Squeeze Me

by Carl Hiaasen

  Once the Twitter presentation was finished, the gathering dissolved into a nasal cacophony of overlapping conversations that from outside the Poisonwood Room must have sounded like crows on a road kill. An immodestly beaming Fay Alex was interrupted on her way to the powder room by her personal Secret Service agent, whose name was William something. He said that the Cornbright brothers, who were also lunching late at Casa Bellicosa, wished to meet with Fay Alex in the Gumbo Limbo Room. They said it was an urgent matter.

  Fay Alex found Chase and Chance in cordovan armchairs at a bay window overlooking the impeccable croquet lawn, upon which a quartet of geriatric billionaires in shin-high socks spastically flailed candy-colored mallets. The slow-motion melee was being watched with cruel glee by the two Cornbrights. They wore crested navy blazers, button-down Oxfords, creased linen pants (beige and twilight blue, respectively), and Ferragamo driving shoes that had never tapped the accelerator of an American-made vehicle. The young men rose in tandem to greet Fay Alex Riptoad, and Chance immediately asked if she’d heard the big news about Uric Burns.

  “Certainly,” she said. “I’ve been in constant contact with Chief Crosby.”

  When Chase asked to speak privately, she signaled for Secret Service Agent William to wait outside. His arctic nod suggested that he’d rather be waxing his nut sack than trailing Fay Alex around.

  As soon as he was gone from the room, Chance spoke up: “So, the man who committed suicide is the same one who called in the tip about Mother’s body?”

  “That’s right,” said Fay Alex. “He was one of the three killers, just trying to cash in. The police were waiting outside the bank to arrest him, but by then he’d already hung himself off that bridge. As POTUS himself said: Two scumbags down, one to go—”

  “So Burns never collected any of the reward?” Chase asked.

  “Of course not. That wasn’t ever going to happen.” Fay Alex sighed to herself, thinking: No wonder Kiki Pew gave up on these two stains in the gene pool.

  Chance pressed on with pursed-lip intensity. “So, what about our hundred grand? Is anyone else trying to claim it? Is there a time limit?”

  “Chief Crosby says none of the other tips were legitimate.”

  “Then we, like, get to keep all our money?”

  Fay Alex said, “Yes, Chance. The family can, like, keep the money.”

  The Cornbright brothers emitted a lupine howl, knuckle-bumped each other, and called out for more drinks. Fay Alex excused herself and, in more or less a straight line, headed for the double doors of the Gumbo Limbo Room.

  Her white Mercedes was idling in the shade of the portico. William opened a rear door for her, but then he sat in front with the driver.

  Fay Alex said, “I don’t understand why you won’t ride back here next to me.”

  It was the third time that day she’d brought it up. The agent patiently repeated his explanation: “Because I can see more when I’m up here, Mrs. Riptoad.”

  “But Kelly Bean says her Secret Service man sits right beside her everywhere they go!”

  “It’s a judgment call, Mrs. Riptoad.” William turned his attention to his sunglasses, thumbing a microfiber cloth in practiced circles over each mirrored lens.

  Fay Alex, who’d assumed that a Secret Service escort would obey orders as unquestioningly as all her employees, sulked all the way home. There she retreated to her bedroom, shut the door, and endeavored to nap her way out of the steep vodka migraine that would ultimately delay her appearance that evening at the Bath Club, which was hosting a Disney-themed mixer for Peyronie’s Syndrome Awareness Week.

  * * *

  —

  Angie knew Paul Ryskamp wasn’t thrilled that she’d invited the police chief to join them on their first date. However, the President’s inflammatory new tweet had so badly aggravated both Ryskamp and Jerry Crosby that Angie thought a group dinner could be venting therapy—and, for her, a way to get a few questions answered.

  Beginning with: What can be done for Diego Beltrán?

  “By us? Nothing,” the chief said with half a shrug. “It’s a goat wedding.”

  Ryskamp agreed. “The kid’s more or less ass-fucked, for now.”

  Angie finished her beer and ordered another. She said, “Having a pearl in his pocket isn’t enough to indict him for the old lady’s murder. No way. There’s not a jury in the world—”

  “Don’t you think the prosecutors know that?” Crosby cut in. “They don’t want a damn jury trial. They don’t want this case going anywhere. All they want is a time cushion, and an excuse to keep Beltrán locked up like the President wants.”

  “But for how long?” Angie asked.

  “Until another poster villain comes along,” said Ryskamp. He reminded her about Mastodon’s gerbil-like attention span; eventually the man would get bored with the No-More-Diegos spiel. “Might take a week, a month, who knows,” Ryskamp added. “All depends on the media play he’s getting.”

  A basket of hot rolls arrived. Angie grabbed one and smeared it with maple butter. She said, “You guys are okay letting this kid rot at county with all the no-bail shitbirds? Because I’m really not. Jerry?”

  “I asked the state attorney about dropping the stolen-property charge, if Beltrán agreed to return to Honduras. He told me he couldn’t do it right now—too much blowback from the White House, Breitbart, the whole drooling mob.”

  “What does he care about them?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Angie, he’s up for re-election.”

  “So’s the sheriff,” Ryskamp noted.

  Angie stewed as the Secret Service agent and the chief continued eating. She took another swig of beer and grumbled, “Two sworn officers of the law, I swear to God.”

  Crosby turned. “What was that?” he asked her crossly.

  “Are you up for re-election, Jerry? No, you’re not.”

  “But I serve at the pleasure of the town council, which—”

  “Never mind,” said Angie. “Listen, it just occurred to me—I never got the story on that other pink pearl you showed me.”

  Ryskamp’s fork halted halfway to his mouth. “What other pearl?”

  Crosby quietly told them about his field trip with Diego Beltrán to the railroad crossing. Before Angie could add a word, he made a hushing gesture.

  “There’s more,” the chief said. He took out his phone and showed them the street-cam video of the dead python flying from the trunk of the stolen white Malibu after it vaulted the train tracks.

  Ryskamp merely nodded, but Angie erupted: “What the fuck, Jerry? What the fuck? How can Beltrán still be locked up? Did you not share these juicy little shit bombs with the prosecutor? That you found another pearl right where Diego found his? That you’ve got freaking video of the stolen car at the scene?”

  “Hey, dial it down,” Crosby said sharply. “I’ve told the state attorney everything. He knows Beltrán doesn’t belong in jail but—for the reasons I already explained—he wants the dust to settle.”

  “Did you also tell him you’ll go straight to the TV stations if he doesn’t cut the kid loose immediately?”

  “No, I did not,” the chief replied stonily.

  Angie turned a fierce stare on Ryskamp. “What do you think, Paul? If you can pry yourself away from your precious Caesar, I mean. Did you get enough anchovies, by the way? Jesus Christ.”

  The agent made her wait until he was finished chewing.

  “Obviously I didn’t know about the second pearl,” he began, “but it really makes no difference. The Secret Service doesn’t have the authority to order a state prosecutor to spike a case. Neither does Chief Crosby. The evidence is secondary to the politics. It sucks, Angie, but that’s how it works.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Georgetown Law.”

  “Young Señor Beltrán will remain Public Enemy Numero Uno
until the President gets tired of ranting about him,” Ryskamp said, “which he will, one of these days. I guarantee it.”

  In a low voice, Crosby added: “And if I did the hero thing and ran to the media on my own, I’d be out of a job. Or busted down to bike patrol, staking out the parking meters on Worth Avenue. For you it might not be a life-wrecking decision, Angie, but I’ve got a mortgage, two car payments, and three kids who are talking about college. Cue the violins, right? Well, guess what. I can’t afford to flush my career down the tubes for Diego Beltrán, or anyone else. Not right now.”

  Angie backed off. “Last time I took the hero road,” she said, “I lost my job, too. Actually it was more like the crazed-avenger road. Point is, Jerry, I get your point. But this kid could get hurt in jail.”

  The chief stood up. “Just for the record, it makes me sick to my stomach, knowing he shouldn’t be there.” He opened his billfold. “How much do I owe?”

  “Put your money away,” Angie told him. “But give me five more minutes.”

  “What for? There’s not a damn thing to be done.”

  “Please show me the fake suicide note.”

  The chief found the image on his phone. Angie and Ryskamp moved their chairs around for a better look:

  To Whoever Finds Me:

  Please tell my family I’m real sorry for what I did. It was me along with Prince Paladin that grabbed that rich old lady from the party on the island. There was no plan to hurt her, but sometimes shit goes down and all of a sudden it’s too late. Me and the Prince had a big fight about it, so I had to do him, too.

  I know the cops and feds are all over this—I’m number one on their radar, and it’s stupid to keep running when there’s no place to hide.

  BTW, that Diego dude everyone’s talking about, he didn’t have anything to do with killing that woman. What they’re saying about him is total bullshit. I never even met the dumb bastard. And why the hell would me and Prince split a big jewelry score with some wetback straight off the boat?

  Anyhow, tell my mom and dad it’s not their fault I turned out this way. They didn’t fuck up my childhood. I fucked up my own self, big-time.

  But there’s no way I’m going back to jail alive. I’d rather be dead and free.

  U. Burns

  “Nice try, Mr. Teabull,” Angie said.

  Ryskamp allowed that the note had some nice touches. Crosby said a horseshit fake was still horseshit.

  “But not necessarily worthless horseshit,” Angie said. “Who else besides us knows that Burns didn’t write this?”

  “The fuckstick who did write it,” Ryskamp replied. “Same fuckstick who killed him.”

  “It’s Teabull, Paul. The manager of Lipid House. You’re allowed to speak his name.”

  Jerry Crosby said, “Doesn’t matter. Nobody gives a shit if Uric Burns was murdered.”

  Angie didn’t disagree. “All I’m saying is the phony note is a gift.”

  “How?”

  “Because it says straight up Diego Beltrán is innocent. Teabull wrote it that way because he’s desperate to end the Fitzsimmons investigation. As long as Beltrán is being hyped as the last surviving suspect, the case won’t be closed. Reporters will keep trying to dig up more details about the death of the President’s favorite Potussy—and that’s the last thing in the world Teabull wants.”

  Neither Ryskamp nor Crosby interrupted her. They knew what was coming.

  “So, what if this note got leaked?” Angie tapped Crosby’s phone screen. “I mean, here’s one of the bad guys swearing in his dying words that he and his partner never met the Honduran kid. If the media got hold of that, the prosecutors wouldn’t have any choice except to drop the case against Diego.”

  Crosby pocketed his phone. “He hasn’t been charged with murder. They caught him with a stolen piece of jewelry.” Again he stood up. This time he dropped some cash on the table. “I’ll text you the screen-shot of the note, Angie.”

  “Good man,” she said.

  “But only if you promise to leave me out of it. Don’t say a word about the second pearl or the Malibu video, because then they’ll know the leak came from me.”

  “Deal.”

  “One more thing,” said the chief. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  Once he and Angie were alone, Ryskamp said, “Jerry’s right. I don’t think you appreciate what’s at play here. It’s all goddamn theater, and the people behind the curtain don’t have souls. You don’t know these creeps.”

  “Honestly, Paul, that patronizing tone does not make me want to fuck your brains out.”

  The agent gave a startled blink. “Was there even a chance of that happening?”

  “I was beginning to like you.”

  “Well, shit.”

  “Burns was your first homicide, wasn’t it? Your first scene? I’m betting the Secret Service doesn’t offer much training in that area.”

  “Low blow,” said the agent.

  “Well, that wasn’t my first scene. You know what a dead body looks like after a week in the Everglades? Let’s say middle of August. Let’s say a stoned pig hunter flipped his airboat at fifty fucking miles an hour.”

  Ryskamp conceded the point.

  “Would it help salvage your opinion of me,” he said, “to tell you I don’t have the same career concerns as Chief Crosby? I’m cleanly divorced, childless, no mortgage (I rent), and my personal vehicle’s paid for. More importantly, I plan to retire soon and—short of espionage, counterfeiting T-bonds, or recreational cannibalism—there’s practically nothing a senior agent at my pay grade can do to screw himself out of his pension.”

  “Translation, please.”

  “I wouldn’t mind putting my ass on the line to spring Diego Beltrán.”

  “You mean your smirking, self-important ass,” said Angie.

  “Was that a wink? Pretty sure it was.”

  “Congratulations, sir. You’re back in play.”

  “I can’t promise that anybody’ll listen to me. At least anybody who matters.”

  Angie was a little drunk, so she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Let’s go to your place.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. But no sex yet.”

  Once again the agent was jolted by her candor, and he tried to recover: “That’s all right. It’s only our first date.”

  “No, you don’t understand. We’re not doing it until the day Diego Beltrán walks out of the county jail.”

  “Uh…okay.”

  “And is publicly exonerated,” Angie said.

  “Holy Christ, you’re serious.”

  The server brought the check, which Angie handed to Ryskamp.

  He said, “So, your plan is to leak the Burns note to…whom?”

  “Local media. Cable news. Politico. The networks. “

  “No, pick just one. Make it an exclusive. Much bigger impact.”

  “You mean like Maddow or Anderson Cooper?”

  “That’s the idea. Prime-time audience.”

  “And after the story breaks,” Angie said, “you, my friend, will go straight to the state attorney to point out that the suicide note cripples his case against Beltrán and, by the way, where’s his proof that the kid belongs to a ‘terrorist group’ targeting supporters of the President? Tell him the Secret Service needs to know everything he knows. And since he doesn’t have jackshit, you’ll be duty-bound to advise him to clear Diego’s name.”

  “Duty-bound might be pushing it.”

  “What’s the matter, Paul? You said they couldn’t fire you.”

  “No, I said was planning to retire early.”

  “And you’d still collect your pension, right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Sounds like you’re having second thoughts,”
Angie said. “That’s fine. Then we’ll just stay friends, you and I.”

  “So let me see if I’ve got this right: You’re proposing a straight-up trade—me helping a random border-jumper in exchange for the possibility of sleeping with you.”

  “Poor baby. I’m sure you’ve had worse offers.”

  Ryskamp raised his cup. “Way worse,” he said.

  MUSCLE OF LOVE

  FIFTEEN

  On the night of March 13th, chilly and moonlit, an itinerant transmission mechanic named Ajax “Hammerhead” Huppler disappeared from his boat while casting for snook along the Intracoastal Waterway, within sight of Casa Bellicosa.

  Huppler, who grew up near West Palm, had since childhood spent most of his free time with a fishing rod in his hands. His parents preferred to explain this obsession as a love for the wild outdoors, though Ajax himself was never heard to express such feelings. More manifest was a corrosive antisocial streak; Ajax detested the company of other people, including his relatives. Only when he was alone on the water did he feel at ease.

  At age thirty-six, Ajax lived by himself in a townhouse devoid of family photographs. His core furnishings were an XBox console, a 60-inch plasma, a motorized recliner, and a secondhand ironing board. For sex he relied upon paid escorts, who were required to come dressed as cockney chambermaids. He was an excellent car mechanic though his contemptuous attitude never failed to get him fired; over the years he’d worked in the repair shops of a dozen major dealerships between Miami Gardens and Fort Pierce. He was a power-train virtuoso—he could fix anything from a plug-in Prius to a vintage Corniche—yet he was always undone by garage politics. On the night Ajax went missing he was unemployed, embittered, and bombed on Budweiser.