Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

“You look too young to be a plastic surgeon,” Fay Alex commented from the antique snooker table upon which she’d been placed.

“Hold still, please. This won’t take long,” Angie said.

“Where’d you go to school?”

“The University of Florida.”

“And where’d you intern?”

“At a spay clinic in Daytona,” said Angie. “I’m a vet. Well, was .”

“Very funny.” Thanks to Fay Alex’s disproportionate intake of alprazolam and vodka, she barely noticed the needle pokes and suturing.

“The hell happened to your dress?” she grumbled at Angie.

“I guess I got my period.”

“That’s disgusting. Would you make a joke like that in front of your mother?”

“Mrs. Riptoad, did you see the second Tyson-Holyfield fight?”

“What on God’s earth are you talking about?”

“Check it out on YouTube,” Angie said. “Just one more stitch, okay? This one might sting.”

Later she and Ryskamp took a walk to the farthest end of the seawall. The outdoor speakers, laboriously disguised as foliage, were now blaring The Collusionists’ intrepid take on “Climb Every Mountain,” the President being a fan of Broadway show tunes.

“It took five guys to carry the damn thing,” Ryskamp said to Angie, “but the dead snake’s in the back of your truck.”

“Have any more shown up tonight?”

“Not here.” He told her about the pythons at the other private Palm Beach clubs.

“Give me the addresses. I need to go.”

“No, you don’t. Jerry Crosby shot ’em all.”

“Personally?” Angie was trying to envision it.

“I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t impressed,” Ryskamp said. “There’s no sign anywhere of your mad hermit, by the way. Nobody’s got a clue how he pulled this whole thing off, but it’s already blowing up on social media. The mayor’s freaking.”

“Jerry’s a good guy.”

“They’ll fire his ass anyway.”

“He can do better,” said Angie.

“Sorry about your Versace.”

“Are you shitting me, Paul?”

“I’ve got a confession to make.”

“Don’t tell me you guys aren’t really paying for it.”

Ryskamp thought that was funny. “You will definitely be reimbursed. No, Angie, this is something else.”

“Hope your mic’s off.”

“It is,” he said, stepping closer. “Nobody on the President’s staff ever said you couldn’t wear your Steve Irwin outfit tonight. That was just me.”

“You made it up? Why?”

“Because I knew you’d look incredible in a dress like that, and you do. Well, you did. ”

“Fucker.” Angie felt herself blush; at least he didn’t say she looked amazing. “You tricked me,” she said, “and for that I deserve a hot lingering kiss.”

“Later. Promise.” Ryskamp tapped at his earpiece. “The First Lady’s lead agent just contacted me.”

“Her lover, you mean.”

“For some reason, she wants to meet you,” Ryskamp said.

“Oh, does she?”

“Like right now.”

“What an honor,” said Angie.

—

As Mockingbird took her seat at the table, her husband went to the men’s room to snort the last of Stanleigh Cobo’s secret dick powder. The first bump had failed its hydraulic mission and, according to Suzi Spooner, smelled like jock-itch talc.

Still, she had gamely promised Mastodon a chance to rebound.

He laid out the rails on the top of his hat, took two sniffs, and sat down on the toilet to scroll through all the adulatory tweets he was receiving. An audio clip of his fiery opening remarks had been posted on the White House website and was now exploding on the internet. Mastodon cackled as he read one worshipful comment after another from his easily incited fans.

Among the places that the broadcast caused a stir was the TV room of the Palm Beach County Jail, where inmate Diego Beltrán had listened to the President’s words, swallowed six hundred milligrams of Ambien, and passed out lifeless on the floor. The news was relayed first to Police Chief Jerry Crosby, who chose to share it selectively.

When Mastodon returned to the ballroom to join his wife, the patriotically bedecked Potussies aligned on stage to perform their tribute. Those who’d been bold enough to ask Fay Alex Riptoad why she’d put on a veil had been told it was a historically accurate re-creation of an Abigail Adams favorite. If anyone noticed her bandaged ear beneath the burgundy lacing, they didn’t mention it.

Behind his tribal mask, the President beamed as the Potussies began to sing.

Roll on, roll on

You big unimpeachable you

Mockingbird leaned toward her husband and, without moving her lips, whispered, “They sound hideous.”

“Are you kidding? It’s a fantastic song.”

“Pure torture.” She reached for her purse and stood up.

“You can’t leave in the middle of their big number!” Mastodon protested. “You and I are supposed to have the first dance.”

“Ask your nutritionist,” Mockingbird said. “Or does she require a pole?”

Outside, the Intracoastal was flat, the cloudless sky sprayed with stars. Crossing the west lawn, the First Lady felt a chill and wished she’d brought a wrap. Ahmet Youssef and Special Agent Jennifer Rose led her entourage, and no flirting was observed—in fact, the two hardly exchanged a word. Mockingbird allowed herself a bittersweet smirk; Miss Blondie would have to find someone else to build her a Shaker writing desk.

They walked all the way to the end of the seawall, where a pair of figures stood beside a flickering tiki torch. One of them turned out to be Paul Ryskamp. The other was a tired-looking younger woman in a sleeveless, bloodstained Versace.

“Are you the one who sent me the note?” Mockingbird asked her.

“That’s me. Thanks for coming.”

“What note?” Ahmet said.

The First Lady held up a Casa Bellicosa cocktail napkin, folded in half to cover the message. “I found it under my soup bowl.”

“May I see it?” Ahmet held out his hand.

Mockingbird shook her head. “No, you may not.”

“Oh, relax,” the young woman said to the agent, “it’s not like I spit in the lobster bisque.”

“Can I have your name, ma’am?”

“Yes, sir, it’s Angela Armstrong. I prefer Angie.”

Paul Ryskamp spoke up: “This is the wildlife expert we brought aboard to handle the python fuckery. She’s been cleared.”

Mockingbird told Ahmet that she wished to speak alone with the woman. “This concerns you, too,” she said to him under her breath.

The agents stepped away, all except Ahmet and Ryskamp forming a wide, protective half-circle on the grass. A patrol boat flashing its lights slowed to an idle no more than fifty yards off the seawall, in case the President’s wife somehow wound up in the water.

Ahmet and Ryskamp positioned themselves at the next tiki torch down the line and muted their microphones.

“Your tie’s crooked,” Ryskamp said.

Ahmet’s face reddened but he kept his eyes fixed on Mockingbird. She liked to knot his necktie for him when they got dressed after making love.

“You’re not my problem anymore,” Ryskamp told him. “This is my last week.”

Ahmet nodded. “I heard. Why are you retiring? They pushing you out?”

“Hell, no. I just can’t work for this ignorant clown anymore.”

“Yeah. I get that.”

“You see what he did to his face?” Ryskamp said. “He looks like one of those gargoyles in Ghostbusters .”

“They said it was an accident in the tanning bed.”

“There was no evidence of tampering but, still, what the fuck?”

Ahmet laughed quietly. “Where’d he come up with that awesome African mask?”