by Carl Hiaasen
“You deserve it,” Shad said, thinking how much he would miss her.
David Lane Dilbeck, believing himself a master of supple oratory, assumed that he could talk his way out of the trouble. To bolster his credibility, he audaciously scoffed at the suggestion that he call a lawyer. So the FBI agents perched him on the bumper of the car and gathered in a tribal semi-circle to listen. Cleary allowed Al García to join them.
The detective was tickled by the spectacle—the moon, the crickets, the rustling cane fields. “All we need is a campfire,” he whispered to Cleary, “and some marshmallows.”
Dilbeck told quite a story. The agents took notes by penlight. García pitied their secretaries.
When the congressman was finished, Cleary said: “Let’s get this straight. You are the victim here, not the perpetrator.”
“Absolutely, yes, abducted at gunpoint.”
“Hmmm,” Cleary said. Al García thought the moment called for a stronger response, something along the lines of hooting and derision.
David Dilbeck said, “She’s been after me for weeks.”
“So you’re alone on the yacht,” said Cleary, “working on a campaign speech, when all of a sudden this crazed woman breaks in and attempts to seduce you?”
“Forcefully,” Dilbeck added, “and when I rebuffed her, she became enraged.”
“And for this attempted seduction she wore a nine-dollar cotton bra from Kmart?”
“No, she wore red. Lace cups. P-p-paisley G-string! Later she changed all into white; when we were in the car.”
Agent Cleary realigned his glasses. “So we’re to believe that Ms. Grant kidnapped you for sexual purposes. Is that a fair summary?
“She was infatuated,” said the congressman. “Certainly you’ve heard of such sad cases.”
García piped in: “Politicians have groupies, too? I thought it was just rock stars and homicide cops.”
Cleary, keeping order: “Mr. Dilbeck, explain the injury to your chest.”
“She bit me,” he said, “like a wild animal!”
The agent asked Dilbeck who might verify that he was being stalked by a nude dancer. “One person,” he replied. “His name is Malcolm J. Moldowsky. He’ll confirm every detail.”
“Unlikely,” said García.
“What do you mean?” the congressman bleated.
García turned to Cleary. “May I tell him? Please?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“Tell me what?” Dilbeck demanded.
“Your friend Malcolm,” said the detective, “he sleeps with the fishies.”
The congressman slumped sideways off the bumper. The agents dutifully rushed forward to pick him up out of the dirt.
Cleary sighed, frowning at Al García. “Was that really necessary?”
* * *
The two men sat alone in the Caprice. García balanced a bottle of beer on one knee. He jangled the gold bracelet in the congressman’s face.
“You lose this?”
Dilbeck turned away coldly. He said, “I’ve changed my mind about contacting a lawyer.”
“Too late.” García popped his gum. It didn’t taste too bad with Beck’s dark. He coiled the bracelet in the palm of his hand. “You’re cooked,” he told Dilbeck.
“Now listen—”
“Just shut up,” suggested the detective, “and try to comprehend what’s happened here. The FBI gets an anonymous call about a kidnapping in progress. The alleged suspect is a U.S. congressman. The alleged victim is a former employee of the Bureau. You with me?”
“Erin worked for them?”
“Ain’t it a hoot. Anyhow, the agents arrive to find the suspect—that’s you—stripped to his skivvies and armed with a machete. You’re chasing the alleged victim across farmland belonging to Joaquin and Wilberto Rojo. Subsequent investigation will reveal that the weapon used in the assault also belongs to this prominent and influential family. Congressman, I want you to imagine all this on the front page of the Miami Herald.”
Dilbeck rocked sideways, tugging absently on his lower lip. Al García wondered if he was lapsing into autism.
“Now if I’m you,” the detective said, “I’m trying to guess how my version of the story is going to play with the Rojos and also the voting public—namely, that I was kidnapped by a nympho stripper. Remember there’s no gun, no evidence, not a single witness to back you up. Even your driver says the lady is telling the truth.”
“Impossible,” Dilbeck said, thickly. “He speaks no English.”
García smiled. “Your driver is a modest guy. He’s got a degree in hotel management from FIU. Didn’t he tell you?”
The congressman stopped rocking. He wrapped both arms around his head, as if bracing for incoming mortars. “There was another man on the yacht,” he said, a dry rasp. “Durrell something.”
“You mean Mr. Darrell Grant, currently a fugitive on several violent felonies.” García spoke from behind a fat purple bubble. “I were you, I wouldn’t count on a junkie for my alibi.”
“But what about this!” David Dilbeck slapped at his bandaged chest. “I’ve been viciously attacked—any damn fool can see.” He clawed at the tape and gauze until the bloody crater was exposed. “Look!” he said. “My goddamn nipple is gone! I mean gone.”
Al García said, “I hate to be negative, chico, but that’s your basic defensive bite wound. Man’s got a woman pinned, what else can she do?”
The congressman gathered up the mangled bandage and, half-wittedly, attempted to replace it.
“Prosecutors love bite wounds,” García elaborated. “One time we had a victim chomp some guy’s pecker half off. That’s how we caught him, too—turned up in the E.R. at Jackson, said it was a freak gardening accident. Anyhow, we got forensics to match the punctures in the guy’s schlong with the bite pattern of the victim’s teeth. The jury was out maybe thirty seconds.”
Bereft, Dilbeck stared at his mutilation as if branded. “What will happen now? The campaign and all.”
García said, “It was up to me, I’d throw your fat ass in jail. Lucky for you, it ain’t.” He took the empty beer bottle and slid from the car. Erin Grant got in. She crossed her legs and adjusted Agent Cleary’s suit jacket to make sure her breasts weren’t showing; she wanted Dilbeck undistracted.
“David,” she said, “what a mess you’re in.”
The congressman pulled back like a scalded snail, huddling against the opposite door. His voice cracked with reproach: “You even called me ‘sweetie.’”
“Maybe I call everyone ‘sweetie.’”
He shouted: “I don’t love you anymore!”
“Oh yes you do.”
After a few moments of silence, Dilbeck offered a squirmy apology for his coarse behavior. He inquired whether Erin intended to press charges.
“That’s Plan B,” she said.
“And Plan A?”
“You go home tonight,” she told him, “and have yourself a heart attack.”
The congressman sneered. “That’s not the slightest bit funny.”
“A mild one,” Erin proposed, “requiring weeks of bed rest, bland dieting and seclusion.”
“In other words, tank the election.”
“Davey, I’m trying to cut you a break. Now if you’d prefer Plan B, that’s fine. Have you ever been on ‘Hard Copy’?”
The last of Dilbeck’s hope drained away. “A heart attack, for God’s sake. Is there more?”
“Sweetie, of course there’s more.” Erin reached up and turned the congressman’s cowboy hat, so it wasn’t backward on his head.
Breakfast, predawn. A truckstop on old Route 441, jammed with semis, dump trucks, dairy tankers, pickups, flatbeds hauling farm equipment. The place smelled like a diesel fart.
Shad, Donna García and her detective husband sat three abreast in the front of the unmarked Caprice. Donna nursed a black coffee, Shad inhaled his seventh glazed donut and Al García attacked spicy pork sausages with the hope of scouring multipl
e layers of grape, beer and stale cigar from his palate.
“Disney World,” the detective mused, munching steadfastly.
“I think it’s sweet,” said his wife, “though I’m not sure about the driver.”
Shad said don’t worry, the driver’s cool.
Pierre was gassing up the limousine at the high-test pump. He felt the weight of the gold bracelet in the left pocket of his trousers; a gift for your wife, the cop had said. Very strange, Pierre thought. The whole evening.
Angela was curled asleep in the jump seat. Erin had changed into her jeans, T-shirt and sandals; her hair was tied in a pony-tail. She stood at the door of the limo and chatted with Cleary, the FBI man, finishing his notes. He looked haggard, rumpled, eager to leave. It pleased García to see another lawman labor in that familiar hollow-eyed condition, particularly a Feeb.
Donna asked, “Where are the others?”
“They escorted the congressman home,” her husband said. “He wasn’t feeling so great.”
Shad interrupted his donutfest to complain that Dilbeck was getting off easy. “I vote for jail,” he said, “or a bullet in the brain. That’s what the sonofabitch deserves.”
García disagreed good-naturedly. “For politicians, some fates are worse than death. Erin came up with a beaut, no?”
Donna said that Angela was excited about the Disney World trip. “Her favorite ride is the teacups. She says it’s fun to get dizzy.” Donna paused. “On the way here, she asked about her father.”
García said that Darrell Grant remained at large in the cane. “He’ll come out when they burn the fields. Him and the rest of the critters.”
Shad, his cheeks stuffed bulbously: “Any luck, he’ll sleep through the goddamn fire.”
Donna told him to stop, don’t take another bite. She lifted a half-crescent of donut from his hand. “This is so gross,” she said. “A darn bug!”
Shad snatched it away, flipped on the dome light and examined the find. His hopeful expression faded.
“It’s awful damn small,” he observed, doubtfully. He extracted the culprit from a dry crumb of donut—a centipede with a shiny, cocoa-colored carapace. It drew into a protective ball at Shad’s touch.
“Long shot,” García remarked. “You’ll need a jury of total suckers.”
“Yeah?” Shad placed the bug on the tip of his pinkie and held it near the light bulb.
“It was me,” said García, “I’d wait for another jumbo cockroach.”
Donna, annoyed: “What in the world are you talking about?”
“Dreams,” said Shad. “Nothing important.” He flicked the centipede out the window and inserted the remainder of the donut in his glaze-crusted lips.
Agent Cleary had trundled his notes to a pay phone, where he was deeply absorbed in official conversation. Pierre backed the Cadillac away from the gas pumps. Erin Grant stuck her head out the window and gave a high-spirited wave. Shad and Donna waved back; Al García pantomimed operatic applause.
“Great smile,” he said, as the limo drove away.
“She looks sixteen,” said Shad, “I swear.”
García eased the Caprice up to the gas pumps to top off the tank before the long drive home. He had one leg out the door when the car shuddered violently. He heard the tinkle of tail-lights breaking, and said, “Aw, shit.”
A tractor-trailer had crunched the rear of the unmarked police car. The driver stood sheepishly over García’s crimped bumper. Damage to the Caprice was minor, but the detective was not consoled: another lengthy accident report would be required, in triplicate. Witnesses interviewed. Tedious diagrams sketched. Polaroids snapped for the insurance company and Risk Management. Hours of useless department bullshit.
“Congratulations,” he told the trucker. “You just hit a cop.”
“Sorry.” The man was a wiry redhead with twitchy Dexedrine eyes. “I never saw you guys.”
“That was my guess, too,” García said. He popped the trunk of the Caprice to search for the proper goddamn forms. Donna and Shad got out to see what had happened.
After circling the rig, Shad said, “Hey, Al. Guess what.”
“What?” García was bent over, rummaging fiercely.
“My neck hurts,” said Shad.
Pad in hand, García slammed the trunk lid. He said, “You don’t have a fucking neck.”
The bouncer gave a crafty wink, nodded slightly toward the trailer. “No kidding, man, I’m in serious pain.”
Donna stood on tiptoes to scout the injury. “Show me where it hurts.”
“Everywhere,” Shad said, with a theatrical grimace.
Gingerly Donna rubbed the taut slopes between his skull and shoulders. She said, “Come back to the car. You’d better sit down.”
“Yeah,” Shad agreed, “Im pretty damn traumatized.”
The worried truck driver excused himself, creeping off to improve his blood readings with black coffee. Al García walked back to the tractor-rig for a close look. Soon Donna heard him laughing, although she couldn’t imagine why; hearty laughter that boomed raw and carefree. Other truckers began to stare, irritated by the disruption of their early-morning routine. García sounded daffy and stoned.
Donna found him holding the trailer, his fingers hooked in the steel mesh. He was shaking hysterically. The bin was full of sugar cane. A blue-and-white sign bolted to the side said: ROJO FARMS.
Donna said, “Now I get it.”
“Well, go ahead,” said her husband, wheezing. “Call Mr. Shad an ambulance.”
“Really, Al.”
“Sweet justice,” the detective said. He wiped his eyes, tried to compose himself, act like a grown-up. Then he felt the laughter rising again like a grand tide. It was one fine moment.
Epilogue
Three weeks before the election, DAVID LANE DILBECK was reported to have suffered a minor heart attack while reading in bed. Although missing the remainder of the campaign, he pulled fifty-two percent of the vote and easily won reelection to the House of Representatives. The following day, he stunned political supporters by resigning his seat, citing chronic health problems. The congressman’s chiropractor, cardiologist and urologist issued an unusual joint statement endorsing his decision to retire.
Dilbeck’s opponent, ELOY FLICKMAN, gave up politics and became a right-wing radio commentator in South Florida. Within months he was leading the daytime Arbitrons, touting himself as “the weight-watcher’s Rush Limbaugh.” One day after signing a contract with the Liberty Radio Network, Flick-man was accidentally killed while picketing an abortion clinic during a live remote broadcast. The driver of the death car lost control when one of her seven children got his sneakers tangled in the steering wheel.
In January, the agricultural committee formerly chaired by Congressman Dilbeck approved a bill renewing multimillion-dollar subsidies for U.S. sugar growers. The measure passed the House 271-150 after a brief floor debate. Speaking eloquently in its favor was REP. BO TOOLEY, the Republican from northern Alabama, who had never before sailed on a yacht as long or luxurious as the Sweetheart Deal, and was delighted that its shortwave radio picked up all his favorite Bible stations.
Shortly after its mysterious rat infestation, the FLESH FARM was shut down for multiple health-code violations. Two weeks later, the building burned to the ground. The LING brothers claimed that the blaze started when a dancer’s trained snake became entwined in the electric wiring. Indicted later for insurance fraud, the Lings fled to western Canada and opened a chain of massage parlors with a hockey motif.
The remains of DARRELL GRANT were identified from a single fingertip. Three days later, the SWEETHEART SUGAR CORPORATION discreetly notified wholesalers that it was recalling all granulated sugar milled between October 6th and October 9th, due to “possible rodent contamination during processing.”
After interviewing PAUL GUBER and other clients, the Florida Bar issued a harsh public reprimand of ATTORNEY JONATHAN PETER MORDECAI for “gross ethical misconduct.” Th
e effect of the discipline was minimal, since Mordecai was dead and no longer practicing law. Paul Guber quit his brokerage firm and entered rabbinical college in Chicago. He never spoke of his brief engagement to the late JOYCE MIZNER, or of his ill-fated bachelor party at the EAGER BEAVER lounge.
ERB CRANDALL did not return to Florida. Instead he settled in Atlantic City, accepting a job as the top political aide to a popular but recklessly overextended city councilman. The following summer, after collecting a large cash bribe on behalf of his boss, Crandall was accosted by three muggers demanding the paper bag he was carrying. His dead body—the shredded sack clutched loyally in one fist—was found by German tourists beneath the legendary boardwalk. The city council promptly named a street in Crandall’s memory.
The group of orthopedic surgeons who owned the TICKLED PINK sold the nightclub to a group of dentists, who chose a saucy new name (Bare Essentials II) and bold new management (Johnny “Three Toes” Spladiano). Mr. Spladiano’s first three business decisions were to fire ORLY, add valet parking and enlarge the wrestling pit. Considering himself more fortunate than his predecessor, Orly closed out a modest IRA account and moved to Pensacola, where he and his wife opened a topless oyster bar called Eat Me Raw.
URBANA SPRAWL continued to dance at Bare Essentials II until the day Mr. Spladiano replaced creamed corn with sardines in the wrestling arena. She is now pre-med at Emory University in Atlanta. SABRINA left dancing and worked briefly in adult films before landing the role of Lucette, the perky Parisian spokes-model for Thigh Diver exercise equipment. The two Moniques also retired from nude dancing, each marrying one of her customers. MONIQUE JR., whose real name was Loretta Brickman, wed a seventy-four-year-old wholesale diamond broker who had outlived three previous wives. MONIQUE SR., whose actual name was Frances Cabrera, married a middle-aged pottery instructor who was, in her adoring eyes, a dead ringer for Keith Richards.
The man known as SHAD, whose real name was Gerard L. Shaddick, sued Rojo Farms, Rojo Trucking and the Sweetheart Sugar Corporation for injuries allegedly sustained when the loaded cane trailer rear-ended Sgt. Al García’s police car. In the lawsuit, Shad complained of neck pain, migraines, blurred vision, vertigo, sexual dysfunction and chronic anxiety. The case was settled out of court for $2.3 million dollars. Shortly afterward, Shad purchased a split-level condominium in Telluride, Colorado, and became engaged to his physical therapist, a recent emigrant from Norway.