Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

“My God, have you been to a dermatologist?” he cried.

The Knob said, “What for? It’s just acne scars.”

“No, I don’t think so. I really don’t.”

“Yo, maybe some heavy-duty UVs would knock that shit down.”

Christian had to look away. “Let’s get on with this,” he said grimly.

Following directions, The Knob donned the Mastodon wig, goggles, a sun mask, bicycle gloves, dive booties, a hooded long-sleeve tee, and Lycra-blend leggings altered by scissors to expose his chalky pitted buttocks. He entered the Cabo on his knees, lay forward on his belly and waited for Christian to shut the canopy.

Thirteen minutes later, when the lid opened, The Knob heard a loud whoosh and felt a blast of frigid air on his rump.

“Hold still!” Christian yelled as he unloaded the fire extinguisher.

“What the fuck? What the motherfuckin’ fuck ?”

“Don’t move, man! Do not move.”

“Whassat goddamn smell?”

“You.”

The Knob let out a wail. “I’m on motherfuckin’ fire?”

“Just your ass hair,” Christian said.

Later the President’s personal physician would examine The Knob and determine that in fact he had suffered curlicue first-degree burns on each buttock. A cooling unguent was applied while Secret Service agents took Christian aside and quizzed him about the Cabo Royale’s untimely malfunction.

What caused it? Christian wasn’t sure.

Could it be repaired? Oh, absolutely.

How soon? He couldn’t say. With luck he wouldn’t need to order any parts.

But how soon ? Well, maybe tomorrow. Maybe longer.

We need an answer as soon as possible, the agents told him. The President has an important event this weekend.

He could go to a regular tanning parlor, Christian suggested.

Absolutely out of the question, the agents said. Now get to work.

TWENTY-FOUR

Angie tried not to think much about politics. It didn’t seem to matter who was in power—nothing got better in the besieged, breathtaking world she cared about most. The Everglades would never be the lush unbroken river it once was; the shallows of Florida Bay would never be as pure and sparkling with fish; the bleached dying reefs of the Keys would never bloom fully back to life. Being overrun and exploited was the historical fate of places so rare and beautiful.

Every year, Angie diligently wrote checks to the Nature Conservancy and World Wildlife Fund, but she was too much of a loner to jump into the fray. No meetings, no rallies, no Facebook petitions. Never once had she fired off an angry letter to a congressman or a county commissioner. Sometimes she wondered if she was too cynical, or just too lazy.

The sitting President of the United States was a soulless imbecile who hated the outdoors but, in Angie’s view, at this point Teddy Roosevelt himself couldn’t turn the tide if he came back from the dead. All the treasured wilderness that had been sacrificed at the altar of growth was gone for all time. More disappeared every day; nothing ever changed except the speed of destruction, and only because there were fewer pristine pieces to sell off, carve up and pave.

Surely the old ex-governor knew this. Angie found herself envying his capacious anger and high torque after a lifetime of crushingly predictable futility. The man was seriously bent, but he also was high-functioning.

The tree island—abandoned. What the fuck?

Gone were his walls of great books, his laptop, the generator, the cooking pans, the freezer packed with dead rabbits. Also gone were his pythons, of course, even the skin sheds that he’d strung throughout the treetops. Gone was his boat, as well.

And somehow he’d done it in one night, cleaned out the whole damn camp—like he’d been planning the move, like he’d hung around just long enough to give Angie a peek.

“And he never told you his name?” Paul Ryskamp asked.

“No, sir,” she said, which was technically true.

Jim Tile was the person who’d divulged Skink’s identity, but the retired lawman wasn’t available to be interviewed by the Secret Service. After Angie’s second visit to the island, she had driven directly to the assisted-living facility. There she’d been told that Tile had been taken to the hospital after complaining of chest pains. And when she’d arrived at the hospital, she learned he wasn’t there and that nobody fitting his description had been treated in the emergency room.

By then she’d already made up her mind to shield both of them, Skink and his ailing old friend. Giving up their names wouldn’t stop whatever was about to happen in Palm Beach.

“How’d you track down this nut job?” Ryskamp asked her.

“A tip.”

“From what, a swamp informant?”

“A highly placed swamp informant,” Angie said.

“You’re not telling me even half of what you know.”

“I’ve told you the important parts, Paul.”

“Thanks, I suppose. But now what?”

“I don’t know. Prepare for a plague of pythons?”

“Shit, Angie.”

“Major fuckage,” she agreed, “from a party planner’s perspective. But from a professional standpoint, the situation is containable.”

“Containable to what ?”

“The category of nuisance. Burmese don’t want to be around human activity. They’ll be hiding, not roaming the ballroom.”

Ryskamp whistled dismally and sat up. “God, I hate snakes.”

“Not as much as I hate your Silk Rockets. They actually squeak,” Angie said. “Or was that you?”

He wasn’t listening. She flicked the condom wrapper off the nightstand and said, “One star out of five, comfort-wise. Also, that color? Mighty distracting.”

“I’ve got to call Washington.” He rolled out of bed and put on his robe.

“Wait, Paul, one thing I forgot to tell you.”

“Uh-oh. What?”

“You were amazing, ” Angie said.

He broke into a grin. “Stay right there.”

“Dream on, sailor boy.”

Angie had phoned him late in the afternoon to say she had major python news. To her surprise, he suggested meeting at Pistache, a French restaurant with patio seating on Clematis. All during cocktails and dinner, they didn’t talk business; Ryskamp told stories from a long-ago trip to Paris, and Angie offered theories on the provenance of the escargot. Never had she seen him so relaxed, and she was puzzled that he didn’t hound her for the promised information. He didn’t even ask for an update on her frowned-upon plan to clear Diego Beltrán—she’d been looking forward to bragging that she no longer needed any covert help from him, or from Jerry Crosby.

Afterward it had been Ryskamp’s idea to go to his place, where there was reggae music and pinot noir. He was peeling off her jeans when she’d decided to ask him why he changed his mind about seeing her.

“It’s simple. You’re different, you make me smile, and life’s too fucking short. Also, I missed you.”

“When did this thunderbolt strike, Paul? And, by the way, ‘intriguing’ would sound way better than ‘different.’ ”

“I’m retiring next week,” he’d said.

“So this is why you’re on cruise control.”

“Not just yet, Angie. Big weekend ahead.”

She had waited until after they made love before telling him what she’d seen on the Everglades tree island, and what she believed it portended.

The phone call to Washington went on for a few minutes. Ryskamp returned to the bedroom cupping his hand over his phone. “They want to know how big,” he said.

“The longest was nearly twenty-four feet.”

“Damn.”

“Still not fat enough to swallow your man,” Angie said, not mentioning it was the largest Burmese she’d ever heard of.