by Carl Hiaasen
"Which I did," said Ann. "By the way? Janet bumped me up to a thousand, but I'm bailing anyway."
"No, no, no!" Marcus Mink grieved for his lost commissions. He wondered what had happened that pushed her to the breaking point. "You mentioned a paparazzo?"
"Just do your damn job," she snapped, and hung up.
After leaving the mansion they gathered three estates away, beneath a banyan tree on the manicured emerald-green lawn of Julio Iglesias. The Larks had a connection, having represented a friend of a friend of the Latin heartthrob during a routine paternity scandal. Julio's Star Island mansion was being renovated, but his people sent word that Cherry Pye's parents could hang out as long as they wished in the backyard, which overlooked Biscayne Bay. The cabana, however, was off-limits.
"I've seen that fellow before," said Janet Bunterman, referring to Abbott, "lurking in the maggot mob."
"He didn't look so scary. Mr. Chemo can handle him, no problem," her husband asserted. "Cherry will do fine."
The Larks, who met the Buntermans there, took advantage of the outdoor setting by lighting up. They were less worried about Cherry's photo shoot than about the latest disappearance of Ann DeLusia. The twins weren't convinced it was an abduction.
"Why would she call him 'captain' unless she knew him?" Lucy wondered aloud.
"I thought the same thing," Janet Bunterman said, "but that's how she talks to everyone--you know, saucy, unflappable Annie."
Ned Bunterman's scornful appraisal: "No way that guy is captain of anything. He's a stone derelict."
Lila shook her head. "Lucy's right. The whole thing smells."
It was crucial to their media strategy that Ann be safely under wraps. The plan was to pay her off and then threaten to sabotage her future career if she ever blabbed. In the twins' view, an ambitious actress posed a much greater threat than a devious street photographer, who was basically a single-cell organism motivated by greed and/or lust. Ann DeLusia was more complex and unpredictable.
"What did the new kidnapper look like?" Lucy Lark asked.
"Big, dirty, shiny bald head with braids," Cherry's father said. "And one eye was screwed up."
"You've never seen him before?"
"I would've definitely remembered. His smile was outstanding," said Janet Bunterman. Realizing how that might have sounded, she added quickly, "The dental work, I mean. For a homeless person? Off the charts."
Tautly, Ned said, "I didn't notice his smile. I did notice the shotgun."
Lila took another drag and blew the smoke sideways. As usual, she and her sister were thinking the same thing: Annie could sink the whole damn boat.
The night before, the Larks had stayed up late to polish the draft of Cherry's future blog entry about her abduction and sordid humiliation at the hands of a demented fan, identity unknown. To improve the story, the twins described the singer's abductor as tall and hooded, with rippling muscles and a Middle Eastern accent. He carried a camera, and forced her to pose for degrading photographs under threat of death. On the third night, Cherry boldly escaped through a window and found herself alone in a snake-infested wilderness, possibly the Everglades, where she wandered for hours before collapsing.
I woke up in a Miami hospital--bruised, thirsty, but happy to be alive, the blog continued, Lucy at the keyboard. I have no clue how I got there, but I'll always be grateful to the person who rescued me from that swamp, wherever it was, and also to the doctors and nurses who looked after me.
As for the vicious dude who kidnapped me and hassled me for all those days and nights, I've got, like, one thing to say: You can't hurt me anymore!
At that point, Lila took over: As jazzed as I am to be free, I know my nightmare isn't really over. I wish I could forget some of those things he did to me--and I'm sure there's other stuff that our Lord and Savior doesn't want me to remember. I can't even imagine what that monster plans to do with all the awful pictures he took, but they could totally show up anytime on the Internet.
So I want to prepare all of you--friends and loyal fans--for the shock. I did what I had to do to save my own life.
Then Lucy finished it off: But I refuse to let this coward, like, haunt me. That's why I'm going ahead full throttle with the big concert tour to promote my hot new CD, Skantily Klad. Even though I'm pretty wiped out from the hostage thing, I'm still rehearsing every single day, determined to put on a super-awesome show that you'll never, ever forget!
Love, hugs, and kisses ... CP.
For the Larks, ghostwriting as an airhead had turned out to be fun. Neither of them doubted that lowly Claude Abbott could be persuaded to shut up and disappear. The specter of being prosecuted and concurrently sued into destitution would be a powerful incentive to cooperate. The twins suspected, however, that Ann DeLusia would not be so easily corralled.
"Let's say it wasn't another kidnapping," Lila said. "Let's say it was a getaway. Maybe she was friends with the shotgun guy and--"
"She wasn't escaping from Abbott," Lucy broke in. "She was escaping from all of us."
The Buntermans looked muddled and distressed. Ned swatted awkwardly at a bug and wished he were on a plane heading home. Florida was a callous, uncultured place; it brought out the worst in people. Ann was the last person he would have expected to cut and run.
Fumbling with a tube of French sunblock, Cherry's mother said, "Annie's upset because we didn't tell the police she was in the Suburban when Abbott swiped it. This is understandable."
The Larks were frowning, although an outsider would have been hard-pressed to notice.
"How do we reach her?" Lila asked.
Janet Bunterman said she had no idea. "She drowned her phone."
"Suppose she doesn't call," Ned Bunterman said.
"That would be bad." Lucy palmed her iPhone, skimming through e-mails. "Unless she's dead. Otherwise it's best to keep an open dialogue."
Cherry's mother said she didn't think the gun-toting vagrant intended to kill Ann. "I really didn't get that vibe."
"Me, neither," Ned Bunterman said. "And Annie didn't look all that scared."
"Because she knew the guy. That's our working theory," said Lila.
"Which means you should probably expect a call," Lucy said to Cherry's parents. "Be prepared to open the checkbook."
Janet Bunterman sighed in resignation. "So, what would be fair?"
The twins snickered bleakly. Fairness had nothing to do with it. "She can slaughter us, that's the problem," said Lila. "Think of what would happen, Annie goes to the cops and spills everything. Sure, we can say she's disgruntled, bitter, whacked-out, whatever. They've still got to investigate--and then the story's all over the media. We're talking a Cat 5 shitstorm."
"Ten thousand dollars. Twenty?" Janet Bunterman scowled at her husband and raised her hands. "Little help, Ned?"
He said, "Maybe we should talk to Maury."
A sleek hundred-foot yacht idled past, a red-and-white flag fluttering on the stern. A tallish middle-aged couple, dressed in matching white linens, stood hatless on the upper deck. They were listening to a piece of classical music, which drifted to Star Island on the breeze.
Ned Bunterman saw the lettering painted on the transom and felt a melancholy twinge beneath his breastbone: Sweet Dreams was the name of the yacht. It was registered in Copenhagen.
"Start at fifty grand," suggested Lucy Lark. "See what she says."
"That's a lot of money," Cherry's mother remarked unhappily.
Lila fired up another cigarette. "It's a bloody bargain, Janet."
"All right, then, how high would you go?"
The twins made eye contact with each other, as they often did before dispensing advice. "What's your comfort level?" Lucy asked Cherry's parents.
Again Ned Bunterman said, "Let's talk to Maury."
It made sense to him that the promoter should pony up the hush money. No one other than the Buntermans had more to lose than Maury Lykes if the new album flopped and the tour bombed, which was a real poss
ibility if Ann popped up and started giving interviews about Cherry's dope binges and lip-synching lessons.
Janet Bunterman said, "If I could see her again one-on-one, even for just a few minutes, I could straighten this whole thing out. Annie's a decent soul. She likes me."
The Larks, who had no patience for mawkish nonsense, stood up and excused themselves from the garden party. "Call us when you hear from her," said Lila.
"But what if we don't?" asked Cherry's father.
"Then we move ahead. Stick to the plan, eyes wide open." This was Lucy. "When can we see the new photographs?"
"Tonight." Janet Bunterman said Chemo would be returning to the Stefano not only with Abbott's cameras but also with a signed release for all the pictures of Cherry.
"And the faux junkie shots of Ann? The toilet-bowl sequence?"
"Deleted. Chemo promised to supervise personally." Cherry's mother didn't know what methods the bodyguard would use to secure the paparazzo's cooperation, but she assumed that the weed whacker would come into play. She found it reassuring that Chemo had displayed no concern whatsoever about Abbott's handgun.
"We'll be waiting at the hotel. Try the spa first," said Lila Lark, and walked off side by side with her sister. To Ned Bunterman there was something paramilitary about their stride and bearing, and he couldn't for a moment imagine sleeping with either (or both) of them, despite their finely crafted features.
He walked down to Julio's dock to have a look at the water, which was milky but nonetheless lulling. Soon his wife joined him, shielding her extravagantly shaded eyes against the morning glare.
"Wonder how it's going over there," Janet Bunterman said, looking off toward the big Spanish-style house where their daughter was posing for a creep, thinking she would be gracing the cover of Vanity Fair.
"Janet, how the hell did it come to this?" Her husband wasn't talking about the marriage; he was talking about the business.
"Cherry's a free spirit, Ned."
"No, she's a dolt. Harsh but true, and we both know it. What in the world are we gonna do if this doesn't work?"
His wife said, "That's the difference between you and me. I'm all about positive energy."
They were interrupted by a burst of sharp pops coming from the direction of Tanner Dane Keefe's rented mansion.
Cherry's mother flinched and moved behind her husband. "Firecrackers?"
"Gunshots," Ned Bunterman said. "You want positive, Janet? I'm fucking positive that was a gun."
24
Blondell Wayne Tatum, also known as Chemo, knew something about dysfunctional families. His own parents had been members of a radical sect that renounced red meat, monogamy and income taxes, and they died in an inept shoot-out with federal agents outside a North Dakota post office. Young Blondell, only six at the time, went to live with an aunt and uncle who were themselves fugitives from felony mail-fraud charges, and had been masquerading with moderate success as Amish wheat farmers. It was no surprise that, in the absence of upright role models, Chemo had turned early to the criminal way.
Having seen the Buntermans up close, the bodyguard wasn't entirely unsympathetic to their famous daughter. With Ned and Janet at the wheel, Cherry never had a chance. While Chemo was pleased by how quickly she'd tidied her speech patterns under the cattle proddings, he planned no further outreach. He wasn't in the bimbo-salvaging business; his charity extended to not murdering Cherry, nothing more.
Her singing, however, stirred the homicidal impulse.
I need a jealous bone, jealous bo-ooooone
In my body.
It's been too long, I've been so wronnnngg
To hold out.
So, boy, don't talk, just take a waaaaalk
To my party.
They don't need to know, need to kno-oooow
What's goin' on.
I need a jealous bone, jealous bo-ooooone,
In my body.
Want your jealous bone, jealous bo-oooone
So come on!
It was a caterwaul, off-key and glottal.
Chemo stepped up to Cherry Pye and said, "Shut it down."
Bang Abbott sidled around him, continuing to snap photos. "You kiddin' me? That's a great cut."
"It's the new single," Cherry said to Chemo. "God, what's your problem?"
She was straddling the back of the chair, and still wearing Ann's little black dress. Her thong panties were the same color.
"The video seriously kills," she said, and defiantly resumed the song. Chemo clamped his hand over her mouth.
The paparazzo set down his camera and from his dingy pants pulled the Colt .38. Chemo saw rounds in the cylinder and he wondered when the sneaky shit had reloaded.
"Let go of her," Bang Abbott said with a twitch. His middle finger, not the bandaged one, was inchworming toward the trigger.
"Sure," Chemo said. As he backed away from Cherry, he pivoted and with the shoulder of his truncated left arm swung the weed whacker in the upward trajectory of a fungo bat. Although the golf-bag cover offered a bit of padding at impact, Bang Abbott nevertheless took a painful blow to the gourd. He toppled, snorting like a dazed warthog.
Chemo picked up the .38 from the polished maple floor and emptied all but one round into the watercolor of a circus clown that hung over the useless fireplace. He knew the clown painting couldn't be very valuable if the owner of the house had left it up on the wall, especially after renting to an actor. It would be worth even less with bullet holes.
"You killed Claude, you fucker!" Cherry bayed at Chemo.
"Claude should know better than to play with guns."
The photographer hauled himself to his feet, steadying himself against the mantel. Seconds later, the Buntermans burst into the room, Cherry's father armed with a Swiffer sweeper that he'd grabbed from the kitchen. It was no match for a motorized shrub shredder; Chemo had to smile.
"What happened here?" cried Janet Bunterman, rushing to her daughter's side. "Are you all right?"
"I hate him! He hurt Claude!"
"What for?" asked Cherry's father, hovering at what he perceived to be a safe distance.
"Fuckhead pointed a loaded weapon at me. Not acceptable," Chemo explained.
Ned Bunterman was proud of himself for having properly identified the loud noises as gunfire. If his wife was impressed, she didn't let on. Chemo handed her the Colt and told her to put it away before somebody got killed. Nervously she crammed it barrel-first into her purse.
Bang Abbott was fingering a pink knot on the side of his head. His crimped baseball cap was deftly Swiffered off the floor and returned to him by Cherry's father.
"I got some really good stuff. She's doing great," the paparazzo said.
"He's right, Mom, I look so freaking awe--" Cherry halted herself, remembering Chemo's forbidden-word list, and shot the bodyguard a septic glare. "Amazing. Super-amazing. Claude showed me the pictures."
Janet Bunterman said, "I told you, sweetie, he's an artist."
"I already know which one I want for the cover!"
His ears still ringing, Bang Abbott picked up a Nikon and fiddled with the f-stop. "Hell, we're just gettin' started," he said. "Aren't we, Cherish?"
Janet Bunterman told her husband to fetch some ice for Mr. Abbott's lump.
"No, no, I'm good," said the paparazzo, who'd been somewhat anesthetized by the intensity of his fixation.
Cherry's father asked, "Can we sneak a peek at the pics?"
"Maybe. After I'm done." Bang Abbott raised his head and peered up at the wall. "Jesus, I just got a smokin' hot idea. You folks can go now--everything's under control."
He took down the painting and placed it on the floor in front of the chair. He told Cherry to insert her fingers through the bullet holes in the clown's eyes, then wiggle the tips provocatively for the camera.
"Killer," she said. "I love it."
Chemo escorted the Buntermans to the foyer. He told them to hang around out front for a little while, in case the neighbors ha
d called the cops about the gunshots.
"We'll tell them it was fireworks," Janet Bunterman suggested daringly.
"Brilliant."
Ned Bunterman propped the sweeper in a corner. "What do we do with the gun, Mr. Chemo? I mean, good Lord, this is out of our bailiwick."
"Leave it under the Denali."
"Is that safe?"
Chemo said, "Sure. There's no crime on Star Island." He smiled tightly as he let the Buntermans out.
Walking back to the photo set, he was thinking what a pain in the ass these people were, every damn one of them, and how he couldn't wait to finish the job and split.
This time, Cherry stopped singing the moment he entered the room.
Jackie Sebago waddled to the bathroom and gingerly hoisted his bloated scrotum up on the vanity for self-inspection. He'd been reading all about spiny sea urchins on the Internet. The infection was being stubborn. Jackie couldn't fit his junk into his Jockey shorts, much less a pair of pants, so he was basically trapped indoors.
Earlier in the morning, after receiving the call from the Monroe County Building Department, the developer had furiously thrown on a robe and set out toward the residence of D. T. Maltby to ascertain why, after all the payoffs and chicanery, the Sebago Isle project had abruptly been red-tagged. Jackie's labored stride and rumpled appearance attracted the attention of an Ocean Reef security guard, who placed the developer in a golf cart and drove him back to the borrowed condominium where he had been recuperating.
Being a mere guest and not a member, Jackie Sebago hadn't fully familiarized himself with Ocean Reef's dress code. At the very least, he should have cinched the bathrobe more snugly. His dour outlook did not improve when the security guard informed him that a chartered aircraft carrying Mr. Maltby had only minutes earlier departed from the club's private runway, destination undisclosed.
Alone at the condo, Jackie sagged into a leather recliner and spread wide his spindly legs to ease the pressure. The obstetrical pose was all the more apt because his grotesquely engorged nut sack resembled nothing so much as the slimy, purple-veined crown of an emerging newborn. He fanned his crotch and seethed, thinking about the ranting one-eyed stranger who had victimized him so sadistically. The crime reaffirmed his generic contempt for environmentalists--such fucking drama over a few town houses! The greatest country in the world, he huffed to himself, the shining goddamn beacon of capitalism--yet a respectable entrepreneur such as himself could be ambushed, hog-tied and sexually disfigured by a deranged crackpot with a political agenda. It was an outrage.