Squeeze Me

by Carl Hiaasen

  After an awkward wait, Mastodon emerged from the bathroom breathing hard and red-faced from exertion. He snapped at his butler to fetch more fucking laxatives.

  “That’s what red meat does to your system,” Mockingbird remarked. “Have you thought about cutting back to, like, two pounds a day?”

  On cue the agents filed out and closed the door. Mastodon was still fumbling to belt his pants, groping blindly for the buckle below the rolling sea of his gut.

  “We need to talk about the Commander’s Ball,” he said to his wife. “What are you wearing?”

  “Tom Ford.”

  “Not so much sky in the cleavage department, okay? Last year, well…you know what happened.”

  “One dried-up old hag complained,” said Mockingbird. “So what?”

  “That dried-up old hag is the reason I won Wisconsin.”

  “Yes, you’ve told me.”

  “She forked out three million bucks on phony Facebook ads,” Mastodon went on. “And since she’ll be sitting at the main table on Saturday, you should show a little respect and dim those headlights.”

  “Fine. But the gown has a thigh-high slit.”

  “Yeah? Maybe I’ll drop my napkin and sneak a peek.” Mastodon’s smile these days was more of a wormy sneer, the product of too many press-conference performances.

  He said, “Know what else you should wear? Those new pink pearl earrings. Very sexy.”

  His wife responded with granite indifference. She asked if his “nutritionist” would be attending the gala.

  “Yep,” said Mastodon, “with her date.”

  “Nice try.”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Are we done here?” Mockingbird asked.

  “Not quite.” Her husband told her what the Secret Service said about the rise of the pythons.

  “Yes, I was briefed,” she said curtly.

  Mastodon snorted. “Well, just so you know, it’s complete total horseshit. Another fake hoax by the Deep Staters.”

  “But there was a big one dead in the road not long ago. They had to stop my motorcade.”

  “Goddammit, can’t you see what these people are trying to do?”

  “Who?” said Mockingbird. “I don’t understand.”

  “Never mind. Someone will be patrolling the estate during the ball—a snake expert, they tell me. Not my idea but, hey, we ain’t the ones payin’ for it.”

  Mastodon popped a handful of Adderalls, checked his watch and saw it was time for his tanning session. Mockingbird rose to leave. She was curious but not worried; Ahmet would give her the latest python update.

  “One more thing,” her husband said. “You might want to keep little Bagel on his leash for the next few days, just to play it safe.”

  “Bagel?”

  “Your dog.” Mastodon arranged his koala-sized hands to approximate the dimensions of an overfed Yorkie. “Isn’t that his name?”

  “Was his name,” said the First Lady. “He passed away the Christmas before last.”

  “Aw shit. Really? What the hell happened?”

  “Old age.”

  “Well, then, let’s get a new one!”

  “You’re such a dick,” Mockingbird said, and stalked off.

  “I can’t wait to see your new dress!” Mastodon called hopelessly after her.

  * * *

  —

  The Knob insisted he was good to go. Christian said no way; the man’s face and torso still looked like shrimp-skin since passing out with the bimbo on Jupiter Beach.

  “She wasn’t no bimbo. She’s a cheerleader for the Patriots.”

  “Of course she is. And I’m Dwayne Johnson’s stunt double.”

  “Yo, man, I can definitely do this,” said The Knob, who suspected he wouldn’t be paid until he went back inside the presidential tanning tube.

  Christian was in a jam. The Secret Service always required the Cabo Royale to be tested the same day Mastodon was scheduled to use it. Christian asked The Knob if there was any sector of his body that wasn’t sunburned.

  “Bottom of my feet,” he replied.

  “That’s it?”

  “My ass cheeks, too. I guess me and that chick didn’t take our underwear off.”

  Christian forlornly realized what had to be done. “Let’s have a look,” he said, bracing himself. The presentation was even nastier than he’d feared.

  “My God, have you been to a dermatologist?” he cried.

  The Knob said, “What for? It’s just acne scars.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I really don’t.”

  “Yo, maybe some heavy-duty UVs would knock that shit down.”

  Christian had to look away. “Let’s get on with this,” he said grimly.

  Following directions, The Knob donned the Mastodon wig, goggles, a sun mask, bicycle gloves, dive booties, a hooded long-sleeve tee, and Lycra-blend leggings altered by scissors to expose his chalky pitted buttocks. He entered the Cabo on his knees, lay forward on his belly and waited for Christian to shut the canopy.

  Thirteen minutes later, when the lid opened, The Knob heard a loud whoosh and felt a blast of frigid air on his rump.

  “Hold still!” Christian yelled as he unloaded the fire extinguisher.

  “What the fuck? What the motherfuckin’ fuck?”

  “Don’t move, man! Do not move.”

  “Whassat goddamn smell?”

  “You.”

  The Knob let out a wail. “I’m on motherfuckin’ fire?”

  “Just your ass hair,” Christian said.

  Later the President’s personal physician would examine The Knob and determine that in fact he had suffered curlicue first-degree burns on each buttock. A cooling unguent was applied while Secret Service agents took Christian aside and quizzed him about the Cabo Royale’s untimely malfunction.

  What caused it? Christian wasn’t sure.

  Could it be repaired? Oh, absolutely.

  How soon? He couldn’t say. With luck he wouldn’t need to order any parts.

  But how soon? Well, maybe tomorrow. Maybe longer.

  We need an answer as soon as possible, the agents told him. The President has an important event this weekend.

  He could go to a regular tanning parlor, Christian suggested.

  Absolutely out of the question, the agents said. Now get to work.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Angie tried not to think much about politics. It didn’t seem to matter who was in power—nothing got better in the besieged, breathtaking world she cared about most. The Everglades would never be the lush unbroken river it once was; the shallows of Florida Bay would never be as pure and sparkling with fish; the bleached dying reefs of the Keys would never bloom fully back to life. Being overrun and exploited was the historical fate of places so rare and beautiful.

  Every year, Angie diligently wrote checks to the Nature Conservancy and World Wildlife Fund, but she was too much of a loner to jump into the fray. No meetings, no rallies, no Facebook petitions. Never once had she fired off an angry letter to a congressman or a county commissioner. Sometimes she wondered if she was too cynical, or just too lazy.

  The sitting President of the United States was a soulless imbecile who hated the outdoors but, in Angie’s view, at this point Teddy Roosevelt himself couldn’t turn the tide if he came back from the dead. All the treasured wilderness that had been sacrificed at the altar of growth was gone for all time. More disappeared every day; nothing ever changed except the speed of destruction, and only because there were fewer pristine pieces to sell off, carve up and pave.

  Surely the old ex-governor knew this. Angie found herself envying his capacious anger and high torque after a lifetime of crushingly predictable futility. The man was seriously bent, but he also was high-functioning.

 
The tree island—abandoned. What the fuck?

  Gone were his walls of great books, his laptop, the generator, the cooking pans, the freezer packed with dead rabbits. Also gone were his pythons, of course, even the skin sheds that he’d strung throughout the treetops. Gone was his boat, as well.

  And somehow he’d done it in one night, cleaned out the whole damn camp—like he’d been planning the move, like he’d hung around just long enough to give Angie a peek.

  “And he never told you his name?” Paul Ryskamp asked.

  “No, sir,” she said, which was technically true.

  Jim Tile was the person who’d divulged Skink’s identity, but the retired lawman wasn’t available to be interviewed by the Secret Service. After Angie’s second visit to the island, she had driven directly to the assisted-living facility. There she’d been told that Tile had been taken to the hospital after complaining of chest pains. And when she’d arrived at the hospital, she learned he wasn’t there and that nobody fitting his description had been treated in the emergency room.

  By then she’d already made up her mind to shield both of them, Skink and his ailing old friend. Giving up their names wouldn’t stop whatever was about to happen in Palm Beach.

  “How’d you track down this nut job?” Ryskamp asked her.

  “A tip.”

  “From what, a swamp informant?”

  “A highly placed swamp informant,” Angie said.

  “You’re not telling me even half of what you know.”

  “I’ve told you the important parts, Paul.”

  “Thanks, I suppose. But now what?”

  “I don’t know. Prepare for a plague of pythons?”

  “Shit, Angie.”

  “Major fuckage,” she agreed, “from a party planner’s perspective. But from a professional standpoint, the situation is containable.”

  “Containable to what?”

  “The category of nuisance. Burmese don’t want to be around human activity. They’ll be hiding, not roaming the ballroom.”

  Ryskamp whistled dismally and sat up. “God, I hate snakes.”

  “Not as much as I hate your Silk Rockets. They actually squeak,” Angie said. “Or was that you?”

  He wasn’t listening. She flicked the condom wrapper off the nightstand and said, “One star out of five, comfort-wise. Also, that color? Mighty distracting.”

  “I’ve got to call Washington.” He rolled out of bed and put on his robe.

  “Wait, Paul, one thing I forgot to tell you.”

  “Uh-oh. What?”

  “You were amazing,” Angie said.

  He broke into a grin. “Stay right there.”

  “Dream on, sailor boy.”

  Angie had phoned him late in the afternoon to say she had major python news. To her surprise, he suggested meeting at Pistache, a French restaurant with patio seating on Clematis. All during cocktails and dinner, they didn’t talk business; Ryskamp told stories from a long-ago trip to Paris, and Angie offered theories on the provenance of the escargot. Never had she seen him so relaxed, and she was puzzled that he didn’t hound her for the promised information. He didn’t even ask for an update on her frowned-upon plan to clear Diego Beltrán—she’d been looking forward to bragging that she no longer needed any covert help from him, or from Jerry Crosby.

  Afterward it had been Ryskamp’s idea to go to his place, where there was reggae music and pinot noir. He was peeling off her jeans when she’d decided to ask him why he changed his mind about seeing her.

  “It’s simple. You’re different, you make me smile, and life’s too fucking short. Also, I missed you.”

  “When did this thunderbolt strike, Paul? And, by the way, ‘intriguing’ would sound way better than ‘different.’ ”

  “I’m retiring next week,” he’d said.

  “So this is why you’re on cruise control.”

  “Not just yet, Angie. Big weekend ahead.”

  She had waited until after they made love before telling him what she’d seen on the Everglades tree island, and what she believed it portended.

  The phone call to Washington went on for a few minutes. Ryskamp returned to the bedroom cupping his hand over his phone. “They want to know how big,” he said.

  “The longest was nearly twenty-four feet.”

  “Damn.”

  “Still not fat enough to swallow your man,” Angie said, not mentioning it was the largest Burmese she’d ever heard of.

  The agent left the room to finish speaking with his supervisors. When he came back, he said, “They want you to wear a gown to the event.”

  Angie laughed. “I don’t own a gown.”

  “Shocker.”

  “That’s not very nice, Paul.”

  “This is straight from the President’s vice-assistant deputy chief of staff. He thinks your regular workday outfit will spark unwanted curiosity.” Ryskamp sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand.

  “Screw the gown,” Angie said.

  “Just between us, they’d love an excuse to hire one of your competitors for the job.”

  “Because I’m a woman.”

  “Duh,” said Ryskamp. “I were you, I’d go buy the most expensive dress I could find. Your rich Uncle Sam will pay for it.”

  “I’m kind of liking this new attitude. But, seriously, retirement?”

  “The timing’s right, Angie.”

  “In six months you’ll be bored out of your skull.”

  “Possibly not. I rented a place in Key West.”

  “Good choice,” she said. “You’ve already got the wardrobe.”

  “Tomorrow I start packing my shit.”

  “But I’ll see you at the ball Saturday night, right?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Ryskamp. “Call of duty.”

  Then he slid under the sheets beside her, and they talked some more.

  * * *

  —

  Sedated and bandaged heavily, Diego Beltrán was surprised when they moved him from the jail’s hospital wing to his cell. One of the older Hispanic deputies advised him not to come out.

  “Word is they want you offed before the weekend,” the deputy said, “as a present to the President.”

  “Is it El Rotundo’s birthday?” Diego asked.

  “There’s a big party for him on the island. I don’t know what for.”

  “So who’s supposed to kill me?” Diego’s ribs ached when he inhaled. “The Aryans again?”

  The deputy whispered, “No, it’s the Neo-Christian Cawks.”

  “The Cucks? Isn’t that a sex cult?”

  “No, man, the Cawks. As in Caucasians.”

  “Lamest gang name ever,” Diego said.

  “Just stay in your cell, dude. I’ll bring you some books and magazines.”

  “But I need a shower. Bad.”

  “You wanna be dirty and breathing,” said the deputy, “or squeaky clean and dead?”

  “How much are these racist assholes getting paid?”

  “Ten grand is what I heard. Eleven if they cut off your nut sack, too.”

  Diego felt wobbly. The deputy helped him get on the cot.

  “Big crowd out front today,” the deputy said. “They want your balls on a fork, too.”

  Diego wondered what had stirred up the loonies. Lately there had been so few demonstrators that even the local Fox affiliate had lost interest. The deputy reported that the TV crews were back in force along with the protesters, who were wearing crimson tee-shirts that said “No More Damn Diegos!” and practicing their chants between live feeds. He said some carried signs with black-bordered pictures of Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons and the words: WE WILL NEVER FORGET.

  Diego stared despondently at the crusted gray ceiling. “I don’t get it. Why now?”

 
“There was a radio contest, I heard, for who could yell the loudest.”

  “What’s first prize?”

  “Christmas for life at Olive Garden. Whole family eats free.” The deputy closed the cell door, which locked automatically.

  Diego lifted his head. “Hey, did my lawyers ever call back?”

  The deputy said an envelope from the Public Defender’s Office was tucked in the pages of his Bible. When Diego opened it, he found a copy of a Motion to Withdraw from the case. His latest team of attorneys had informed the judge that they’d been receiving “graphic” death threats online and “ominous” items sent by mail. The disturbing deliveries included a disrobed and crudely altered Mickey Mouse doll, a bullet-riddled target with the lawyers’ faces pasted to the bull’s-eye, and a blood-stained cockatoo feather that arrived without clear explanation. Another anonymous package featured a photo of one of the defense lawyer’s daughters kissing a “nonwhite” high-school classmate at a football game; the word “HORE” had been written on the picture with an orange crayon, scratched through, and replaced with “SLUTT.”

  Diego saw a second envelope inside the Bible—a handwritten letter from his mother in Tegucigalpa. The letter had been opened and inspected by an officer at the jail, and the last page—his mother’s loving sign-off—was missing. This had happened before. Diego knew somebody was screwing with his head. The first time he had complained, but now he let it go.

  The deputies continued to go through the motions of protecting him, but Diego sensed they were tired of the extra effort. Upon his return from the medical unit, he’d noticed that a new leather belt had been placed on top of his neatly folded jumpsuit. He processed it as a strong suggestion, if not a warning.

  Suicide once had seemed cowardly and unthinkable, but the idea had been drifting on the periphery of Diego’s thoughts since the stabbing. There was no reason to believe that Angela Armstrong—as fiery and resolute as she might be—had the juice to get him freed from jail. Even if he was released, for the rest of his life he would be the border-jumping Diego who ignited the No-More-Diegos movement, the Diego made notorious by the President of the United States.