by Carl Hiaasen
Rojo said, “It’s a crazy world, Davey. I give some girl five hundred bucks just to go for a ride, OK? The poor fucks who cut this cane”—he waved toward the fields—“that’s three weeks’ pay.”
“Are you serious?” Dilbeck said.
“This is some country, my friend. Now I must find my pants.”
By the time they returned to the limousine, Christopher Rojo had come down hard from the coke, and David Dilbeck wobbled on the brink of heatstroke. Pierre held the door as the two men tumbled into the backseat. The dancers were asleep, a bright tangle of blonde, lace and Spandex. Dilbeck’s shirt and Rojo’s trousers lay crumpled on the floor of the car. The congressman dug a handful of ice from the portable refrigerator and packed it to his forehead.
“It’s so fucking hot,” he said.
Chris Rojo grunted. “Florida, man.”
In the driver’s seat, mute Pierre turned to receive directions.
“Civilization,” Rojo commanded. “And step on it.
“Dilbeck watched the flat brown acres fly by at ninety miles an hour, tall stalks of cane stretching to the horizon. He couldn’t believe that human beings worked in such suffocating heat from dawn to dusk. He’d heard it was bad but, Christ Almighty, he’d never imagined it like this.
“How much do you pay them?” he asked Rojo.
“The girls? I told you, Davey—five each.”
“No, I mean the migrants.”
“Oh, that.” Rojo was struggling to fit his legs into the wrinkled trousers. “My father says it’s up to thirty dollars a day. All depends if the foreman’s in a good mood. But when you subtract room and board, booze and smokes—who knows? And medical care isn’t cheap, either.”
“Jesus,” said the congressman.
“Hey, they keep coming back. Compared to Santo Domingo, this is fucking Club Med.”
“How long do they work?”
“Until it’s done,” Rojo said. “My father says a good hand cuts a ton of cane every hour. You believe that? A whole goddamn ton—amazing what a man can do when he’s properly motivated.”
David Dilbeck turned from the window and closed his eyes. It made him dizzy and sick, just thinking about it.
The judge was startled when Erin sat down at the table.
She said, “You remember me? The unfit mother.”
The judge stiffly drained his Jack Daniel’s. “I was hoping this was a social visit,” he said.
Erin fought to steady herself. She’d had two martinis during her break—a rare indulgence while performing. The problem was Jerry Killian being dead. Even peripheral involvement with a murder could ruin her chance of getting Angie back. In his lovestruck quest to help, Killian might’ve provoked the wrong people. How far had he taken his screwball scheme? Had he actually tried extortion on a U.S. congressman? Erin needed to know more, before she told Al García about her own supporting role. The judge was her strongest lead, and also the riskiest.
Erin feinted in the obvious direction. “I’d like you to hear my side of the case.”
“I already have,” the judge said, “in court.”
A waitress brought a fresh drink, which the judge eyed longingly but did not sip. Erin wondered if Shad had defiled it in the usual way.
“Thanks to you,” she said, “my daughter is in the custody of an incorrigible felon.”
“The record reflected no such thing.”
“The record was sanitized, Your Honor. Darrell Grant is a paid informant for the Sheriff’s Office, and you know it. They purged his rap sheet.”
Fidgeting in a dark booth, the judge wasn’t nearly as imposing as he was in the courtroom. Here at the Eager Beaver, he was just another horny old fart with impossible fantasies.
Erin said, “My ex-husband deals in stolen wheelchairs. He’s made an accomplice of our daughter.”
The judge told her that he based his opinion on the known facts of the case; that’s the law. “But it’s also true that a decision can be reversed.” He twirled the ice cubes counterclockwise in the bourbon. “Are you going to dance on my table?”
“I don’t do that.”
“The others do.”
“Not I,” said Erin.
“Then perhaps something else?” The judge clutched his glass with both hands, as if it were a sacred chalice. His voice took on a sly tone: “I mentioned one particular idea to your friend.”
“Which friend was that?”
“Your ‘special’ friend.”
Naturally, Erin thought. “I’ve got lots of special friends,” she said, “with lots of special ideas.”
The judge pursed his wormy lips and said: “You’re playing games.” He fumbled under the table as if scratching himself, but brought forth a Bible. “I come here often, to pray for sinners like you.”
“Oh, that’s a good one.”
“I keep the Good Book on my lap at all times.”
“I’ll bet,” Erin said. “Levitating?”
“Fighting the devil on his own turf.”
“Whatever,” she said.
“Good versus evil, evil versus good. It’s an eternal struggle.” The judge found a dry corner of the cocktail table and placed the Bible there. Then he treated himself to a noisy gulp of bourbon. On stage, the two Moniques danced as gunslingers: fringed boots, Stetsons, holsters and a silver star on each bare breast. The judge was briefly transported.
“Time to get ready,” Erin said, slipping out of the booth.
The judge snapped to attention. “Does this mean the answer is no?
“What did my special friend say my answer would be?”
“Mr. Dilbeck wasn’t sure.”
Finally, Erin thought: Jerry’s congressman.
“We talked about your custody case,” the judge said. “I suggested an oral settlement. Didn’t he tell you?”
Oral settlement. How incredibly clever! A regular Noel Coward, this one, “Your Honor,” Erin said, “I don’t know anyone named Dilbeck. And whatever you suggested to him, I promise that my answer would be no.”
The judge seemed more perplexed than humiliated. “All right,” he said, stirring the ice, “but perhaps we could pray together some fine Sunday morning.”
* * *
The lawyer, grinning like an imbecile, was waiting at the door. “Come in, come in, come in!”
Shad distrusted joviality. “I heard you the first time. What’s the news from Delicato Dairy?”
Mordecai led him to the conference room. “Coffee, Mr. Shad?”
“Answers, Mr. Mordecai.”
From his waistband Shad pulled a Black & Decker cordless drill with a ¼-inch steel bit. Without a word he began to put numerous holes in Mordecai’s favorite Matisse print. “The new pointillism,” Shad explained to the stupefied lawyer.
Soon the painting fell off the wall, exposing an identical pattern of fresh holes in the plaster. Mordecai’s secretary pounded urgently on the door and Shad instructed her to go away. Mordecai dropped to his knees and began begging for mercy. He’d been rehearsing ever since Dr. Vibbs had phoned, weepy on Nembutals. His session with Shad had gone quite badly.
“Don’t kill me,” Mordecai pleaded. “I’ll do anything.”
Shad tucked the drill under his arm. “Start at the beginning, fuckhead.”
The lawyer’s story came out in whimpers: The yogurt had been stored securely in the office refrigerator. One day Beverly was out sick. The temp helped herself, never asked … ate the whole damn thing, roach and all. You believe that dumb twat?
Shad’s amphibian eyes closed slowly, and remained that way for a long time. He was thinking that he should have left the warning note on the yogurt carton.
The lawyer’s knees ached, but he was too frightened to move. Beverly rapped on the door again, and this time Mordecai was startled to hear his own voice telling her to relax, everything’s OK.
Just another narcoleptic sociopath in need of legal advice.
“You all right?” the lawyer asked Shad.
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The hairless giant opened his eyes. His face showed nothing. From a breast pocket he scooped a handful of crispy dead insects—cockroaches, grasshoppers, june bugs, Japanese beetles, even a scorpion—which he organized on the table for Mordecai’s inspection.
“This time,” Shad said, “no fuckups.”
The lawyer rose to his feet. He circled the table slowly, pretending to admire Shad’s collection.
“We should discuss this,” Mordecai said.
“Nothing to discuss, partner. Send your girl off to the supermarket. Fruit flavors only.”
“You don’t understand—”
“And tell her to check the date on the cartons. I ain’t stickin’ my pinkies in expired yogurt. No way.” Shad sat back and waited for Mordecai to get rolling.
The lawyer said, “But this is fraud. I could be disbarred.”
“You could be dismembered,” said Shad, “if you don’t move your fat ass.”
Mordecai felt the blood rush from his legs. Soon he lost all feeling below the waist. His throat tightened. “I … have … another plan.”
“Sure you do.”
“I … d-d-do!”
With a single punch to the shoulder, Shad knocked the lawyer down. Mordecai wailed. Shad told him to shut up, don’t be such a pussy. Mordecai wailed louder.
Shad stood over him, taking aim. All he said was: “Pitiful.” Then he dropped the dead scorpion into Mordecai’s open mouth. Instantly the lawyer stopped crying, in order to gag.
“There’s more where that came from,” Shad said.
Suddenly Mordecai’s secretary came through the door. It was a half-hearted charge. For a weapon Beverly had chosen a cheap gold-plated letter opener, which crumpled like foil against Shad’s massive rib cage. He calmly disarmed the woman, and directed her to fetch a glass of water for the boss.
Later, after Mordecai had regurgitated the scorpion and everyone had settled down, Beverly confirmed the lawyer’s version of what had happened to Shad’s evidentiary cockroach: the temp had scarfed it down.
“Mmmmmn,” Shad said, “I smell malpractice.” He arranged the other dead insects in military formation on the table.
Mordecai said, “Please. It was an accident.”
“That fucking roach was my retirement. Understand?”
“You want to retire a rich man, Mr. Shad, then listen to my offer.” Mordecai signaled for his secretary to leave the room. “Please pay attention,” he said to Shad.
Shad held a grasshopper and a Japanese beetle delicately in between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. He was making the dead bugs dance a little jig on the table. “Go ahead,” he told the lawyer. “I’m perfectly tuned in.”
Mordecai unveiled the color slide from Paul Guber’s bachelor party. “Take a look.”
“What is it?”
“Here. Hold it by the corner.”
Shad put the insects back in formation, and turned his scrutiny to the slide. He held it to the lamp, and squinted with one eye at the stamp-size image.
He said, “Well, lookie there.”
“Do you know where that photo was taken?”
“Sure. At the club.”
“And who’s in the picture?”
“Me and Erin and a couple asshole drunks.”
“Erin would be the stripper?”
Shad’s head turned slowly. “She would be a dancer. The best.”
His voice was murderous. Mordecai thought: Good Christ, now I’ve insulted the monster’s girlfriend. Can anything else possibly go wrong?
The lawyer hesitantly moved on: “The young man’s name is Paul Guber. He’s my client.”
“Then God help him.”
“The older man, the one swinging the wine bottle—do you recognize him?”
Shad glanced at the picture again. “Nope. And it’s a champagne bottle. Korbel, I would guess.”
“The man’s name is David Dilbeck. Do you follow politics, Mr. Shad?”
“Do I look like I follow politics?”
“Mr. Dilbeck is a United States congressman.”
Shad thought about that as he studied the slide once more. He said, “Man’s put himself in one helluva posture. I’m guessing you’re gonna sue his ass.”
“It may come to that,” Mordecai said. “However, I’m hoping the matter can be settled privately, in a reasonable atmosphere.”
“‘However’?” Shad disapproved of snooty verbiage. He pinched one of Mordecai’s plump cheeks and said: “I liked you better with the scorpion in your gullet.”
“Quit!” the lawyer cried out.
Shad released him. “So how do I fit in? And no more shrinks. I’ve had it with phonies.”
Mordecai rubbed the sting from his face. “You saw everything, Mr. Shad, the entire assault. When Dilbeck’s people learn I’ve got an eyewitness, they will—pardon the expression—shit a brick.”
“Tell me,” Shad said. “How much money can a lousy congressman have?”
“Trust me. The lousier they are, the more they have.” Mordecai eased himself out of Shad’s lunging range. “The thing to remember, always, is that we’re not after Dilbeck. The serious money is with the men who own his soul.”
Shad was toying with his dead insects again. “I should try this on a chessboard,” he remarked.
“Please,” said Mordecai. “Trust me. I know about Dilbeck—both of us were Mondale delegates back in ’84.”
Shad said, “I may just cry.”
“We’re talking millions of dollars!”
The man appeared to be serious. Shad postponed his decision to stomp the shit out of him.
“Millions,” Mordecai repeated, huskily. “The people who own David Dilbeck, the people who’d do anything to keep him in office—they’re some of the richest bastards in Florida. They’ve got money to burn.”
“In that case,” Shad said, “let’s burn some.”
12
Orly hired a new dancer whose stage name was Marvela. She was a tall strawberry blonde with a lovely figure, and she knew how to move. On her first night working the birdcage, she doubled Erin in tips.
Later, over a tub of vanilla Häagen-Dazs, Urbana Sprawl told Erin that it was about time she had some competition.
“An off night,” Erin muttered. She had danced poorly, with a smile so forced and insincere that only the drunkest customers wouldn’t have noticed. “My concentration’s shot,” she said.
“You wanna talk about it?”
“Mr. Peepers is dead.”
Urbana whispered, “Oh my Lord.”
“Possibly murdered.”
“Sweet Jesus.”
Until now, Erin had told no one the true reason for Sgt. Al García’s visit to the Eager Beaver. The other dancers had assumed that the topic was Erin’s ex-husband, in whom many police agencies had expressed interest.
Urbana Sprawl begged for the details of Jerry Killian’s death.
“It’s a long story,” Erin said, “and I think I’m in the middle.” She reached back and locked the dressing room door. “Apparently somebody drowned the little guy.”
“Because of you?”
“Indirectly.”
“Then you’d better hide, girl. Come stay with me and Roy.” Urbana’s boyfriend, Roy, was a mechanic for an outlaw motorcycle gang. He and Urbana specialized in unexpected house guests. Erin said thanks, anyway.
“I was you, I’d be on the first plane out.”
“Not without Angela. And first I need more money.” Her options were limited, and all were expensive.
Urbana suggested table dances and private parties. “You’re the only one who won’t.”
“It may come to that.”
“There’s other ways, too,” Urbana said, gravely. “I know you wouldn’t, but some girls do. It’s all according to what you need, and how bad.”
Erin patted her friend’s hand and told her not to worry. “I’ll rob Jiffy Marts before I’ll turn tricks. Urbana, would you tell Mr. Orly I’m knocking o
ff early tonight?”
Erin was too tired to scrub her makeup or take off the dancing clothes. Over the red teddy and G-string, she put on gray sweats and a baggy T-shirt. She tied her hair in a loose ponytail, folded the tip money in her purse and put her pumps in a Penney’s bag. She looked at the hollow-eyed face in the mirror and said, “What a hot number I am.”
“Anything I can do to help,” Urbana said, “you name it.”
“Break Marvela’s legs?”
“Go home now, honey. Get some sleep.”
“Sleep? What’s that?” Erin said goodbye and unlocked the dressing room door. Monique Sr. was in the dim hallway, struggling to repair a broken garter.
“Of all nights,” she said. “John Chancellor’s at table eleven.”
“Yeah?” Erin said. “I’m a Brokaw fan, myself.”
Erin went home and fixed herself a martini. She put Tom Petty full blast on the tape deck and took off her clothes. Lying on the bed, she contemplated familiar gaunt faces on the wall—posters of legendary rock stars, including a few who were still alive. The posters were a gift from one of Erin’s ardent customers, a concert promoter. He was so eager to impress her that he once forged Peter Frampton’s autograph on a compact disc. It was beyond pathetic.
Erin’s apartment was decorated minimally because it was a temporary stop. She refused to invest in anything that wasn’t plastic and portable and couldn’t be moved in one day by a woman laboring alone. Even the sound system, Erin’s only extravagance, broke down into four lightweight boxes.
Nothing connected her soul to the place, not even memories. The three men who’d been in the bedroom were as forgettable as the discount decor. One of them hadn’t gotten his pants off before Erin told him to get lost. She’d been watching “60 Minutes,” her favorite TV program, when the young visitor remarked that he didn’t like the show because “there was too much talking.” Erin ordered him to button his trousers and hit the bricks. Never again would she date a baseball player—at least, nothing below Triple A.
She bunched a pillow under her head. Acidly she thought: Quite a life I’ve made for myself!