Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

Fay Alex Riptoad gathered the Potussies at the club library in order to quell an uprising about the Commander’s Ball. The Italian gown designer most worshipped by the group had fallen behind in his work and assigned a straight young assistant to finish the patriotically themed dresses of Dorothea Mars Bristol, Yirma Skyy Frick, and Kelly Bean Drummond, all of whom were outraged by what they perceived was second-tier attention. Since there wasn’t enough time to start from scratch with another designer, the three demoted Potussies insisted that—to level the social playing field—every member of the group should come to the ball in a previously worn gown.

That radical proposal was jeered by Dee Wyndham Wittlefield and Deirdre Cobo Lancôme, both of whom were already drunk and feisty. Fay Alex Riptoad cast her vote with the tipsy traditionalists, asserting that the President and First Lady would surely notice—and be offended—if the women didn’t show up wearing something new and spectacular. Fay Alex cited her own chiffon Statue-of-Liberty ensemble from the previous year’s gala as particularly unforgettable—the toga-like gown fitted daringly to bare a shoulder, and hemmed precisely to ankle-length so as not to conceal Fay Alex’s one-of-a-kind, tri-colored Louboutin slingbacks. The outfit was so distinct that it couldn’t possibly be recycled, even for the cause of friendship.

Dottie Mars, Yirma, and Kelly Bean were so incensed that they vowed to boycott the ball, a threat Fay Alex didn’t take seriously. The group was to be seated at the same table as the executive producer of Fox & Friends who was bringing as a guest his sleep-disorder therapist, wealthy and single. Since Dottie Mars was the one who’d gifted the tickets, there was no chance of her staying home. Still, seeking to mollify the mutineers, Fay Alex announced that anyone who was dissatisfied with the dress from the apprentice designer could seek reimbursement from the fashion slush fund controlled by the President’s eldest daughter, a size 8 with exquisite taste.

Once the matter was put to rest, Fay Alex offered to treat the group to a conciliatory brunch. The Potussies collected their respective Secret Service agents, who were posted outside the library, and headed for the Sabal Palm Room, a members-only lounge overlooking a garden of fiberglass bamboo. Along the way they passed the First Lady with her own Secret Service entourage, led by her tall, dark, alleged lover and an attractive female agent that Fay Alex remembered seeing occasionally on the grounds of Casa Bellicosa.

The President’s wife, wearing a long-sleeved tee and slate-gray leggings, had offered her trademark unbreakable smile but avoided eye contact with all of the Potussies except Fay Alex, who responded with the slightest of conspiratorial nods. Fay Alex had told none of her friends how she’d persuaded the First Lady to reinstate their Secret Service protection.

“What in God’s name has that woman done to her hair?” Kelly Bean sniped.

“She fired her colorist is what I heard,” whispered Yirma Skyy.

It was Dee Witty Wyndham who later, over lobster rolls, brought up the subject of the affair. “POTUS deserves someone who appreciates him,” she said, “not someone who carries on like a common tramp.”

“Or even an uncommon one,” added Deirdre Cobo.

“Well,” Fay Alex said. She paused cruelly to polish off her Tito’s and beckon for another.

“Well what ?” honked Dottie Mars.

Fay Alex smirked and dropped her voice. “I heard it’s over.”

A trenchant glee rustled through the room. One of the Potussies asked Fay Alex if the juicy bulletin had come from her own Secret Service man.

“Ha! William barely says good morning,” said Fay Alex. “No, I got this from someone on the staff of the club, very reliable. Apparently the First Lady’s special ‘friend’ broke up with her this week. Now he’s all hot and heavy with one of the other agents. Supposedly they’re hooking up at some trucker motel out by I-95.”

“Ughhh,” was the tablewide reaction, Dee Dee Wittlefield emitting the loudest and following with: “Which agent is it, Fay Alex?”

“Rose is her last name. It’s the blonde we just saw him walking with in the hallway.”

“That skinny thing with the retro bangs?” Yirma Skyy yipped. “For Heaven’s sake, what kind of man dumps the President’s wife for that ? And how has he not been transferred to Bumfuck, Alaska?”

“No, Arkansas,” said Kelly Bean. “That’s my prediction.”

“For both him and the blonde whore,” Dottie Mars added coldly. “Bumfuck, Arkansas.”

Fay Alex understood that the group was torn over which revelation would humiliate their beloved President more—that his gorgeous spouse had been cheating on him, or that her lover had rejected her for someone else.

Like she wasn’t hot enough!

Dee Wyndham said, “No wonder the First Lady didn’t look happy today.”

When does she ever look happy? Fay Alex wondered.

“Obviously she doesn’t have the warmest personality,” Deirdre Cobo cut in, “and she definitely needs to re-think some of her collagen choices—but, still, no man in his right mind would say nay to those incredible legs!”

Fay Alex agreed, though in the absence of fresh details she’d grown bored of discussing the scandal.

“Ladies, we have our big show number to rehearse. Now, who’s been practicing? Raise your hand!”

Large-print lyrics to “Big Unimpeachable You” were distributed around the lounge and, with Fay Alex leading, the Potussies commenced to harmonize.

—

Typically there was an uptick of trespassing at Casa Bellicosa in the days before the Commander’s Ball—curious tourists, daredevil spring breakers, brainless Instagram dolts, and mumbling psychos in bathrobes.

Secret Service agents would turn the harmless ones over to the Palm Beach Police Department, and Jerry Crosby’s job was to make sure they remained locked up until the morning after the gala. The chief didn’t mind his secondary role; managing security for presidential events was a pain in the ass. His officers actually preferred working traffic outside the gate, overtime pay being the sweetener.

The chief happened to be southbound on A1A when Paul Ryskamp called to say that two belligerent men had been arrested in the foot tunnel between the oceanfront and the Casa’s parking garage. Claiming to be VIP friends of the First Family, the trespassers had demanded that Crosby be summoned to vouch for them. Reluctantly, he did.

Both young Cornbrights bore evidence of their Jet Ski injuries—Chase had gleaming new dental veneers and a Burberry-pattern cast on his broken knee, while Chase sported matching shoulder braces that not only stabilized his reconstructed joints but markedly improved his posture. The sons of Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons had been confined to a half-renovated powder room on the mansion’s second floor, where they tag-team bitched at Paul Ryskamp while waiting for Jerry Crosby.

Chase and Chance had been catching some rays on the beach when they decided to drop by the Winter White House for a late lunch and Bloody Marys. Agents had intercepted them in the tunnel and asked for ID. The Cornbright brothers had become infuriated when they learned that their club privileges had terminated with the recent death of their mother, whose membership slot at Casa Bellicosa had already been re-sold to another widowed heiress on the waiting list. Chance and Chase had refused to leave the property, and vowed to have the Secret Service agents fired. The young men had felt insulted by the agents’ impassive response, and were still unloading on Ryskamp when the police chief arrived.

“You know these two?” Ryskamp asked Crosby. “Would you please take them home to their nannies?”