by Carl Hiaasen
“What’s that cute pattern on your shirt? I like it—so, so tropical.”
“Turtles,” he replied. “Baby sea turtles.”
“Where is your gun, by the way?”
“Under my shirt.”
“It’s not a very big one then, is it?”
The agent smiled with perverse equanimity, a man with retirement squarely in his sights. “My duties are mainly supervisory,” he said.
“I know, Paul. That’s why I asked to meet with you.” Mockingbird moved closer and told him how it would be:
Special Agent Jennifer Rose would be allowed to join her security detail, but only if Keith Josephson remained the leader of the team. A rumor would be circulated among the staff at Casa Bellicosa that agents Rose and Josephson had rekindled a past romance, and were hooking up—strictly during off-duty hours—at a Comfort Inn out by the interstate.
Mockingbird said, “There’s a name in your business for this kind of thing, isn’t there?”
“Disinformation.”
“That it is. Meanwhile my husband is screwing a stripper who’s masquerading as a nutritionist, of all things. I’m sure you people know about this. She’s got an ass like a Volvo sedan.”
Ryskamp answered only with his eyes.
“It would mean a great deal to me,” she said, “if his relationship with that sloppy whore stayed secret from the public. And, yes, I can tell what you’re thinking.”
Ryskamp turned slightly in his beach chair and made sure the other agents were standing far enough away. To the First Lady he said, “I’m thinking exactly what you think I am.”
She frowned and reached for a slice of Bucheron. “Whatever’s going on in my own private life, Agent Ryskamp, in the future I promise to be much more careful about, you know, appearances. None of the blame for all this stupid gossip belongs anywhere but on myself. Do you understand?”
“I’ve always liked Agent Josephson.”
“You mean Agent Youseff.”
“He took one for the team,” Ryskamp said.
“All because my husband doesn’t trust anyone with an Islamic name. Or Jews, or blacks, or Asians, or Hispanics, or Mormons, or whatever. God, it’s exhausting to keep track. With my accent, I’m amazed he married me.”
“No, you’re not.”
She leaned closer. “It must never, ever get back to him as a true thing—this kitchen talk about me and Keith.”
“How can you be sure he doesn’t already know?”
“Because you and your bosses haven’t been fired.”
Mockingbird was wearing a black one-piece swimsuit under a forgivable Lilly Pulitzer cover-up. Ryskamp interpreted her flame-red toenails as playful mutiny.
“One last thing,” she said. “Those old vipers who call themselves the Potussies—by the way, how trashy is that?—apparently they’ve all had Secret Service protection?”
“Until recently. For a number of reasons, the decision was made to terminate those assignments. The President was informed, and he signed off.”
“Yes, I get it, the whole idea’s outrageous. But the women really miss having their dashing young agents around, so I need you to call Washington and make it happen again, before the big ball.”
“Can I ask why?” Ryskamp said.
“One of the ladies, a Mrs. Riptoe or something like that, spoke to me personally. Her group raises lots of money for my husband.”
“Lots of people raise lots of money for your husband.”
“Mrs. Riptoe was very persuasive. It’s possible she’s heard that sleazy rumor about me and Agent Josephson.” Mockingbird put on her sunglasses, stood up, and tucked her crocodile clutch under one arm. “I’ve got my deep-tissue in five minutes. Let me know what Washington says.”
“We’re doing a teleconference this afternoon.”
“I like those flip-flops, Agent Ryskamp. Where’d you find them?”
“There’s a new Ron Jon’s on A1A,” he said. “What’s your size?”
* * *
—
The Commander’s Ball had been staged every spring since Mastodon’s election. Lovingly organized by the Potussies, it was a giddy, feisty, celebrity-packed tribute to the forever embattled chief executive, and had become his most lucrative political fundraiser. Tickets started at ten thousand dollars a seat, but for only twice as much you got photographed at the President’s side. For thirty thousand he would personally sign the photograph; for forty grand he would shake your hand in the picture; for fifty he’d place an arm around your shoulders. (When advised to avoid physical contact due to the lingering virus threat, Mastodon had berated his doctors and said the risk of a lung infection was less important than the gusher of cash generated by the photo operation.)
Those who paid a hundred thousand dollars to attend the gala were called Legacy Friends, and each received a full bear-hug in their posed photo; a sleeve of new Titleists bearing the presidential seal; a liter of vodka from a Chernobyl distillery half-owned by Mastodon’s grown sons; an autographed teleprompter script for the first inaugural address, complete with “Pause for Applause” placements; an empty Dr. Pepper can, flattened, framed, and stamped with the time and date it had been hurled across the Oval Office; and two tickets to the after-party featuring a top Lee Greenwood cover band.
The theme of this year’s Commander’s Ball was “Big Unimpeachable You,” based on an original ditty commissioned by Fay Alex Riptoad and the other Potussies, who would be performing the song onstage. (The mid-range baritone part, originally written for Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons, had been posthumously reassigned to Kelly Bean Drummond and Dee Witty Wittlefield.) Glossy programs for the ball had been revised to include a short homage to Kiki Pew that featured a photo of the radiant widow flicking lint off POTUS’s suit collar during the inaugural Commander’s Ball. Omitted from the program text was any reference to Kiki Pew’s gory demise at the hands of Diego Beltrán’s border cartel, Fay Alex not wishing to darken the carefree mood of deep-pocketed partiers before the live raffle.
Typically about half the guests at the ball were year-round members of Casa Bellicosa who simply wanted to be seen at the season’s biggest bash, and the other half were political mega-donors who had G-5s and tall favors to ask. The chore of screening the list fell to the Secret Service, though seldom were more than a handful of persons denied entry. The wealthier the rejected ticket-seekers were, however, the more detailed was the justification demanded by the White House.
This year, Stanleigh Cobo, idle bachelor brother of one of the Potussies, had wanted to bring as his date a Chinese citizen whose uncle’s company was the world’s largest manufacturer of digital meat thermometers. Unfortunately, the niece herself reported directly (and often) to the Ministry of State Security, China’s version of the KGB.
When Stanleigh Cobo was informed that he’d have to find a new companion for the President’s gala, he broke down and begged the Secret Service agents for a security exemption. He confided that the woman, who lived in Guangdong Province, had promised to bring five grams of powdered narwhal tusk, his last hope for a presentable erection. The agents were unmoved, so Stanleigh Cobo tearfully called his sister Deirdre, who called the President’s under-assistant chief of staff, who called the Secret Service director, who called the deputy director, who called the West Palm field office, where Paul Ryskamp answered the phone, listened to the pitiable plot of Stanleigh Cobo’s romance, and said, “Bottom line, she’s a spy.”
“Oh, definitely,” said the deputy director. “But their date is just for one night. Can we put someone with her while she’s on the property?”
“I don’t have any spare bodies. They’re all assigned to Potussies, including Cobo’s sister.”
“Well, she gives a mountain of money to Mastodon’s PACs. The brother is a harmless dolt.”
“Who happens to be dating a
spy,” Ryskamp reiterated.
“That’s so helpful, Paul. Any bright ideas?”
“I’ll bet Mr. Cobo could survive breaking up with his date if we can find him some narwhal tusk.”
“How? No, actually, I mean how the fuck?”
Ryskamp explained that Palm Beach was an epicenter of E.D. panic. “This is a place where you can score any kind of miracle boner potion, from scorpion wine to a tiger penis. Money’s never an issue, obviously.”
“I’m not sure how we’d expense it,” the deputy director said mirthlessly, “but what does five grams of whale horn cost on the street?”
“Let me check that out. Meantime, is there no way to convince Mastodon to skip the event?”
“Not a chance. He’s already rehearsing a big duet with Roseanne Barr. They’re singing ‘Leather and Lace,’ right after the huckleberry mousse.”
“Bloodbath,” said Ryskamp. “Poor Stevie Nicks.”
“She ought to sue,” agreed the deputy director. “Regarding the Agent Josephson problem, I agree with your recommendation. We’ll leave him on the First Lady’s detail, for now.”
“It’s a fraught set of circumstances.”
“A fucking disaster waiting to happen. Literally.”
“Mockingbird’s holding all the cards.”
“Again, Paul, no shit.”
“What did Mastodon say when he learned about the pythons?” Ryskamp asked.
“Christ, he thinks it’s just a political prank. He blames the Speaker of the House for the pie truck…whatever you call it.”
“Sabotage?”
“An ‘unexplained contamination’ is how we decided to file it.”
Ryskamp still hadn’t briefed the deputy director about what had really happened to Katherine Fitzsimmons, because then the deputy director would have been obligated to tell the President, who would freak out and order the information classified as secret. He was still balls-deep in his anti-Diego crusade on social media.
“So, Paul, what do we do about these damn snakes?” the deputy director asked.
“I’ve reached out to a specialist.”
“Good. Make sure he searches the property thoroughly before the Commander’s Ball.”
“It’s a woman.”
“Really? How weird is that. You check her out?”
“I did,” said Ryskamp. “She’s clean.”
TWENTY
The Knob was supposed to avoid natural sunlight during periods when he was testing one of the presidential tanning beds. Usually he spent his daytimes watching porn in his motel room, and at night he went out to gorge and drink. In spite of his somewhat off-putting appearance, he almost always attracted female company. He never wasted a moment trying to understand how or why. The women who approached him seemed genuinely curious; often they asked if he had a circus background. Sometimes one would get a friend to snap photos while she smooched the knotty crown of his head.
For having such a large body mass, The Knob was easily impaired by alcohol. He carried a pair of Vic Firth drumsticks wherever he went, and after only two Rum Runners he’d start channeling Keith Moon, pounding madly along to whatever style of music would be playing, or to no music at all. The Knob wasn’t a fighter or a belligerent drunk, but he could be ungainly and destructive. On one such night, at the bar of an upscale restaurant in Jupiter, he upended a table occupied by several famous professional golfers. Having zero interest in sports, The Knob didn’t know who the men were, or why he was being asked to leave. It was just an accident, after all.
Still he found himself being escorted to the parking lot, where—with California surf music twanging in his skull—he couldn’t restrain himself from drumming “Wipe Out” on the hood of a gleaming new Bentley GT. The vehicle happened to belong to one of the pro golfers, who popped the trunk, snatched a three-wood out of his bag, and furiously began pummeling The Knob.
Twelve hours later, he awoke sprawled half-nude on Juno Beach. Bruised, blistered, and hungover, he was also momentously sunburned and therefore unfit for duty in the Cabo Royale. The Knob looked at his watch and thought it must be broken. There was no sign anywhere of his billfold or phone.
A slight blond woman wearing Daisy Duke cutoffs and a Patriots jersey snored beside him on the sand. It was a project to rouse her. When the Knob asked for a lift to Palm Beach, she laughed and threw up on his lap. He washed off in the ocean and walked dripping to A1A and stuck out his thumb. The first vehicle that stopped was a police cruiser, which took him to the emergency room.
As soon as Christian arrived at the hospital, he realized the gravity of the situation. The Knob was swollen and buttered with aloe, his skin as raw as carpaccio. Mastodon had scheduled a tanning session for mid-afternoon, and now there was no one to pre-test the bed. Finding a club employee the right size—and then obtaining a security clearance—would be nearly impossible on such short notice. Christian called Spalding and asked him to scout the service staff, but the search proved futile. The only fit candidate, a bartender who topped six feet, had a body odor so pungent that it posed a respiratory risk inside the tanning chamber.
So, upon returning to Casa Bellicosa, Christian—who weighed only a hundred and sixty pounds—put on three cotton bathrobes for padding, donned The Knob’s wig and eye protectors, climbed into the Cabo Royale, and closed the canopy. It was an act of courage, for Christian had been fiercely claustrophobic since the age of five, when his older sisters had put him inside a recycle bin and duct-taped the lid.
Christian was hoping that the sun lamps inside the Cabo would ease the suffocating sense of confinement, but the eerie bluish glow made him even more anxious. As the temperature rose he tightly closed his eyelids and began worrying that the goggles might melt to his face. The instant he began to hyperventilate, a familiar thrash of panic took hold. Both legs began to kick uncontrollably and the canopy flew open. Christian lay there gasping, clammy, and ripe with perspiration.
He tore off the hairpiece and hurled it across the room. Once his heart stopped hammering, he rolled out of the bed and checked the digital clock on the machine. Unbelievable—only four minutes and forty-two seconds. He felt sure his eyes were shut most of that time, yet it seemed like the sun lamps had flickered at some point.
Christian wiped down the Cabo and went outside to catch some fresh air. He sat on a chaise by the pool, toweled off the sweat, opened a Gatorade, and wondered: Did I see something, or not?
The tanning bulbs wouldn’t blink on and off unless one had loosened, or there was a wiring issue. Christian hurried back inside and, as a precaution, replaced each of the tubular lamps. When he re-started the Cabo, the lighting was uniform and constant. He decided that the flash he thought he saw must have happened in his own frenzied brainpan.
Goddamn claustrophobia.
He still hadn’t forgiven his sisters.
* * *
—
Angie went to meet the man Joel had told her about. His name was Jim Tile, and for most of his life he’d been a road trooper with the Florida Highway Patrol. Now he lived at a West Boca senior center called the Rainbow of Life. That was all Angie knew about him.
He was sitting at a table in the dining room; a wooden cane hung on an empty chair beside him. There was a foam cervical brace around his neck, though his shoulders were still broad and straight. He had thick arms and snow-white hair and tinted wire-rimmed glasses. Angie noticed he was the only black person in the place who wasn’t wearing caregiver scrubs.
She introduced herself and sat down across from him. He smiled and said he knew who she was; he’d seen her before.
“Where?” she asked.
“At your sentencing hearing.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I was in the back row.”
“Wait. Why?”
“An old friend asked me to be ther
e. He took an interest in your case. Want somethin’ to eat? They say the food’s decent, but I can’t taste a damn thing.” He showed her the bandaged crook of his left arm, where the morning IV attached.
She said, “I know you’re tired, Mr. Tile. I won’t stay long.”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t sleep hardly at all.”
“How did you and Joel connect?”
“I met him in the courthouse the last day of your trial.”
“By accident, or on purpose?” Angie asked.
Tile seemed amused by her intensity. “We were both in line at the water fountain. He’s a good kid. Worries about you, naturally.”
“He says you’ve got information about the python outbreak.”
“Now there’s a fine word. ‘Outbreak,’ ” Tile said. “My friend’s the one you need to speak with, Ms. Armstrong. I’m about to tell you where he is, and how to get there.”
“And his name, too, please.”
Tile chuckled. “His actual Christian name, or what he answers to?”
“Either,” said Angie. “Or both.”
“Skink is what they call him.”
“That’s your friend? Please don’t bullshit me, Mr. Tile.”
“Young lady, do I look like a bullshitter?”
Angie knew the legend. So did every wildlife officer past and present, going back decades. She said, “Just to be clear: You’re talking about Tyree? The missing governor.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So he’s not dead, like they say.”
“Far from it,” said Jim Tile.
Angie hadn’t yet been born when Clinton Tyree fled the governor’s mansion in a fever of despair, later re-launching himself as a vagabond saboteur, striking out at everything he believed was going wrong in Florida. Since then, the man who became known as Skink had been blamed for many acts of eco-vengeance he didn’t commit—and had gotten away with those he did. Never was there enough evidence to prosecute, and he remained perpetually at-large, unavailable for questioning. Nothing had been heard of him for so long that those who remembered his unglued heyday assumed he must have died of old age, or heartache.