the old man’s friend could smell the rotting paper. It made him feel sad.

He said, “Put an end to this nonsense, Clint. Please.”

“It’s my last motherfucking rodeo, I promise.”

“I’d better go now. I got another damn CT scan this afternoon.”

The friend began walking down the path toward the water, but the tip of his cane got plugged in soft dirt. The one-eyed man helped him to the airboat and told the driver about a shortcut back to the Miccosukee village.

A week or so passed before the friend decided to do something about what he’d seen at the tree island. He made the call from his handicap-accessible apartment at the Rainbow of Life Senior Center, one of those “compassionately structured” settings where elderly widows and widowers transitioned from ambulatory to bedridden to dead.

He didn’t know if the phone number he dialed was still good, but the kid answered right away and said, “I’m glad to hear from you. It’s been a while.”

“Sorry, but I need a favor.”

“Anything, of course,” the kid said.

“It’s time for your stepmother to meet my friend.”

“I never said a word to her. She doesn’t even know his name.”

“And he appreciates that. We both do.”

“But why all of a sudden does he want to see her?”

“It’s not his idea, it’s mine,” replied the one-eyed man’s friend. “She’ll understand as soon as she sees what’s going on.”

“So this will be a surprise for both of them?”

“Oh yes, Joel.”

—

Mastodon reacted scornfully when the Secret Service informed him of a possible python threat at Casa Bellicosa. He said that it sounded like the plot of a shitty horror movie, and that he’d look like a pussy for fleeing to Washington just because a snake or two turned up.

The mansion would soon be hosting the season’s most sensational event, Mastodon added, and he wouldn’t miss it for anything. He was, after all, the star attraction.

Mockingbird had a different reason for refusing to leave Palm Beach, and she had no intention of revealing it. She summoned Special Agent Paul Ryskamp to a one-on-one brunch at her private beach cabana and offered him fresh fruit and stone crab claws, which he declined. As soon as he began discussing python scenarios, she reminded him about the headless one that had turned up along the route of her motorcade.

“I wasn’t scared then. I’m not scared now,” she said.

“Until the individual responsible for the snakes is in custody, we believe it’s best if you and the President return to the White House.”

Mockingbird plucked a strawberry from the sterling platter and nibbled off the tip. “I know Agent Josephson’s real name,” she said. “What do you think the media would do with a crazy story like that?”

“How would such a story get out?” Ryskamp asked mildly.

“Oh, who knows. But what a scandal for the Secret Service.”

“It wouldn’t be great, I agree.”

“What’s that cute pattern on your shirt? I like it—so, so tropical.”

“Turtles,” he replied. “Baby sea turtles.”

“Where is your gun, by the way?”

“Under my shirt.”

“It’s not a very big one then, is it?”

The agent smiled with perverse equanimity, a man with retirement squarely in his sights. “My duties are mainly supervisory,” he said.

“I know, Paul. That’s why I asked to meet with you.” Mockingbird moved closer and told him how it would be:

Special Agent Jennifer Rose would be allowed to join her security detail, but only if Keith Josephson remained the leader of the team. A rumor would be circulated among the staff at Casa Bellicosa that agents Rose and Josephson had rekindled a past romance, and were hooking up—strictly during off-duty hours—at a Comfort Inn out by the interstate.

Mockingbird said, “There’s a name in your business for this kind of thing, isn’t there?”

“Disinformation.”

“That it is. Meanwhile my husband is screwing a stripper who’s masquerading as a nutritionist, of all things. I’m sure you people know about this. She’s got an ass like a Volvo sedan.”

Ryskamp answered only with his eyes.

“It would mean a great deal to me,” she said, “if his relationship with that sloppy whore stayed secret from the public. And, yes, I can tell what you’re thinking.”

Ryskamp turned slightly in his beach chair and made sure the other agents were standing far enough away. To the First Lady he said, “I’m thinking exactly what you think I am.”

She frowned and reached for a slice of Bucheron. “Whatever’s going on in my own private life, Agent Ryskamp, in the future I promise to be much more careful about, you know, appearances. None of the blame for all this stupid gossip belongs anywhere but on myself. Do you understand?”

“I’ve always liked Agent Josephson.”

“You mean Agent Youseff.”

“He took one for the team,” Ryskamp said.

“All because my husband doesn’t trust anyone with an Islamic name. Or Jews, or blacks, or Asians, or Hispanics, or Mormons, or whatever. God, it’s exhausting to keep track. With my accent, I’m amazed he married me.”

“No, you’re not.”

She leaned closer. “It must never, ever get back to him as a true thing—this kitchen talk about me and Keith.”

“How can you be sure he doesn’t already know?”

“Because you and your bosses haven’t been fired.”

Mockingbird was wearing a black one-piece swimsuit under a forgivable Lilly Pulitzer cover-up. Ryskamp interpreted her flame-red toenails as playful mutiny.

“One last thing,” she said. “Those old vipers who call themselves the Potussies—by the way, how trashy is that?—apparently they’ve all had Secret Service protection?”

“Until recently. For a number of reasons, the decision was made to terminate those assignments. The President was informed, and he signed off.”

“Yes, I get it, the whole idea’s outrageous. But the women really miss having their dashing young agents around, so I need you to call Washington and make it happen again, before the big ball.”

“Can I ask why?” Ryskamp said.

“One of the ladies, a Mrs. Riptoe or something like that, spoke to me personally. Her group raises lots of money for my husband.”

“Lots of people raise lots of money for your husband.”

“Mrs. Riptoe was very persuasive. It’s possible she’s heard that sleazy rumor about me and Agent Josephson.” Mockingbird put on her sunglasses, stood up, and tucked her crocodile clutch under one arm. “I’ve got my deep-tissue in five minutes. Let me know what Washington says.”

“We’re doing a teleconference this afternoon.”

“I like those flip-flops, Agent Ryskamp. Where’d you find them?”

“There’s a new Ron Jon’s on A1A,” he said. “What’s your size?”

—

The Commander’s Ball had been staged every spring since Mastodon’s election. Lovingly organized by the Potussies, it was a giddy, feisty, celebrity-packed tribute to the forever embattled chief executive, and had become his most lucrative political fundraiser. Tickets started at ten thousand dollars a seat, but for only twice as much you got photographed at the President’s side. For thirty thousand he would personally sign the photograph; for forty grand he would shake your hand in the picture; for fifty he’d place an arm around your shoulders. (When advised to avoid physical contact due to the lingering virus threat, Mastodon had berated his doctors and said the risk of a lung infection was less important than the gusher of cash generated by the photo operation.)