Squeeze Me

by Carl Hiaasen

  “Glorious!”

  “And there’s this one dude on the payroll,” Spalding went on, “his only job is to disinfect and tune the President’s tanning bed.”

  “Eewww.”

  “Yeah, times ten.”

  “What about the First Lady?”

  “They say she’s nice, but super lonely,” Spalding said. “Supposedly she’s banging one of the agents who’s guarding her. The prevailing sentiment is, ‘You go, girl.’ ”

  “Keep a diary, please. By the way, this is the worst gin I’ve ever tasted.”

  “It’s a strip joint, Angie.”

  A tall raven-haired dancer approached the table. With a heavy Russian accent she said her name was Farrah Moans. She wore see-through platform heels and a satin thong exposing matching tattoos on each buttock. This time Angie laid a ten-dollar bill next to Keever Bracco’s photo.

  The dancer eyed it and asked, “Are you also police?”

  “Seriously?” Spalding rolled his eyes toward Angie. “Look how she’s dressed.”

  Farrah Moans plucked the money off the table and folded it into the V of her thong. “Police too ask me about this person. But the other one, his friend, he liked me. Had big dimple here.” She pointed.

  “The middle of his forehead?” Angie said.

  “Yes, the forehead.”

  “Was his name Uric?”

  The Russian held out her hand. Angie took a ten from Spalding and handed it to the dancer.

  “Uric, yes. Was him,” she said.

  “Last name?”

  Again Farrah Moans put out her hand.

  Angie frowned. “Come on, sister. We’re out of cash.”

  “I really like your top,” the dancer said, stroking one of the sleeves.

  Spalding laughed. “That’s a total burn, by the way.”

  “No. Top is fresh,” said Farrah Moans.

  Angie’s shirt was a short-sleeved khaki with a smudge of squirrel shit on the collar. The “Discreet Captures” logo was stitched in forest-green thread above the left breast pocket.

  “It’s too small for you,” she said to the dancer.

  “No. Is just right.”

  “Fine. You’re the one in show business.”

  Angie took off the shirt and handed it to the Russian, who lit up and said, “Last name of Uric is Burns. B-U-R-N-S. He wrote it on dollar bill for me. Also his phone number.”

  “Which you didn’t save.”

  “Why would I keep? One dollar for what?” the stripper mused. “Also he is not my type.”

  Angie self-consciously covered her chest. Farrah Moans inquired about the bandage on her left arm.

  “Animal bite,” Angie said, hoping the customers at the next table couldn’t hear her over the music.

  “You mean was a man? Why did he bite you?” the dancer asked.

  “It wasn’t a man. It was a marsupial. Did you give Uric’s name to the police detectives?”

  “I tell them I don’t know.”

  “Why did you hold back?”

  “Because when it’s for free, I don’t remember things so good.”

  “If either of these bozos come back, call me,” Angie said. “Next time I’ll bring you some swamp boots.” She handed one of her business cards to the Russian, who put it with all the dollar bills in the waistband of her thong.

  Spalding kept his eyes away from Angie’s cleavage by focusing on the dancer’s butt: “Sweetheart, are those Jiminy freaking Crickets?”

  “Yes!” Farrah Moans spun and bent over to show off her ink. “I love so much the Disney World!”

  Then she put on Angie’s shirt—the fit was snug, but it didn’t matter because she left the front unbuttoned. On clacking heels she marched to the stage, scissored herself to a brass-plated pole and began twirling.

  Nobody in the strip club even glanced at Angie in her T.J. Maxx bra as she and Spalding hurried out through a side door.

  * * *

  —

  As he did every Saturday morning, Uric Burns went to the farmers’ market and shoplifted organically grown produce. Blueberries were his fave. He gobbled them by the fistful on the drive to Lipid House, where he wheeled through the open gates and parked his van under the portico. He wasn’t worried when two square-jawed security guys approached and told him not to move.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Teabull,” Uric said.

  “Stay right where you are.”

  It was when Uric heard the sirens that he tensed up. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…

  But it wasn’t the cops coming to arrest him for ditching the old lady’s body.

  A line of late-model black SUVs, led by police on motorcycles, wheeled into the driveway. Uric wasn’t an attentive follower of current events, but as a criminal with loads of idle time he watched enough TV to recognize the long-legged hottie stepping from one of the Escalades:

  It was the First Lady of the United States. She wore wide movie-star shades, a clingy print dress and matching heels. Her hair was perfect.

  Uric tried to imagine this sleek gorgeous woman hopping into bed with a person as soft and mountainous as the President. Uric wasn’t seized by a feeling of disgust or even pity, but rather a forensic sort of curiosity about how the sexual act itself was choreographed. She would need to perch on top, obviously, because the missionary position would result in crushed organs and suffocation. Maintaining her balance in the absence of a saddling device would require the skills of an aerialist. Uric wondered if the Secret Service supplied a spotter—possibly the tall dark-skinned agent who was leading the First Lady’s entourage into the mansion.

  Once she was safely swept out of public reach, the other agents dematerialized and the commotion subsided. When Tripp Teabull walked out of the entrance, he glowered at Uric’s dirty van.

  “Move that piece of shit outta here!” he barked.

  Uric said, “Let’s us go for a ride.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “Okay. Be a douche.” Uric yanked the keys from the ignition. “Call a fuckin’ tow truck. I can wait.”

  Teabull got in the van, and soon they were southbound on A1A. Uric lighted a cigarette and rolled down his window. Teabull wouldn’t stop yammering. Where the hell are we going? I’ve got the tri-county Hep-C benefit tonight! What’s this all about? Where’s your dumbshit partner?

  “You owe me money,” Uric cut in, “for the snake job.”

  The caretaker seemed relieved. “So that’s what this is all about? Come on, man, the damn thing ended up in the middle of the road. That wasn’t our deal.”

  “Wait—you’re not gonna pay me?”

  “No, no, of course I’ll pay. All I’m sayin’ is…okay, forget it. Turn around and go back—I’ve got the cash in my office.”

  Uric tapped his cigarette ash on Teabull’s lap. “Check out all the poon on the beach. Too bad they don’t allow topless.”

  “The fee is eight thousand dollars,” said Teabull, “just like we agreed. Split it with your buddy however you want.”

  “But eight grand, see, that was just for jackin’ the snake. You conveniently forgot to tell me there was a dead fuckin’ body inside of it, which is a major add-on. Hey, look, we’re almost there…”

  Teabull stayed silent as the van passed the Par-3 golf course. Moments later Uric stopped on the shoulder of the road beside the billionaire Venezuelan’s future mansion. The construction crew had padlocked the chain-link gate; a shredded ribbon of yellow police tape fluttered from one of the fence poles.

  Uric shut off the ignition, grinned and said, “Scene of the crime, bro.”

  Teabull was on edge but also aggravated. Years of abusing minimum-wage staff had conditioned him to vent unsparingly. He said, “The only reason they found her was because you guys fucked up the concrete. It’s your
own goddamn fault!”

  Uric punched him in the face. “The bill doubled,” he said, “on account of the dead granny in the snake, plus all my extra manual labor. I hope you got sixteen grand in your office. Oh shit, dude, look at you.”

  He used a dirty towel to dab the blood from Teabull’s mouth and nose.

  The caretaker sniffled and said, “Chill out. I’ve got your damn money.”

  Uric waved the rag. “And I got your damn DNA. You better hope I don’t accidentally on purpose drop this bloody rag where they dug up the old lady. You want a tour of the property?”

  “No! Christ, no.”

  “Okay. Your loss.” Uric pulled his door shut. “Did I tell you I got a hotline number to the cops, with my own special code?”

  Teabull wiped his face with a sleeve. “Unbelievable. You, a police informant?”

  Uric slugged him again. “I’m not a motherfuckin’ informant, I’m a tipster. Also known as a ‘information broker.’ ”

  Teabull pinched the bridge of his nose and tilted his head upward. “Take me back to Lipid House. I’ve got to meet with the caterers.”

  “And pay me, don’t forget,” said Uric.

  “Right. And pay you.”

  * * *

  —

  Filomena Ricci was still hobbling days after the surgery, two liters of fat vacuumed from her chubby knees at a cost of $159. The once-in-a-lifetime bargain had been brought to her attention by an unsolicited email promising perfect results and a speedy recovery. The storefront clinic wasn’t far from Filomena’s apartment, so she drove there for a consultation with the surgeon, who—despite speaking not a word of English and wearing a black beret during the meeting—seemed otherwise professional and reassuring. Through a stroke of luck, his operating schedule happened to be wide open that afternoon, so Filomena agreed to undergo the liposuction then and there.

  The procedure had taken longer than expected, and the results were the opposite of flawless. Filomena’s kneecaps looked like rotting grapefruits. Everybody who saw them urged her to sue. On Instagram she posted grisly before-and-after photos, and within an hour she’d been contacted by a dozen law firms. One offered to send their top malpractice ace, and that’s who Filomena assumed was ringing her doorbell.

  The visitor was wearing a suit, but he wasn’t a lawyer. A badge on his belt identified him as a detective from the sheriff’s office. He glanced first at Filomena’s crutches and then at the fluid-stained compression sleeves on her legs. She was disappointed when he didn’t ask what had happened to her.

  “Are you Filomena Ricci?” he asked.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “You’re listed as the registered owner of a white 2014 Chevy Malibu SS.”

  Filomena chortled, “Praise God! You found it.”

  The car had been stolen from an alley behind the surgical clinic while she was getting her fat sucked.

  “Boo! Hey, Boo!” she shouted to her boyfriend. When there was no answer, she started thumping the floor with one of her crutches. “Boo, get your ass in here! Hurry up, they found Margie!”

  That was their nickname for the car—Margie the Malibu.

  The detective said, “It was at the bottom of a canal, Ms. Ricci.”

  Filomena stopped banging the crutch tip. “What’re you sayin’?”

  “Your vehicle was under twenty feet of water. It’s totaled.”

  “Fuck me!” Filomena exclaimed. She wouldn’t get a nickel from the insurance company; her policy had been canceled months earlier for nonpayment.

  From down the hall came a muffled: “What’s goin’ on, Filly? I’m on the can.”

  “Take your time, Boo,” Filomena called back, “and open the damn window.”

  The detective said the Malibu had been discovered by a fisherman whose boat anchor snagged on the front bumper. In Florida, canals are the favored dumping choice for auto thieves; a tow company specializing in such retrievals had hauled out Filomena’s precious Margie.

  “Take a look at this please,” the detective said. He showed her a picture of a scowling, narrow-eyed man in an orange jumpsuit.

  “Who’s this?” she asked. “Is he the asshole stole my Malibu?”

  “You don’t know him?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “His name’s Keever Bracco,” the detective said. “The diver who hooked the chains to your car found his body in the same area of the canal.”

  “You mean dead?”

  “Oh yes.”

  To Filomena it made sense. “So this shithead, first he hotwired Margie, then he accidentally drove his sorry dumb ass into the water and drowned. Ten bucks says he was textin’ one of his punk peeps and not watchin’ the road.”

  “That isn’t what happened. Mr. Bracco was strangled. Whoever did it sunk his body with barbells.”

  “Sweet Leaping Jesus!”

  “He’s a prime suspect in a murder on Palm Beach. The police all over the state have been hunting for him.”

  Filomena was flabbergasted. A murderer?

  The detective said, “Right now they’ve got nothing that connects Bracco to the theft of your car. It’s probably a coincidence his body ended up in the same canal. He’s a convicted felon, a dope dealer, and they make lots of enemies, Ms. Ricci. We’re just doing routine follow-up.”

  Relieved, Filomena caught her breath and said, “Look, I never heard that man’s name and never seen him before in my life. Never! Swear on my stepdaddy’s grave.”

  The detective seemed to believe her. He gave her the phone number for the impound lot, in case she wanted to sell the Malibu for scrap.

  Filomena sagged cheerlessly on her crutches. “Man, I just put in some brand-new Alpine speakers I bought on eBay. What if, like, I took a hair dryer and worked on ’em real slow at high heat?”

  The detective was genuinely sympathetic. “Alpines rock. That’s what I’ve got in my Mustang,” he said. “But they’re definitely not waterproof.”

  “Listen, okay? Do me a favor. You ever find the bastard that did this to my Margie—”

  “We’ll call you first thing, Ms. Ricci.”

  * * *

  —

  Later that afternoon, Paul Ryskamp and the other senior agents gathered in front of the flat-screen in the secure briefing room to watch Mastodon conduct an impromptu press conference on the 18th green of a Maryland golf course that bore his name, though it was owned half by a Swiss bank and half by a cross-dressing Russian oligarch.

  “Anyone see this coming?” Ryskamp asked.

  “Hell, no,” was the consensus reply.

  “So, who told him and why?”

  “It was Barney Wittlefield.”

  “That Dartmouth dipshit.”

  “No, he’s Princeton. His sister was friends with the dead woman.”

  “Small fucking world,” said Ryskamp.

  Up on the TV screen, Mastodon was wearing a vast beet-colored golf shirt that hung on his upper frame like an Orkin termite tent. His long-billed cap had been yanked down tight to keep his hairpiece moored to its Velcro moonbase during gusts of wind. Facing a hastily assembled battery of cameras and bobbing microphones, he somberly announced that on the previous fairway he’d been briefed by the attorney general about a serious matter.

  “As many of you know,” he said, “there was a horrible, horrible crime committed recently in Palm Beach, not far from the Winter White House. The victim was a fabulous woman, a dear close friend of mine, named Katherine Fitzsimmons. Fantastic people. Fantastic family.” Here he paused for a fake fond smile. “Those of us who knew Katherine best,” he added, “we called her Kikey Pew.”

  Ryskamp put his hands to his ears. “Did he really just say Kikey Pew?”

  “Not our problem,” cackled one of the other agents. “This is why his press secretar
y gets the big bucks. Shit, I’d rather piss off the Hell’s Angels than the Anti-Defamation League.”

  Live from his golf links, Mastodon rambled on: “But today I’ve got some really, really terrific news. One of the thugs involved in this sick crime has been found. His name is Keefer or Keever Bracco, A.K.A. Prince Palindrome. They say he was a notorious drug dealer with a long rap sheet. Bad guy. Very bad guy. The worst. My people at the Justice Department tell me he was executed by his own partner to silence him about the abduction and murder of Mrs. Fitzsimmons.”

  Please, somebody, shut him up, thought Ryskamp. The Palm Beach police must have given some version of the Bracco scenario to Barnette Wittlefield’s sister, who delivered it to her brother, who fed it to the President along with his predawn McMuffins.

  “Today I’m happy to report,” Mastodon rumbled on, “that the magnificent people of Palm Beach are safe again. We now have the second murder suspect in custody. His name is Diego—we’ll get you the last name later, but the first name is definitely, one-thousand-percent Diego. Tragically, this predator entered our country illegally on the same night Mrs. Fitzsimmons disappeared, and not far from where she was last seen alive. He was captured later in a lightning sweep by our amazing border security forces. That’s when they found a jewel belonging to Kikey Pew in his possession, an incredibly rare gem. They tell me the island people call it a conch pearl.”

  The President rhymed conch with “haunch.”

  “It’s ‘conk,’ ” Ryskamp said under his breath, but no harm done—the “island people” would get a laugh out of it.

  The agent was also relieved to have heard nothing in Mastodon’s announcement that threatened to complicate his own job. Even with the possible involvement of an illegal migrant, the murder of Katherine Fitzsimmons was strictly a local homicide case. The FBI or ICE might offer assistance, but there was no angle that would require the expertise of the Secret Service…

  Until the President cocked his head, flared his nostrils, puffed his scrotal cheeks and declared:

  “Unfortunately, the tragic death of Mrs. Fitzsimmons appears to be much more sinister than just the usual kidnapping and robbery. I’ve received some very disturbing information about Señor Diego, a very malo hombre who I’m told is from Honduras, a country infested with violent street gangs. But, folks, what happened in Palm Beach wasn’t an ordinary street crime. It seems Diego and his accomplice, the late Mr. Broccoli, might have targeted Mrs. Fitzsimmons not because she was rich, elderly and slow, but because she was a dear friend of mine and very active in a women’s political group that has proudly and loudly supported this presidency—especially my crusade to secure America’s borders. In other words, it’s very possible—and I say possible, because we’re not ready to release all the details—but let’s call it an extremely high probability that the brutal murder of Kikey Pew Fitzsimmons was an act of political terrorism aimed at me and my administration.”