Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

“I don’t have that information.”

“I’ll start crying if she is. I can’t help it, hon. I’ll break down and sob.”

“That’s all right,” he said. “This was her wish, to visit the Winter White House and meet you in person.”

“But why?” Mockingbird asked.

“Obviously she’s a fan.”

“God, if she only knew.”

“Don’t talk like that.” Ahmet put on his suit jacket, slipped the radio receiver into an inside pocket, and smoothed his sleeves.

Mockingbird gave a frustrated sigh. “Seven minutes? My hair’s a nightmare!”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “Now we’re down to five,” he said, “and you look perfect, ma’am.”

TWENTY-ONE

Angie dreamed she was still a veterinarian at her father’s clinic. There was another cocker spaniel on the operating table, another swallowed ping-pong ball on the X-ray. Angie made the first incision and then ran out crying. Her dad chased after her, but she was too fast. She heard him yell that she was a quitter, a weakling, an ingrate. He shouted for her to come back and finish the surgery, but she kept running.

Her eyes were dry when she woke up, which was surprising. She called Joel to find out if he’d heard anything more from Pruitt.

“Nothing,” he said. “What did you do to him?”

“Noose and a bobcat.”

“You mean a bobcat bulldozer.”

“No, a bobcat bobcat. As in Lynx rufus. ”

“Holy shit, Angie.”

“I was careful not to hurt the pussy, or the cat.”

“Are you trying to get arrested again? You miss that delicious prison food, or what?”

Angie said it would be best if Joel and his girlfriend stayed at Dustin’s house a little while longer, until they were sure Pruitt had been spooked off.

“No, Krista wants to be back in her condo ASAP,” Joel whispered into the phone.

“Wild guess: Because of the equestrian?”

“She will not back off that yoga shit. Krista’s been faking cramps to get out of doing the classes.”

“Just a few more days, Joel. Hang in there.”

Angie hung up, ate a bowl of dry Frosted Flakes, and re-read the all-caps text from Chief Jerry Crosby. Then she put on a long-sleeved shirt, bush pants, and hiking shoes, and drove to Sunrise Avenue on the island to remove a seventeen-and-a-half-foot Burmese python from a designer beachwear shop where the First Lady recently had purchased several swimsuits. A panicked security guard had fired four times. One bullet fatally struck the snake, and the other three took down a mannequin in a Missoni tankini. Once on-scene, Angie spent time commiserating with Crosby and the agitated store owner before loading the deceased reptile in her truck.

On the way to the Turnpike, she stopped at the county jail to visit Diego Beltrán in the medical wing, where he was being treated for stab wounds.

“You look better than expected,” she told him, “all things considered.”

Actually, Diego looked terrible. He lay ashen and heavy-lidded, cuffed to a hospital bed. There was an oxygen tube in his nose and a drainage tube in his chest. He said he had a punctured lung.

“Who did it?” Angie asked.

“Ayran Brotherhood.”

“How many?”

His breathing was shallow but controlled. He held up two fingers and said, “They saw my face on TV this morning. Fox News did an update on my case. Guess the bored white boys wanted to be heroes.”

“By shivving you.”

“Yeah, with sharpened bed springs.”

“Valiant, God-fearing patriots,” said Angie.

Diego looked away. “I’m never getting out of here alive.”

“You will. I promise.”

He said, “There’s nothing anyone can do for me. Don’t you see?”

Angie was raging inside. She thought of arranging a painful payback for the racist shit-sticks who tried to murder Diego, but she knew they’d be well-protected on their cell block.

She squeezed Diego’s hand. “All I can say is, don’t you fucking dare give up.”

He turned back, smiling sadly. “Why? You know somebody at the top?”

“I will soon,” she said with a wink. “I got invited to a special party.”

“Yeah? Will you be dancing?”

“Get some rest, amigo .”

The Turnpike was a mess, so Angie crossed back to the interstate. She cranked up the radio hoping to take her mind off the attack on Diego. This was a problem, her dogged temper. It was the only reason she had a rap sheet. Feeding a poacher’s hand to an alligator was more than a mad impulse; locating that particular reptile had required deliberation, and a detour.

Calm the fuck down, Angie told herself, speeding down the highway.

She jumped off on the Palmetto, which was, miraculously, clear all the way to the Tamiami Trail. The airboat driver had said to meet him at the S-333 spillway, a few minutes west of Krome Avenue. His was the only truck in the parking lot when Angie pulled up. She walked down the launch ramp and smiled at the sign warning visitors not to feed the wildlife.

The airboat driver shook her hand and said to call him Beak.

“Like a bird’s?” Angie said. “I don’t see that. Your nose looks fine.”

“My real name’s Ivan. I had to try on something else.”

Angie handed over three hundred dollars cash, Jim Tile’s hand-drawn map, and a paper napkin on which she’d written the GPS numbers for the tree island.

“What’s in the sack?” Beak asked.

“Rope.”

“Looks heavy.”

“Not really,” Angie said.

“Okay, hop in.”

He was late-twenties; good smile and no visible ink. Tangled blondish hair, Brad Pitt-style shades, and a camo cap turned backwards so the wind from the ride wouldn’t blow it off. Also, he was clean-shaven, one of Angie’s requirements. She found herself thinking unprofessional thoughts.

Before flipping the ignition switch, Beak handed her a set of noise-suppressing earphones with a microphone arm. The airboat’s propeller was a big two-blade Whisper Tip, the same type Angie had on her engine when she worked for the state. She knew what Beak’s answer would be if she asked to take the stick, but the thought of driving stirred good memories; crossing thin water at crazy speeds was one of the things she missed about her old life.

The afternoon was mild, with a rippled mackerel sky and a touch of northwest in the breeze. Herons, purple coots, and warblers scattered ahead of the roaring airboat—the marsh still attracted lots of birds. Angie spotted a young eagle circling and, much higher, a line of turkey vultures weaving like a black kite string in the thermals. Beak tapped her shoulder and pointed to a pair of anhingas perched on a log, their coat-hanger wings spread wide. Angie was disappointed that the mic in her headset didn’t work; she was nervous about meeting the ex-governor, and would have liked the distraction of chatting with her young, attractive guide.

Jim Tile’s coordinates were solid. It took twenty-four minutes to reach the tree island, and Beak circled twice before steering slowly through a gap in the reeds. As they glided toward the bank, Angie spotted a long, metallic form that had been covered with hand-cut branches—an aluminum johnboat. From the air it would have been invisible.

She put on her backpack, picked up the knotted bag, and jumped ashore.

“Come back in an hour,” she said to Beak.

“Why don’t I just hang here and wait?”

“No, sir, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you lookin’ for ’shrooms?” Beak asked. “ ’Cause I know some way better spots.”

Angie waved and then turned to follow Clinton Tyree’s footpath to his hideout in the shadows.

—

Paul Ryskamp found Stanleigh Cobo behind a peach-pulp mask at the Casa Bellicosa spa. The agent introduced himself, showed his badge, and asked the aesthetician to step out. Cobo plucked the peach pits from his eyelids and sat up inquiring, “Did something happen outside? Is there a shooter?”