Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

“Hold up!” Chase protested. “We came for lunch, and by God we’re having lunch—”

“You’re not members here, Mr. Cornbright, and you’re not on the guest list for today,” Ryskamp said. “No lunch. No snacks. No breath mints.”

Because his shoulders were injured, Chance could only wag a finger. “Mister, you’ve got no idea what kind of shit blizzard is rolling your way.”

Crosby and Ryskamp left the powder room to speak privately. They agreed that the Cornbright brothers were spoiled young shits, and that the dispute over their membership status should be dealt with by the club manager, not law enforcement.

“Their mother had met the President only a few times,” the chief said, “but he’s taken a major interest in her death. He mentions her name all the time in his tweets—that No-More-Diegos thing.”

“I’m well aware, Jerry.”

“The other Potussies are gonna flip out when they hear that Kiki Pew’s kids got thrown off the property.”

Ryskamp put a hand on the chief’s shoulder. “Would it make your life easier if we let these two assholes hit the buffet line?”

“Yeah, it would.”

“Then what the hell. I’ll call downstairs.”

“And don’t worry, Paul, they’re bluffing. They’d never try to get you fired.”

Ryskamp chuckled. “I don’t give a flying fuckeroo if they do.”

Jerry Crosby enviously wondered if the day would come when he didn’t give a flying fuckeroo, or at least could afford not to.

“Can you let me know if the Cornbrights are on the list for the Commander’s Ball?” he asked. “Because I guarantee you they think they are.”

“You want me to clear them?”

“If they get stopped at the door, it’ll be an issue.”

“Then I’ll take care of it,” said Ryskamp, “but only because they just lost their mom.”

“Their mom thought they were useless.”

“Yes, and they’ll fit in beautifully at this event.”

Crosby wished he could get away with saying things like that. Tragically, keeping his job depended on sucking up to the Kiki Pew Fitzsimmonses and Fay Alex Riptoads of the island. Special Agent Ryskamp clearly had no such obligations.

“What do you hear from the elusive Ms. Armstrong?” the chief asked.

“She’ll be on duty at the gala. Will you be there, Jerry?”

“Yeah, but not in the ballroom.”

“Lucky bastard,” said Ryskamp.

—

Mockingbird took a hit off the vape pen before going to her husband’s suite. He was occupied in the bathroom, so she waited with her security team in the sitting area. It was impossible not to notice Keith-slash-Ahmet and Jennifer Rose quietly exchanging words; Mockingbird was almost certain they smiled at each other. Obviously Ahmet was following her instructions to fake-flirt, and his performance was subtle enough to be convincing.

Earlier that morning there had been another moment—an amused-seeming whisper that passed between him and Agent Rose in the presence of Spalding, the young server from South Africa and Ahmet’s conch-pearl connection. Spalding, who’d delivered a tray of star fruits and CBD-infused hummus to the First Lady, had undoubtedly hurried back to the kitchen to report on Ahmet’s wandering eye. Mockingbird saw that her disinformation scheme seemed to be working.

Up close, Jennifer Rose appeared thinner and even more attractive than Mockingbird remembered, but that meant she probably had a man in her life and wasn’t looking for a new lover. In addition, the Secret Service strongly disapproved of romances between its special agents. Nonetheless, Mockingbird considered asking Ahmet to turn down the charm dial a few notches, just in case.

After an awkward wait, Mastodon emerged from the bathroom breathing hard and red-faced from exertion. He snapped at his butler to fetch more fucking laxatives.

“That’s what red meat does to your system,” Mockingbird remarked. “Have you thought about cutting back to, like, two pounds a day?”

On cue the agents filed out and closed the door. Mastodon was still fumbling to belt his pants, groping blindly for the buckle below the rolling sea of his gut.

“We need to talk about the Commander’s Ball,” he said to his wife. “What are you wearing?”

“Tom Ford.”

“Not so much sky in the cleavage department, okay? Last year, well…you know what happened.”

“One dried-up old hag complained,” said Mockingbird. “So what?”

“That dried-up old hag is the reason I won Wisconsin.”

“Yes, you’ve told me.”

“She forked out three million bucks on phony Facebook ads,” Mastodon went on. “And since she’ll be sitting at the main table on Saturday, you should show a little respect and dim those headlights.”

“Fine. But the gown has a thigh-high slit.”

“Yeah? Maybe I’ll drop my napkin and sneak a peek.” Mastodon’s smile these days was more of a wormy sneer, the product of too many press-conference performances.

He said, “Know what else you should wear? Those new pink pearl earrings. Very sexy.”

His wife responded with granite indifference. She asked if his “nutritionist” would be attending the gala.

“Yep,” said Mastodon, “with her date.”

“Nice try.”

“You’ll see.”

“Are we done here?” Mockingbird asked.

“Not quite.” Her husband told her what the Secret Service said about the rise of the pythons.

“Yes, I was briefed,” she said curtly.

Mastodon snorted. “Well, just so you know, it’s complete total horseshit. Another fake hoax by the Deep Staters.”

“But there was a big one dead in the road not long ago. They had to stop my motorcade.”

“Goddammit, can’t you see what these people are trying to do?”

“Who?” said Mockingbird. “I don’t understand.”

“Never mind. Someone will be patrolling the estate during the ball—a snake expert, they tell me. Not my idea but, hey, we ain’t the ones payin’ for it.”

Mastodon popped a handful of Adderalls, checked his watch and saw it was time for his tanning session. Mockingbird rose to leave. She was curious but not worried; Ahmet would give her the latest python update.

“One more thing,” her husband said. “You might want to keep little Bagel on his leash for the next few days, just to play it safe.”

“Bagel?”

“Your dog.” Mastodon arranged his koala-sized hands to approximate the dimensions of an overfed Yorkie. “Isn’t that his name?”

“ Was his name,” said the First Lady. “He passed away the Christmas before last.”

“Aw shit. Really? What the hell happened?”

“Old age.”

“Well, then, let’s get a new one!”

“You’re such a dick,” Mockingbird said, and stalked off.

“I can’t wait to see your new dress!” Mastodon called hopelessly after her.

—

The Knob insisted he was good to go. Christian said no way; the man’s face and torso still looked like shrimp-skin since passing out with the bimbo on Jupiter Beach.

“She wasn’t no bimbo. She’s a cheerleader for the Patriots.”

“Of course she is. And I’m Dwayne Johnson’s stunt double.”

“Yo, man, I can definitely do this,” said The Knob, who suspected he wouldn’t be paid until he went back inside the presidential tanning tube.

Christian was in a jam. The Secret Service always required the Cabo Royale to be tested the same day Mastodon was scheduled to use it. Christian asked The Knob if there was any sector of his body that wasn’t sunburned.

“Bottom of my feet,” he replied.

“That’s it?”

“My ass cheeks, too. I guess me and that chick didn’t take our underwear off.”

Christian forlornly realized what had to be done. “Let’s have a look,” he said, bracing himself. The presentation was even nastier than he’d feared.