by Carl Hiaasen
Later he pinballed from table to table, thanking the paying guests for their generosity. Normally Dilbeck adored being the center of attention, but tonight the limelight was excruciating; the vision in his left eye was blurry, and both ears pounded with an invisible orchestra of steel drums. He sustained himself by silently repeating Erb’s mantra: each handshake is worth one thousand dollars.
At a far table, the congressman was greeted by a rotund fellow with flushed cheeks and jumpy rodent eyes. The man was dressed for a funeral. He said he was a lawyer, and introduced a stern female companion as his cousin. Dilbeck noticed a slight family resemblance.
“Remember me?” said the lawyer.
“Well, you certainly look familiar,” Dilbeck lied.
“San Francisco. The Mondale Express.”
“Of course, of course.” Dilbeck didn’t have the faintest recollection; he’d spent much of the convention on a bar stool at Carol Doda’s topless revue. “I saw Fritz about three weeks ago,” Dilbeck improvised. “He looks absolutely fantastic.”
The lawyer invited the congressman to sit for a few minutes, but Dilbeck said no thanks, they’ve got me on a tight schedule. That’s when the lawyer handed him the photograph.
“For your album,” he said.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” said the congressman.
Dilbeck cupped his bad eye and gazed at the color print of his drunken self, swinging a bottle at a stranger’s head. Dilbeck had no distinct memory of the raunchy scene, except for the woman on the stage. It was the dancer in his dream—by God, she was real! The congressman experienced a tingle that was grossly inappropriate for the moment.
The lawyer said, “We had the photo enlarged from a slide, which I’m keeping in a very safe place.” He paused, running a finger along his upper lip. “If I may say so, sir, you look better without the mustache.”
Dilbeck smiled anemically. Erb Crandall, craning over the congressman’s shoulder, was comforted not to see his own likeness in the background of the photograph. He wondered, though, if there were other pictures in sequence—pictures of him pointing the gun, for example. Jesus, what a lousy night that was.
“It’s peculiar,” Dilbeck said, “how I don’t remember this.”
“But it’s you, isn’t it?” The lawyer gloated.
Crandall curtly demanded to see identification. Mordecai handed him a business card and said, “I’m sure you’re curious about Joyce’s interest. The fellow being assaulted is her betrothed.”
Crandall put his lips to Dilbeck’s ear. “Don’t say another word.”
“It’s all right, Erb. I honestly don’t remember.”
The lawyer went on: “You’re probably wondering about the young man’s condition. Unfortunately, the news is not good. He suffered grievous injuries in this attack.”
Dilbeck slumped. “What can I say? I’m terribly sorry.”
“Shut up,” Crandall hissed.
Joyce spoke up. “Sorry is fine and dandy, but my Paul will never be the same.”
“Severe head trauma,” the lawyer added. “That’s a champagne bottle you’ve got there. Korbel, if I’m not mistaken.”
The congressman gave the photograph to Crandall and said, “You were there, Erb. What the hell happened?”
From the corner of his eye, Crandall spotted a ragged line of well-wishers, including several prominent Rojos, moving across the ballroom toward David Lane Dilbeck. Crandall deftly concealed the dangerous photo in his tuxedo jacket, and told Mordecai to meet him upstairs in the hospitality suite.
The lawyer said, “Good, we were hoping for some privacy.”
“Fifteen minutes,” Crandall said. Then he rushed off to find Malcolm J. Moldowsky.
Strength fading, David Dilbeck managed to finish his rounds, feigning recognition, chuckling at lame jokes, bowing at banal flattery … and thinking only of the sleek dancer whose honor he’d so nobly defended that night at the Eager Beaver. Did she think of him, too?
Joyce paced the lobby while Mordecai met Moldowsky alone, in the hospitality suite. There were no formalities. The lawyer stated his demands; Moldowsky took a few notes. The photograph, creased by Crandall’s tuxedo, lay on the coffee table between them.
“Extortion,” Moldy said, thoughtfully.
“In my game, it’s called negotiating a settlement. Do you suppose I’m joking about filing a civil action? The picture speaks for itself, Mr. Moldowsky.”
“I disapprove of shakedowns.”
Mordecai shrugged. “Other attorneys would’ve sued first, then offered to settle. Of course a lawsuit instantly puts the matter in the public eye. Considering Mr. Dilbeck’s position, I assumed he wished to avoid the publicity.”
“Thanks for being so damn considerate.” Moldowsky got up and fixed himself a drink. His eyes flickered toward the incriminating photo of The Honorable David Lane Dilbeck—homicidal, out-of-control, crazed by lust. It would make quite a splash on the front page of the newspapers.
The lawyer said, “I’ll understand if you need some time. It must be quite a shock.”
“Not really,” Moldy said. “The man’s name is Paul Jonathan Guber. He spent five days at Broward General with cuts, bruises and a mild concussion. He’s doing just fine now, but I guess that’s beside the point. Right?”
Mordecai was stunned into a momentary silence. After a few seconds, he said, “Am I to assume that you called the hospital out of concern for my client’s health?”
Malcolm Moldowsky tapped his polished fingernails on the side of his glass. “We look out for the congressman,” he said. Erb Crandall had been keeping tabs on young Mr. Guber since the night of the assault.
“I’m impressed,” said Mordecai. “However, your interest in my client’s medical condition could be perceived as an acknowledgment of responsibility. A jury might be curious to know why Mr. Dilbeck never voluntarily came forward. So might the State Attorney.”
Moldy was amused. “Who do you think you’re dealing with?”
“That’s what I came to find out. I was hoping for a civilized discussion.” Mordecai rose and smoothed the wrinkles from his suit. “I’ll be at the courthouse first thing in the morning. Prepare the congressman for the worst.”
Moldowsky said, “Sit down, hotshot.”
“No, sir. I’ve said my piece.”
“Three million is too high.”
“Really?” Now it was Mordecai’s turn to be amused. “Do you know what Sweetheart Sugar grossed last year?”
Moldy made a sucking noise through his front teeth. In slow motion he placed his glass on the table. The lawyer remained smug. He wished that Joyce could see him in action, cutting the nuts off the big boys.
Moldowsky said, “You know a man named Jerry Killian?”
The lawyer said he’d never heard of him. Moldy could tell he was being truthful. Leave it to Dilbeck to get blackmailed twice for the same fuckup—three times, if you counted the mystery woman who phoned his Washington office.
“I need to know who else is involved.”
Mordecai said, “My clients are Joyce and Paul.” He didn’t mention that Paul Guber, having disassociated himself from the scheme, would never be told about the money. Nor did Mordecai reveal that a modest slice of the settlement would be shared with a violent bouncer named Shad.
“The check,” the lawyer said, “should be made out to my firm’s trust account.”
“A check?” Malcolm Moldowsky laughed harshly.
“Surely you don’t intend to pay in cash.”
“No. Wire transfer.”
“From overseas?”
“Nassau,” Moldy said. “Possibly the Caymans. Is that a problem?”
“Not as long as it’s U.S. dollars.” The lawyer fancied himself the portrait of slick.
Moldowsky said, “Three million won’t fly. Try two-point-five.”
“You’re playing games, Mr. Moldowsky. We both know the price of sugar, and how it stays so high.”
“Don’t push y
our luck, hotshot. According to my information, Paul Guber is completely recovered.”
“Never know about the human brain,” Mordecai mused. “One day the man could be fine. The next day it’s intensive care.”
“Oh, you’re a pistol.”
“The prospect of a trial would be most stressful for the young man and his bride-to-be. I’d recommend some long-term counseling.”
Moldy flicked a hand in the air. “Cut the bullshit. I’ll talk to some people and get back with you.”
“Of course.”
“In the meantime, have a chat with Joyce. Explain the importance of confidentiality.”
“Don’t worry,” Mordecai said, “she’s a smart lady.”
And soon to be a rich one.
The Rojos’ boat was called the Sweetheart Deal. It was ninety feet long, made in the Netherlands. All three staterooms had wet bars and Dolby sound.
The yacht was docked at Turnberry Isle, on the Intracoastal Waterway. By the time Moldowsky arrived, it was almost two in the morning. The elder Rojos, Joaquin and Willie, offered a cup of Cuban coffee to their guest. Moldy didn’t need it; he was wide awake. Two young women were taking a bubble bath in the jacuzzi. Christopher was passed out on the carpet, next to a spotted ocelet in an emerald-studded collar. The wild cat groomed its paws and rumbled.
The Rojos led Moldowsky upstairs to a small sitting room on the captain’s deck. Willie asked about Erb Crandall.
“I didn’t invite him,” Moldy said, “for his own protection.”
“Tell us the problem, Malcolm.”
He kept it simple: The congressman had gotten himself into an unsavory situation. A compromising photograph had been taken. Now a lawyer had come forward, demanding three million dollars.
The Rojos were deeply concerned, and conferred quietly in Spanish. Moldowsky noticed that the brothers wore matching robes with the name of the boat stitched over the left breast. One of Joaquin’s earlobes was white with dried soap bubbles.
Moldy said, “The options are limited.”
“Three million dollars,” said Willie, “is not possible.”
“I’m sure he’ll settle for two.”
Joaquin Rojo whispered a curse. The timing of the lawsuit threat couldn’t be worse—Dilbeck should hustle the sugar legislation out of committee immediately, so that the full House of Representatives could vote on it before the November election.
Impossible, Moldowsky said. “Those jerks couldn’t pass a kidney stone right now. Everybody’s home campaigning.” Besides, he added, the Speaker didn’t want the bill on the floor so soon—too controversial. Ralph Nader had gone on “Nightline,” making a stink about subsidies for Big Agriculture. The tobacco and rice lobbies panicked, which caused their stooges in Congress to do the same. A House vote now would be dicey; the smart thing to do was to wait. Which meant the Rojos were forced to rely on David Dilbeck for several more months—and they needed him squeaky clean.
Willie asked, “How bad is the photograph?”
“Fatal,” said Moldy.
“Mierda. Let’s pay the goddamn money.”
“No!” Joaquin said. “I will not be blackmailed.”
“Do we have a choice?” Willie turned to Moldowsky. “Well, Malcolm?”
Without mentioning Jerry Killian by name, Moldy confided that a similar problem had arisen a few weeks earlier. “I handled it myself. But this one is more complicated.”
“Because of the photograph?”
“And the fact it’s a lawyer.”
Willie Rojo nodded. “That’s what worries me, too. Let’s just pay the bastard and forget it.”
His brother rose, shaking a pale fist. “No, Wilberto. You want to pay, do it with your own children’s inheritance. I’m out!”
Spanish erupted again, and this time the brothers’ voices escalated in argument. Moldowsky picked up a word here and there. Finally, Joaquin Rojo sat down. “Malcolm,” he said, “how much do you know about cane farming?”
Moldowsky shrugged and said he didn’t know much.
“We plant in muck,” Joaquin said. “Mostly sawgrass muck, sometimes custard apple. They call it black gold because it produces such rich sugar. A farmer might get ten good seasons out of a field, then the tonnage starts to drop. Why? Because with each crop, the layer of muck shrinks.” He dramatized with a thumb and forefinger. “Eventually the soil isn’t deep enough for cane, and the land becomes useless. Underneath is solid limestone.”
Willie said, “When the muck is gone, Malcolm, it’s gone forever. Our people are telling us five, maybe six more seasons.”
“Then what?”
Joaquin turned up his hands. “Rock mining. Condominiums. Golf resorts. That’s not important right now.”
“Later, yes,” said his brother. “But for now, our business is sugar cane. We need these last few years to be good ones.”
“A legacy,” Moldowsky agreed.
“Please make Mr. Dilbeck’s problem go away.”
“I assume you’re not paying off the lawyer.”
“My brother and I have decided against it.”
The emerald-collared ocelet trotted up the steps and crouched at Willie Rojo’s slippered feet. The old man dug into the folds of his monogrammed robe and produced a gooey chicken drumstick. The brothers watched fondly as the animal devoured the piece, bone and all. The crunching bothered Malcolm J. Moldowsky, who was not much of a cat person.
Joaquin yawned and announced it was time for bed. “Call us when it’s done,” he told Moldowsky.
“This’ll still be expensive.”
Willie Rojo giggled as he let the ocelet lick chicken grease off his fingers. “How expensive?” he asked. “Not three million dollars, I’m sure.”
“Not even close,” Moldy said, “but there’s a certain risk.”
“Not to us, I hope.”
“No, gentlemen. Not to you.”
* * *
Darreil Grant sold the wheelchairs for $3,200 cash and drove straight from St. Augustine to Daytona Beach. There he purchased an assortment of colorful pills, and picked up two prostitutes on the boardwalk. Later, when they thought he was asleep, the hookers let their pimp enter Darrell’s motel room and pick through his belongings. Darrell waited a suitable interval, then slipped his hand under the pillow where he kept the dagger. With a ghoulish screech, he sprung from the bed and stabbed the pimp in the fleshy part of a thigh. While the man wriggled on the floor, the hookers straddled him and frantically tried to stanch the bleeding. Darrell Grant calmly yanked the sheet from the bed and sliced it into long strips. Then he tied up the thrashing pimp and the two hookers, and stuffed dirty socks in their mouths. The women didn’t struggle, as they had gotten a close-up glimpse of Darrell Grant’s microdot pupils.
As he worked on the pimp, Darrell hummed a tune from The Jungle Book, which Angela had on video cassette. Gaily, he lathered the man’s curly black hair and shaved him bald. Then he took the dagger and cut a perfect capital G on the scalp. The pimp moaned and grunted into the filthy gag. Blood trickled in twin rivulets down both sides of his head. The women watched silently, fearing they were next.
Darrell Grant said: “Now I’m going to teach you people a lesson.” He got his keys and ran to the van. Two minutes later he returned, carrying an electric staple gun that he’d stolen from a construction site in Boca Raton. At the sight of the stapler, one of the hookers began to sob. Darrell Grant walked over to the pimp and untied one of his arms.
Still panting, he said, “Were you going to rob me?”
The pimp shook his head violently.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Darrell sang.
He plugged the staple gun into a wall outlet, and said, “Next time you want money, ask polite.” He grabbed the pimp’s hand and stapled a one-dollar bill to the palm. He held the trigger down a long time—ping ping ping—until the staple gun was empty. The pimp’s eyelids fluttered and he lolled unconscious. The women shivered with fright.
Suddenly Darrell Grant felt spent. He stretched on the bed and dialed Rita’s house. She growled at him for phoning so late, three-goddamn-thirty in the morning!
Her brother apologized and said, “Listen, I might take a few extra days up here. That OK?”
“Suit yourself. Erin’s coming tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Visitation day,” Rita said.
“No!”
“That’s what she told us.”
“Jesus, Rita, did you tell her Angie was there? How the hell did she know?”
“I can’t help it your daughter knows how to use the phone. And she climbs, too, like a little monkey.”
“Angie called her?” Darrell Grant pounded a fist on the bare mattress. “Goddamn, I can’t believe you let this happen.” He was too overmedicated to concentrate on two crisis situations simultaneously. He didn’t notice that one of the tied-up hookers had managed to twist an arm free, and was working covertly on the other knots.
Darrell choked the telephone receiver and cried: “Don’t let that cunt in the house, you understand?”
“It’s visitation day,” Rita repeated.
“It ain’t fucking visitation day!”
“Then you come back and deal with it. I got wolves to train.”
“Lord Christ.”
“Another thing, it was on the news—what’s the judge that got your divorce?”
Darrell Grant told her the name.
“Yep, Alberto said it was him. He’s dead, Darrell.”
“Now hold up—”
“It was on the TV,” Rita said. “He died last night at a nudie joint.”
Darrell Grant rested his cheek on the foul-smelling mattress. It was definitely time for more pills.
On the other end of the line, Rita was telling the story. “His family said he went there to preach gospel at the naked girls. You believe that shit? They found a Bible on his lap—it was all on the television.”
“I’ll be home by morning,” Darrell Grant said thickly.