Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

“This weekend,” Angie replied, “at Casa Bellicosa.”

“What?”

She smiled. “Why do you think I’m going to the ball, Jerry? Not for those damn snakes, I promise.”

—

Mastodon’s day was thrown off-schedule by the Suzi Spooner incident. The thirteen minutes he’d set aside for tanning were instead spent getting reamed by his irate wife. By the time she stormed out of the suite, Mastodon was late for a long-sought meeting with a surf-crazy Turkish tycoon and prospective hotel investor. The next morning the President would be flying to Alabama for a tour of tornado damage followed by eighteen holes at Augusta and then private fundraisers in Chapel Hill, Hilton Head and Sea Island. He would not re-occupy the Cabo Royale until he returned to Casa Bellicosa on Saturday, before the Commander’s Ball.

Christian was glad for the extra time to re-inspect and re-test the temperamental machine. The second run-through using Spalding in the chamber had gone off without a hitch, but then a douche identifying himself as a lawyer for The Knob called demanding access to the tanning bed—he wanted photographs and of course all the maintenance records. Christian told him to contact the manufacturer’s corporate office.

The lawyer said, “You should know that my client’s in bad shape after the accident.”

“And you should know,” replied Christian, “that being in bad shape was the only reason your client got this gig.”

Later he went to hang with Spalding on his lunch break. The talk of the kitchen was Mockingbird’s interruption of Mastodon’s noisy tryst. Depending on which version of the episode was circulating, the stranger in the President’s bed was either a retired Olympic gymnast, the revenge-minded wife of a promiscuous Cabinet secretary, or a professional stripper.

Both Spalding and Christian voted stripper. Whoever she was, she’d been smuggled in and out of the Winter White House without being seen by any of the staff. That was impressive.

Another topic of Casa gossip was the raunchy behavior of a club member named Stanleigh Cobo, who in a single swoop through the grounds had supposedly propositioned a breakfast buffet attendant, an aesthetician, a laundry sorter, a tennis instructor and three female guests, including the married daughter of a well-known Mafioso. In each instance, the offer had included an unseemly fanning of cash.

When confronted by the manager while crossing the croquet lawn in orange Crocs, Cobo had indignantly denied approaching any of the women. Then, after being led to the unmarked salon reserved for the embarrassingly drunk or high, he’d collapsed in weepy contrition, blaming his offensive actions on an unspecified “diet supplement” that he’d taken for the first time. He was examined by the club physician and then sent home with a bottle of spring water and a reprimand.

“The dude looked like a rabid dog. I served him myself,” said Spalding.

“What the hell was he drinking?” Christian asked.

“Virgin coladas, swear to God. I’m gonna go grab a smoke.”

Christian followed his friend outside to the pretend bamboo garden. A cold front was blowing through, the sky piled with gray-shouldered clouds. Spalding lit a cigarette and said rain was in the forecast. Christian said it was snowing up North.

A surreal warbling arose from a room on the other side of the bay window.

Roll on, roll on

You big unimpeachable you

Th ey lie, they scheme, they plot in the dark

Like all deep-state traitors do

But they ain’t as smart, and they ain’t as hungry,

And they don’t know how to stage a coup.

Unbendable, unbreakable, unstoppable,

You big unimpeachable you!

Christian grimaced and said it sounded like macaws in a microwave. Spalding told him it was the Potussies rehearsing a song they’d written in honor of the President.

“To be performed live at the Commander’s Ball,” he added, “which lucky you won’t have to suffer through.”

When the second verse began, Christian spun and said, “Let us motor the fuck out of here.”

It had begun to drizzle, so they relocated to a latticed gazebo used for waterfront weddings and the occasional renegade bris. From there the off-key Potussies could not be heard. The breeze had picked up and Christian felt the temperature dropping. Spalding heretically flicked his cigarette butt into a flawless hedge and asked about Mastodon’s tanning session that morning.

“He canceled after getting busted with that chick,” Christian said. “He won’t be back here till Saturday afternoon. Can you break free then, for one last test flight?”

“No way. We’ll be slammed all day, prepping for the ball.”

“Come on, man. Thirteen bloody minutes is all I need.”

“Sorry,” said Spalding.

“Well, to quote my dear old granddad, shite.”

“The Cabo’s working great, bro. You kicked its hinky ass, so just chill.”

“Yeah,” Christian said. “I kinda did.”

—

The deep-voiced man who called said he needed a large air-conditioned storage unit with an electrical outlet. An hour later he drove up in a box truck.

Mazzelli, the owner of the warehouse park, was waiting at the office. The man was very tall, and he had a sun-beaten face like an old cowboy. Oddly, he was wearing a bolo tie and a pin-striped suit. His silver hair had been combed back, only half of his beard was groomed and one eye was covered with a black satin patch. For ID he produced an Arizona driver’s license; Mazzelli had no expectation that it was legitimate, and he didn’t care one way or the other.

“How long you need the space for, Mr. Hayduke?”

“Couple days.”

“We got a two-month minimum.”

“That’s fair.” The one-eyed man signed the lease and counted out three hundred dollars in twenties.

“Access is twenty-four-seven,” Mazzelli told him. “Your gate code’s the last four digits of your Social.”

“Outstanding.” The man pretended to re-read the last page of the lease. Mazzelli knew he was memorizing the made-up Social Security number he’d written down.

“You got a padlock for the unit?”

The man said, “Yes, but unfortunately there’s only one key. I misplaced the spare.”

“Not a problem.” Mazzelli had to smile. “We don’t ever go inside unless the cops show up with a warrant. Then we just bust off the lock with a hammer.”

“I’m storing only personal items. Mostly books.”

“Honestly? None of my business.”

“Are you a reader?” the man asked.

“Me? Naw. I don’t have time.”

“Do you vote?”

“Huh?” said Mazzelli.

“It’s the bare minimum,” the man said, “assuming you believe in democracy. Voting, reading, paying attention—those would be the fundamentals.”

Whack job, thought Mazzelli. He lied and told the man he’d recently moved to Florida from Detroit. “I haven’t got around to switching my registration yet,” he said.

“There’s plenty of time before the next election.”

“Right. It’s at the top of my list.” Mazzelli showed him a map of the property. “Your unit is 626-Y. Third building, middle door.”

“What about the power outlet?”

“Basic one-twenty, so no heavy appliances.”

“Ha! The only thing I’ll be plugging in is a heat lamp,” the man said with a startling grin. “The next few nights are supposed to be nippy.”

A heat lamp for books? Mazzelli thought. What a fag.

After the man unloaded his truck, he came back to the office seeking restaurant recommendations. “I’m not used to city dining,” he said.