Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

“4-ever?” Ahmet asked.

The First Lady took off her sunglasses and blew him a secret kiss. Then she typed:

“Patience, hon.”

—

The new tree island was farther west than the other one. Angie had found it on Google Earth after Jim Tile provided the GPS numbers and told her about a Miccosukee who rented airboats for cash. She would have hired young Beak to take her out there, but Skink’s message said to come alone.

Even though the boat was old and the engine was loud, Angie loved driving it. Going fast reminded her of the best parts of her old job, pre-Pruitt. She missed the exhilaration of hurling at a deranged speed through the Everglades, snaking through the subtle twists and runnels, the flat hull hissing across the skimmed-down saw grass. She missed riding with her cap turned backwards so that the wind wouldn’t catch the visor. She missed having to dodge the sleepy gators and jump the dry hummocks, and the tickle of broken spiderwebs on her arms. She even missed the sting of the bugs hitting her cheeks.

As the airboat circled the island, spooking snowy egrets, Angie spotted a bareheaded figure sitting on a high branch in a tall cypress, playfully kicking his legs like a boy on a swing.

When she walked into the camp, he was back on earth, waiting for her. His chin showed stubble, and long twists of hair were poking like silver pipe stems from under his new petunia shower cap. He wore an eye patch fashioned from the shell of a small mud turtle, and a faded fatigue jacket with C. TYREEstenciled above the pocket.

“Want a beer?” he asked.

“Thank you, Governor.”

He gave her a bottle of Stella and opened one for himself.

“Jim calls me captain,” he said.

“I know. Is that how—”

“He had another round of chemo today.”

“Damn,” said Angie. “Hey, he’s a tough dude. He’s got a few good miles left.”

“Hope so.” Skink sat down on the ground beside the fire pit. “The White House sent a picture of him and Lord Bumblefuck at the poser ball.”

She laughed and said, “Yeah, I saw.”

Jim Tile had texted a screenshot of the President’s inscription: To my old pal Morgan Freeman—you’ve come a long way since driving Miss Debby!

“We are so fucked,” Skink said quietly.

Angie sat down beside him. There was a rifle propped against a gumbo limbo near his sleeping bag. All his cherished books were stacked in tall neat rows, not walls, and covered with sheets of clear plastic; it had rained like a mother the night before.

“Why the hell Key West?” he asked.

“Meeting a friend,” Angie said. “Okay, a good friend.”

“Lucky prick.”

“We’ll see how it goes.”

Skink looked wistful. “I always loved that town, but I can’t go back. All those cruise ships with their porky pilgrims, I might end up rooting for the goddamn virus.”

“Paul’s house is actually on Angela Street,” she said.

“Ha, that’s a slick move! He must be smitten.”

“No, it’s just a funny coincidence.”

“But what a sweet story to tell your kids.”

Angie felt herself blush. “Just for that, I’m going to bring you one of those classy tee-shirts from Duval.”

“With which I will wipe my surly white ass,” he said.

She noticed a red light blinking on a small device piled among other electronic equipment on an oilskin tarp. Skink said it was a telemetry receiver.

“For the tracking collar I strapped on Pruitt,” he explained. “Same size they use for panthers. Last time I checked, the dumb douche was about six miles from Copeland.”

Holy shit, Angie thought. He wasn’t joking.

“Governor, that’s the middle of the Big Cypress swamp.”

“In all its glory,” Skink said. “I gave him chlorine tablets, a Randall knife, waterproof matches, and a volume from my personal library.”

“Which book?”

“ Th e Sporting Club.”

“You really think a mouth-breather like Pruitt can recognize irony?”

“Oh, there will be a test.” Skink looked away smiling.

Angie figured he still had the freezer because the beer was cold, and she could hear the rumble of the gas-powered generator. She opened her backpack and took out an object wrapped in a plastic Publix bag.

“For you, sir,” she said.

He tore it open thundering, “Oooohhhh, baby! Zuppa del giorno! ”

Inside the bag was a road-kill armadillo that Angie had collected on the Turnpike extension in Homestead. Skink ran off to place the curled-up remains on ice. Angie scanned the tree canopy and saw no snake sheds.

When he returned, carrying two more beers, she asked about the pythons.

“They’re gone,” he told her. “I trucked every one of ’em up to Palm Beach, and now they’re all dead.”

“And you don’t feel shitty about that?”

“Sure I do, but they already had a price on their head when I caught ’em. At least with me they got a few pampered months and five-star dining. The truth is they’d been doomed since the day they crawled out of their eggs. Damn things don’t belong here, dear, and they’re a ravenous menace. Agree or not?”

Sharply Angie said, “That little Caribbean iguana you hatched doesn’t belong here, either.”

Skink clicked his teeth. “Sadly, a hawk took him yesterday. Pythons are too big to have such worries.”

“And you saved the biggest for the President’s party.”

“Maximum impact. She was a beauty, wasn’t she?”

“What the fuck, Governor? The man weighs two-hundred-and-seventy pounds!” Angie exploded to her feet. “There isn’t a snake on this planet fat enough to swallow that moose and you know it. So what was the point? Why did you do all this?”

“To imbed the idea,” Skink said. He seemed amused that she didn’t see the big picture. “ ‘The mind, once stretched by a new idea, never returns to its original dimensions.’ That’s from Emerson, by the way. All I was hoping to do is stretch some goddamn minds.”

Angie closed her eyes and murmured, “Jesus H. Christ.”

She sat down again, and he put his arm around her.

“No harm done,” he said.

“Really? Tell that to the family of Katherine Fitzsimmons.”

Skink’s good eye squinted. “What do you mean?”

“The woman that got eaten at the Lipid House!” Angie said angrily. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about.”

“Of course I do.”

“The very first python.”

“Oh, that wasn’t one of mine,” he said.

Angie pushed his arm away and stared at him hotly. “Don’t bullshit me, Governor.”

“I’m dead serious. That big glorious beast motored up there all by herself.”

“No. Freaking. Way.”

“I swear, Angie. Where do you think I got the inspiration?”

“Shit,” she said, keeling against his shoulder. She wanted to cry and she wanted to laugh.

Skink poured the rest of her beer on the ground.

“You need something stronger,” he said.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

Acknowledgment

I will forever be grateful to Sonny Mehta, my editor of almost thirty years, who passed away in December 2019. Working with Sonny was a gift I never took for granted, and he was also a good friend in difficult times. If it weren’t for his understanding and encouragement, this novel might never have been written. I will miss him, as will so many other writers and editors who benefited from his grace, extraordinary perception, and maddeningly infallible instincts.

C.H.

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Carl Hiaasen was born and raised in Florida. He is the author of fourteen previous novels, including the best sellers Bad Monkey, Lucky You, Nature Girl, Razor Girl, Sick Puppy, Skinny Dip, and Star Island, as well as six best-selling children’s books, Hoot, Flush, Scat, Chomp, Skink, and Squirm. His most recent work of nonfiction is Assume the Worst, a collaboration with the artist Roz Chast.