Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

“We need to talk,” she said.

“Right now? I’ve got to get back to the ball.”

“No, you don’t.”

Peevishly Mastodon propped his mask against the wall. Both sets of Secret Service agents, well-schooled after so many marital quarrels, repositioned out of earshot. One of them was hovering outside the Palmetto Room to whisk Suzi away when she emerged, though Mockingbird saw the whole thing.

“I can explain that,” Mastodon said.

“Don’t even bother.”

“She was checking my BMI. That’s all.”

“It’s hard to take you seriously right now,” Mockingbird said. “Have you even looked in the mirror?”

“I told you—the damn tanning machine shorted out. What’s this all about, anyway?”

“There’s a rumor going around that I’m sleeping with one of my Secret Service agents. It would be bad for both of us if that ever got past these walls.”

Mastodon appeared genuinely startled. Mockingbird wasn’t surprised, cluelessness being a chronic symptom of his self-absorption.

With an air of reproach he jerked his chin toward a watchful quartet of tall, fit agents. “Which one is it?”

“Wake the fuck up,” she snapped. “What if your latest fling hits the media? How many more scandals like this before the evangelicals turn on you?”

“They won’t. Not ever,” he said smugly.

“Can you say the same for me?”

Mastodon pursed his scabbing lips. “What’s the whole point of this conversation?”

“To avoid disaster,” said Mockingbird. “For once, you’re going to shut up and listen to me.”

And he did.

When she finished, he scowled and asked, “Why all of a sudden do you give a shit about some border-jumping beaner?”

“Beltrán didn’t kill anybody. Your people know that.”

“He’s still illegal,” Mastodon huffed, “which means he’s supposed to be locked up.”

“Not for something he didn’t do.”

“Oh Jesus, don’t go all snowflake on me. I’m sending a message that needs to get out there in a big way—no more Diegos, and so forth. Haven’t you seen my Twitter feed? I’m on fire.”

Like a sack of flaming pig shit, thought Mockingbird.

“I want Beltrán out of jail,” she said. “Make the fucking phone call.”

Mastodon’s white-ringed eyes narrowed. “And what are you going to do if I say no.”

“Divorce your cheating ass.”

It wasn’t an entirely empty threat. Mockingbird had been daydreaming about moving back to Manhattan and starting her own fashion label. And Ahmet? He could get any job he wanted; all the top security firms had offices in New York.

“Going to court would be a shit show for both of us,” she told her husband, “but you’ve got the most to lose.”

Mastodon puffed up. “I am the President of the United Goddamn States of America,” he snarled, “and you’re just a fading runway model who hit the jackpot. Don’t ever forget it.”

To his bewilderment, the First Lady didn’t flare. Instead she coolly cocked her head and said, “You watch TMZ, don’t you?”

“What? Fuck, you can’t be serious.”

“Totally. It would be my first one-on-one interview.”

“But you signed an NDA,” Mastodon hissed, “ and a pre-nup!”

“Oh, we’ll get everything straightened out. Like you say, that’s why God created lawyers. By the way, your fake nutritionist is writing a book about you. From what I hear, nothing’s off limits.”

“Not Suzi. She’d never do that. No way.”

“Oh really?” Mockingbird said with a lacerating wink. “I bet she got inspiration for a whole new chapter tonight. You might want to pay off the bitch, before it’s too late.”

The most powerful person on the planet had nothing to say as he helplessly watched his ball-busting wife march off with her Secret Service team.

—

Angie and Jim Tile stood under the portico. A line of couples carrying go-cups and Mardi Gras masks waited for the valets to bring their cars.

“Those people are staring at us,” Tile said.

“It’s because of the damn blood on this dress.”

“No, Angela, it’s because they think we’re a couple.”

“Well then, hell, yes.” She pressed her head against his shoulder.

“Lord Almighty, what are you doing?”

“Messing with these dickheads. Am I making you uncomfortable?”

Tile laughed softly. “Just the opposite.”

“Why are you here?”

“My friend wanted a firsthand report.”

“What are you going to tell him?” Angie asked.

“That the President of the United States asked for a picture with me.”

“It’s probably up on his website already.”

“No shit?” Tile said. “Does that mean I’ve been to the mountaintop?”

“Where’s your friend now?”

“I know you feel bad about killing that snake.”

“Just another payday,” she said.

“I hope that’s not true. My ride’s here, Angela.”

A sleek Genesis G90 rolled to the front of the valet line.

Angie whistled. “Look at you, getting chauffeured around like a movie star.”

“I had to spring for a black one,” Tile said wryly, pointing to the Uber sticker on the windshield. “Not too shabby for an old fart on a state pension.”

She held his cane while he eased into the back seat. The sound system was cranked so loud that she wondered if he heard her say goodbye. She recognized the song, though it took a moment to register.

By then the sedan was moving down the driveway toward the gates, but not fast enough. Angie kicked off her heels and ran until she got alongside, banging on the roof.

The driver stopped, opened his window, turned down the volume, and lit her up with his smile.

“Buffalo Springfield,” she blurted, half out of breath.

“That’s right! With Mr. Stills kicking ass.”

She said, “Governor, you are officially out of your freaking mind.”

“For what it’s worth.” His laughter boomed from the car. “Get it?”

“Tell me the truth. Did you dose that python?”

“Just a sprinkle, Angie. I wanted her to be soaring at the end.”

He looked shockingly different, and not only because of the bolo tie and pin-striped suit. His jaw was shaved as smooth as teak; his silver hair had been trimmed, groomed and stylishly raked back; and his funky denim eye patch had been replaced with one made of black satin. He flipped it once, revealing that the socket was empty.

She said, “Wild guess. The egg hatched.”

He smiled down at the breast pocket of his suit jacket. A little bright green head was peeking out.

“We’re working on our manners,” Skink whispered.

Angie heard a thump and looked past him, into the back seat. Jim Tile’s eyes were half-closed; the old man was dozing off.

“What was that noise?” she asked Skink.

“What noise, dear?”

“Oh, come on. The pounding.”

Outbound cars were stacking up behind the Genesis. Somebody in a Range Rover flashed the brights and started honking. Skink acknowledged the communiqué by thrusting a middle finger skyward. The honks ceased as soon as the other driver saw the size of the hand that was flipping him off. Meanwhile Angie noticed a pair of the club’s security guards peering intently from their post at the members-only Purell station.

The thumping in the Uber car got louder, like a bass woofer.

She said, “Governor, how can you not hear that?”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot. There’s a man in the trunk.”

“No fucking way.”

“Your pesky Mr. Pruitt,” said Skink.

Angie threw her arms around her head. “Oh God, what are you going to do with him?”

“I believe he’d benefit from some alone-time in the Big Cypress.” The ex-governor yawned like an old wolf. “See you in the next life, dear. Wake me up for meals.”