by Carl Hiaasen
His cell phone rang. Jackie Sebago recognized the 401 area code.
"Shit," he murmured.
The caller was Shea, his least-favorite investor. Shea had learned about the red-tagging when he'd contacted the building department to find out if the plumbing permits had been pulled. The prick was always calling Key West behind Jackie's back, just so he could bust his chops about one chickenshit thing or the other. Shea had texted a half dozen times within the hour, but Jackie hadn't bothered to read any of them.
Now the guy was bellowing into the phone: "What the fuck, man? They shut down the project! What the fuck?"
"I'm on it," said Jackie.
But he wasn't on it, not really. The whole point of hiring a "consultant" such as D. T. Maltby was to remain safely above all the prosaic little acts of corruption. Being kept in the dark was part of Jackie's system. He didn't know who had been bribed, or how much they'd been paid--but he definitely wanted to know why they'd suddenly reneged.
"What the hell happened? What did you do?" Shea demanded. "Know what? Never mind. Just wire my money back. I'm done."
"Slow down, Billy. I'll have all this shit smoothed out by tomorrow. Wednesday at the latest." There was little chance of that, Jackie knew, not with Maltby dodging him. "I gotta take care of some folks, that's all," he said to Shea. "You know, spread a little sunshine."
"I thought you already did."
"Me, too. But, hey, it's Florida."
"Guess what? You can have it," Shea said. "I want my fucking money. Tomorrow, nine sharp, I'm calling my bank. It better be there, all eight fifty."
Jackie Sebago couldn't possibly return Billy Shea's $850,000 investment because he'd already spent it on either a hydrofoil franchise in Crete or junk bonds. He couldn't remember. After purchasing the lots for Sebago Isle, he'd still had five million bucks to play with. To Jackie it all sort of poured together, like a tropical waterfall.
In the interest of harmony, he had allowed Shea and the other investors to think their funds were safe in an escrow account. Jackie Sebago believed escrow was for pussies. He preferred a more dynamic wealth strategy.
"Come on, Billy, lighten up. I'm still wiped out from what happened last week, what that damn maniac did to me."
From the other end, no sympathy: "You can still dial the motherfucking phone, no? Wire me the balance, Jackie. Today."
The developer once heard that Shea had heavy mob connections up in Rhode Island, but he'd brushed it off as a rumor. Shea was always suing somebody, and wise guys generally avoided courtrooms. Jackie Sebago anticipated that the man's next step would be to have his lawyer write a menacing letter, and then maybe file a lawsuit. By the time the case wound its way through Florida's glacial court system, the real-estate market would have bounced back with a bang, the units at Sebago Isle would be presold, and there'd be plenty of cash with which to repay Mr. William Shea, with interest, if the dipshit still wanted out of the deal.
"Jackie, am I even making a dent?" Shea asked acerbically. "You do hear what I'm saying, right? This whole Key Largo thing has been a fuck story from day one, and now I want my eight fifty back."
"You're just frustrated, Billy, and so am I. Don't worry--I'll get the red tag lifted pronto and off we go," said the developer. "It's just a mistake is all."
"No, the mistake? For you to keep on bullshitting me. That's the mistake, you lying little cumwad."
The line went dead. Jackie Sebago tossed the phone, thinking: That's one cold dude. He didn't even ask about my nuts.
Ann DeLusia got a room at the Loft Hotel and Skink curled up on the floor. She made a call to his friend, the motorcycle man, who showed up ninety minutes later. Ann met him in the lobby, and they went down the street for coffee. He told her the whole story. She felt bad for not believing Skink when he'd said he was once the governor.
"He doesn't share that with everybody," Jim Tile said.
"And one day he just quit? How wild."
"It was either that or go off like a cluster bomb."
"So, what's your connection?" Ann asked.
"I worked for him back in the Tallahassee days. I'm the one who helped him disappear."
"It probably saved his life."
"Or somebody else's. He wasn't equipped for politics, trust me."
"Well, he's definitely not equipped for South Beach. You should take him back to the Keys."
Jim Tile said, "He won't go yet. No point in asking--the man won't go."
"What are you saying?" Ann saw that Skink's friend wore a rueful expression. She said, "Oh no. This I don't need."
"He'll head home when he thinks you're safe."
"I am safe ... now. Totally safe."
"Don't be so certain," said Jim Tile. She had told him her story, too.
He added: "The governor might look shaky, but his survival instincts are superb. Listen to what he tells you."
"But he's a whack job, no offense. Scottish poetry! And what's with that song--'Run Through the Jungle'? He snatched up some blond rollerblader and sang it to her belly button, for heaven's sake."
Jim Tile shrugged. "He loves Creedence. Says that's what got him through Nam."
"Take him with you. Please?"
"He won't hurt you."
"Yes, I know."
"More important: He won't let anyone else hurt you."
Ann said, "What are you talking about? Nobody wants to hurt me."
As they walked back to the hotel, Jim Tile asked about the shotgun. Ann told him where Skink had hidden it.
"You're gonna go get it, right?" she asked. "So he can't."
"Let's see--large black dude carrying a sawed-off on a motorcycle through the Magic City in broad daylight. No, dear, I don't think so."
"You're a big help."
"Hang on to my number," said Jim Tile.
She told him thanks a bunch, and took the stairs up to the room. Skink was still sleeping, his head sandwiched in a stack of pillows. She took a long, hot shower. The water felt heavenly; she closed her eyes and let the spray pulse against her cheeks. She wasn't sure whether or not she wanted the governor to be gone when she got out.
Ann's experience with damaged men was limited; for some reason, possibly her looks, she tended to attract the cocky and self-absorbed. The wounded ones were more interesting, according to her girlfriends, although they were lots of work. Ann wondered if her father had been such a man. When she was little she often asked her mother about him, but no distinct portrait was presented. "A worthless loser," her mom would say one day. Another time he might be an "irresponsible fool," or a "misguided schmo," or simply "nobody worth thinking about." The one that had sort of intrigued Ann was "mixed-up dreamer."
All she actually knew about her dad was that his name was Gil, he was two years younger than her mother, and he'd moved out of the apartment shortly before she was born. It was never made clear if the decision to leave was his, but Ann doubted it. Her mom was a relentless ballbuster. Before marrying the professional bowler she'd had a dozen other colorless but compliant suitors who dutifully converted to veganism, accompanied her to Bible readings and set aside their Saturdays for lawn work. All ended up being dumped for minor infractions, and Ann always felt sorry for them. She didn't miss her mom very much but she assumed they'd reconnect one day, probably at the bowler's funeral.
Skink was awake, buffing his glass eye, when she came out of the bathroom. He didn't seem to notice she had a towel on her head and another wrapped around her body.
"I'm going back to Star Island," he said, "to settle up with Abbott."
"You'll do no such thing." Ann sat beside him on the edge of the bed. "What do you plan to do--beat him to a pulp? Kill him? Don't expect me to be impressed."
He re-set the glass eye in its socket and blinked it into position. "What he did was wrong. He should be held to account."
"Why do you like to be called 'captain'?"
"That was my rank in the army. Maybe I should let it go." He started to rise, but Ann
grabbed his arm.
"Did you ever have kids?" she asked.
"No children. No wives."
"And no regrets, I bet."
"Many," he said. "A shitload."
"Then forget about Claude and stay here with me. I need to tell you everything about what happened, and why," she said. "I also need to tell you about my ridiculous job."
"You're an actress. That's not altogether ridiculous."
"No, captain, I'm talking about this job--the one that got me in all this trouble."
"Will I become disillusioned?"
"Then afterward I'm going to ask you," she said, "for a really big favor."
"Whatever you want."
"Even if it involves shopping?"
Skink laughed. "Anything for you, fair Annie."
25
Bang Abbott wasn't a big drinker but Cherry had found a bottle of Grey Goose, so he agreed to join her for martinis in the kitchen during their lunch break. She was getting pretty loose, which boded well for the afternoon photo session and also for his chances of getting some action. He was aware of his repellent effect on women; even the hookers he hired usually needed a stiff shot or two before getting down to business.
Despite the gunplay and baleful rumblings from Chemo, Bang Abbott was feeling good about the shoot. The photographs he'd taken so far were, in his own slanted view, gems. Cherry had never looked so beautiful and teasing and reckless and haunted....
Bang Abbott's sappy enchantment would have baffled his fellow paparazzi, among whom he was regarded as coarse and heartless. But none of those jackoffs had ever spent what--three hours, now?--alone with one of their glam-nymph targets.
Getting flashed, flipped off, mooned, and serenaded. She'd even told a dirty joke, Cherry had, about a man with three testicles. Complete with visuals.
Teddy Loo, eat your fucking heart out.
Bang Abbott fixed a third martini and scrolled through the photos, basking in his own genius.
"Claude, I gotta go tinkle," Cherry said. "Is that a picture?"
"Not for Vanity Fair, darling." He directed her toward the bathroom. "Make it fast."
The format of the portrait book was taking shape in his mind--but, no, first an exhibit. At the National Portrait Gallery in Washington! Better still, a traveling exhibition, then afterward bring out the book, a masterpiece portfolio.
Upon returning, Cherry chirped, "Look what I found in the medicine chest!" She opened her hand to reveal three cocoa-colored pills.
"What are those?" Bang Abbott asked.
"Who cares."
"Hey, don't!" Chemo put down his sandwich and moved toward Cherry, but she was too quick. She swallowed the tablets in one gulp, then smacked her lips for the bodyguard's benefit.
"Whatcha gonna do now?" she taunted.
"Those were heartworm pills," Chemo informed her, "for a dog. I wondered how long it would take you to find 'em."
"Asshole! I hate your guts!" Cherry screamed.
Bang Abbott told her to calm down--doggy meds wouldn't hurt her.
"But, goddammit, Claude, I wanna get high!" She lunged once more for the vodka. Bang Abbott, who himself was feeling buzzed, fished a fresh olive from the jar and plopped it into his glass.
Chemo clicked his grungy nubs in mock disapproval and returned to his pastrami on rye. He honestly didn't care if the two of them got bombed. The first forty grand from Maury Lykes was hidden securely in the jack compartment of his Denali, and the rest of the cash soon would be in his hands. By this time tomorrow, Abbott would be a nonfactor and the girl would be somebody else's headache.
After lunch he followed them upstairs, where Cherry shadowed her eyelids with dark purple crescents and shed the cocktail dress. She put on a long-sleeved Polo shirt, open to her navel, and a pair of Tanner Dane Keefe's boxer shorts which had a dorky frog pattern.
Then Bang Abbott handcuffed her to the wrought-iron rail of a veranda overlooking the swimming pool. He said, "You get the concept, right? It's like you're a prisoner of fame."
Cherry seemed to twinkle and blush. "Claude, that is so freakin' heavy."
For Chemo, the interaction was nauseating to observe. Remorseless by nature, he nevertheless found himself thinking of all the poor fuckers he'd conned into buying ARMs--now shattered and broke, their only sin trying to score a decent house for their families. The all-American dream! And here's some dumb chick with a voice that sounds like a sackful of starving kittens--filthy rich, and about to get richer. So much for divine order, Chemo thought bitterly.
"Now what's your problem?" Cherry snapped.
The bodyguard entertained the thought of taking the weed whacker to her god-awful tattoo, mulching the bestial rendition to an oozing scarlet pulp. Instead he went inside and settled down with a National Geographic, which in prison had become his favorite periodical. This particular issue featured an article about cosmetic microsurgery, a subject of keen personal interest to him. He'd had lousy luck with doctors, but now that he was coming into serious money, perhaps he could find a first-rate surgeon to de-corrugate his face.
After a while, Bang Abbott walked in from the veranda. On a wobbly track he approached Chemo and said, with a frat-boy leer, "Hey, can you give us an hour alone? Me and the tartlet?"
"You're kidding."
"No, man, I'm definitely feeling it. She's, uh, in major need."
"I got orders from Mr. Lykes not to let her outta my sight."
"Just wait outside the door, 'kay? Hell, you can listen if you want." Bang Abbott was perspiring more copiously than usual, and his brow felt as clammy as a mackerel. He was aware that the window of carnal opportunity with Cherry Pye could slam shut at any instant.
"Come on," he begged the bodyguard. "Give a brother a break."
Chemo said, "You're trashed."
"Just a little."
"Don't call me 'brother.'"
"What is it?" the paparazzo said. "You can't believe she'd ball a guy like me, right?"
"Oh, I believe it. Two nights ago I caught her grinding on her iPhone. She'd left it on vibrate, so every time a text or a call came in ... Anyway, yeah, I believe you." Chemo stood up and tucked the magazine under his prosthesis.
"You got thirty minutes," he said to Bang Abbott.
Fremont Spores got interested in police scanners after his wife, Lenore, succumbed to lung cancer. She had never smoked, but living with Fremont, who was a human chimney, killed her. Lenore Spores had been in all ways a substantial presence, and her death left a sensory vacuum that Fremont needed to fill. After twenty-nine years of noise, he couldn't cope with a silent apartment. The scanners brought the place back to life; like Lenore, they never shut up.
At first, listening to the law-enforcement frequencies was only a hobby. There was so much gore and mayhem in South Florida that Fremont Spores spent hours on end hunkered at the machines, enthralled by their static-filled bulletins--car wrecks, shoot-outs, home invasions, gang fights, cockfights, murder-suicides, drug busts, ODs, floaters, indecent exposures, cats up trees, pythons in swimming pools. Fremont became so fervidly immersed in cop-radio chatter that sometimes he wouldn't leave his post for the whole day, skipping meals and urinating into a Clorox bottle.
Then the landlord jacked up the rent and Fremont found himself strapped for dough. He was living on Social Security and a modest retirement from The Florida Times-Union, where he'd worked as a press mechanic before retiring to Miami Beach. The newspaper pension, which had barely covered Fremont's monthly tab for parakeet seed and Winston Lights, was now needed to augment the rent. So suddenly he faced the twin tragedies of forsaking cigarettes and also saying good-bye to Mr. Peeps, his mute but beloved English budgie.
One day, while browsing at the scanner shop, Fremont Spores struck up a conversation with a crusty character who'd brought in an old Uniden Bearcat for repair. The man confided to Fremont that he made a couple hundred bucks a week monitoring the police channels, feeding tips to local TV news and radio stations, and on occasio
n to the tabloids. South Beach had caught fire as a winter watering hole for supermodels, musicians and show-business phonies, and there was good cash to be made when even a D-list celebrity got arrested for a bar fight or drunk driving. The man generously cut Fremont in on the action, and even more generously keeled over from a brain aneurysm six months later.
Fremont took over the operation and soon developed into a virtuoso scanner fiend. He could simultaneously eavesdrop on twenty-two different police and fire departments, from Palmetto Bay to Palm Beach, as well as the state marine patrol, U.S. Coast Guard, DEA, even Fish and Wildlife. As Fremont's reputation grew, his client list expanded beyond reporters and camera crews, who were always chasing after the cops, to those who were always dodging them--dopers, gunrunners, street racers, livestock rustlers and migrant smugglers. Fremont wasn't selective. Whoever purchased his information could be confident it was solid, and fresh.
Most customers were good about the money, except for a few itinerant paparazzi. They'd swoop into town and immediately contact Fremont, promising beaucoup dollars if he'd steer them to the scene of some spaced-out starlet or wasted jock in the back of a squad car--or, better yet, an ambulance. Fremont's rates were fair, and he expected to be paid promptly for productive tips. Chasing down a deadbeat shooter took valuable time away from his scanning duties, but it was a matter of principle. More than anything, Fremont Spores hated being jerked around.
He called Bang Abbott's number again. The same flat voice answered as before--Fremont suspected it was Abbott himself, pretending to be someone else. Or maybe he had a cold.
"This is Spores. I want my two hundred bucks."
"For what? Remind me."