by Carl Hiaasen
Where could a man run to escape such infamy? How could he hide from the global talons of Twitter and Instagram? Diego had been told his name was now well-known in his hometown, and all Honduras. If he returned, who would risk being a friend? Or lover? Or wife? It was overwhelming to contemplate the chore of erasing his past, inventing a new identity and starting over someplace far away.
Engulfed by hopelessness, he closed his eyes and heard the rabid red-shirted fanatics screaming his name. They were either outside the jail, or inside his head. He felt like it didn’t matter.
An unfamiliar deputy, a middle-aged white dude with a bleached soul patch, came to Diego’s cell and rolled a prescription bottle of pills on the floor through the bars.
“Nurse said you should take those,” he said, “for pain.”
Diego shook the bottle. It sounded full.
“You should get some sleep,” said the deputy.
“What a good idea.”
* * *
—
Mastodon was livid after he learned his tanning session had been postponed because of equipment problems. He bemoaned his halibut complexion, head-butted his bathroom mirror and canceled several afternoon appearances, including the dedication of a seniors-only pickleball complex named for his pal Geraldo Rivera.
Christian worked on the Cabo Royale nonstop for hours, replacing every part for which he had spares. With The Knob singed, sidelined and threatening to sue, Christian had turned to his friend Spalding, who agreed to fill in as the test dummy. To replicate the President’s physique, Spalding climbed into a padded K-9 trainer attack suit that the Secret Service had purchased secondhand from the sheriff’s department.
Fortunately, the tanning cocoon operated perfectly; no flickering, no sparks, no hot spots. An elated Christian offered to buy Spalding dinner, and they ended up late in a corner booth at Echo.
“Why doesn’t the dumbass use bronzer instead?” Spalding asked between bites of wahoo sashimi. “It’s way easier.”
“He won’t touch that stuff anymore,” Christian said. “No personal gels whatsoever.”
“Strange dude.”
“He had a really bad experience at a pro-am in Tahoe.”
“Okay, not while I’m eating,” Spalding said.
“Grabbed the wrong tube—”
“Yeah, I get it. Can we please move on?”
Christian ordered more sake. He asked Spalding for the latest gossip about the First Lady’s romance. “Did she really get dumped by her studly Secret Service man?”
“Uh, dumped hard.”
“Man, I was rooting for those two.”
“Word is he’s boning one of the other agents,” said Spalding. “You know that tall blonde?”
“When you’re my size, bro, they’re all tall.”
“I talked to her in the kitchen once and she is nice. I’ve seen her and the dude together and, yeah, it’s definitely on.”
Christian smiled half-drunkenly. “So, what I hear you saying, the President’s wife is now available.”
“She’s five-ten, douchebag. You better learn to pole-vault.”
“Aw shit.” Christian was checking his texts. “Hey, I’ve gotta re-test the Cabo first thing tomorrow. Can you swing by at eight?”
“Maybe nine,” said Spalding.
“Eight-thirty at the latest. The big man himself is coming at ten.”
“Can I stay for the show?”
Christian shook his head. “Speak of the devil,” he murmured.
He was staring past Spalding, who turned to see. It was the First Lady entering the restaurant behind a small wedge of Secret Service agents. She sat down alone at a corner table.
“God, you’re right,” said Christian. “She’s a bloody stork.”
Spalding turned back and attacked the last slice of raw wahoo. He said, “I feel sorry for the lady.”
“Sweet tan. It’s bottled bronzer, though. You can tell.”
“Is the agent dude with her now? The ex.”
“I don’t know which one’s him. Anyway, it’s too dark,” Christian said.
Their server appeared with the check and said the restaurant was closing early. As Spalding and Christian made their way to the door, they peeked sideways at the President’s chic wife, skimming the menu and sipping Chablis.
As soon as the place was empty, Mockingbird stood up and went to the ladies’ restroom, which had been cleared earlier by Agent Jennifer Rose. Posted solo in the vanity area was Keith Josephson, who within moments was summoned inside one of the stalls.
“Ahmet, what the hell?” Mockingbird said, angrily poking his chest with a finger.
“You’re the one that told me to flirt.”
“Everyone on the property is talking about you two.”
“I know, but wasn’t that the point?” Ahmet said. “To stop the rumors about us?”
“No, you’re enjoying this way too much. The woman who does my peddies, she says one of the housekeepers overheard you and Agent Rose chatty-chatting the other day. By the way, she does not have a steady boyfriend. I checked up on that.”
Ahmet was caught off guard by Mockingbird’s jealous outburst, yet still it felt good to be standing so close to her. She was wearing a perfume that smelled like a minty alpine waterfall.
“Are you sleeping with her?” she asked, further startling him.
“No, ma’am, I’m not. No!”
“Do you want to sleep with her? What if she asks for it? Tell the truth, Ahmet. Not even a quickie?”
“Same answer: No! But, again, this whole crazy thing was your idea, not mine.”
“And you told me you were a lousy actor.”
Ahmet realized he was trapped in conversation purgatory. All he could do was ride it out. A voice in his earpiece inquired about the First Lady’s prolonged restroom visit. He replied that she was retouching her mascara.
Then to her he said, “I was being honest. I am a terrible actor.”
“Are you now?” She crossed her arms and glowered. “Men are all the same. You, my pig husband, no difference.”
Ahmet bent down to kiss her, but Mockingbird turned her face away. He was hurt to see her pluck off the conch pearl earrings and theatrically drop them in the toilet, one at a time.
He fished them out and dried them with a handkerchief.
“So, Keith,” Mockingbird said, “when did you plan to tell me about the maple armoire?”
“The what?”
“The Shaker piece you promised to make for Agent Rose.”
Ahmet rocked back against the stall door, an involuntary reaction he perceived as self-incriminating. He theorized that the woodworking intel had come from the eavesdropping housekeeper.
“It’s not an armoire, it’s a writing desk,” he said thickly. “And all I told her was pine, not maple. Ordinary Georgia pine.”
“Asshole!” Mockingbird cried. The word seemed to ring off the tiles as Ahmet rushed to follow her out of the restroom.
* * *
—
Because Angie had no close girlfriends, she dragged Joel along the next morning when she went to Worth Avenue. Shopping for gowns was a new but not unsatisfying experience. Eventually she picked out a sleeveless jungle-print Versace that Joel noted was actually a dress, and probably too short for the Commander’s Ball.
“Not if I have to climb a fucking tree,” Angie said. “Do you like it or not?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty hot.”
“Eeewww, stepson.”
“Just buy the damn thing so we can get out of here,” he said.
The dress cost eighteen hundred dollars, which almost maxed out Angie’s credit card. She texted a photo of the receipt to Paul Ryskamp saying a prompt reimbursement would be appreciated.
Joel was up for tacos so the
y went across the bridge to Rocco’s, where Krista met them. She and Joel had moved back to her condo; they reported that Dustin and Alexandria weren’t getting along. Angie was proud of herself for not feeling uplifted by the news.
“She’s bugging him to build her a new horse barn,” Joel said, plainly taking his father’s side, “and attach a yoga studio.”
“Might cost be an issue?” asked Angie, without mischief.
“They’ll work it out,” was Krista’s assessment.
“Or strangle each other,” said Joel with a shrug.
Angie inquired about the sling on Krista’s right arm.
“What happens when ashtanga vinyasa is taught by an amateur,” was her weary reply. “The woman is possessed.”
“You’re a good sport,” Angie said.
They ordered beers and toasted Joel’s new assistant-manager job at Staples. He said he was scheduled to start the following week. Krista wanted to hear more about Angie’s upcoming gig at the Commander’s Ball, but Angie said she wasn’t supposed to talk about it, which was the truth.
“Are you bringing a date?” Krista asked.
“No, a machete.”
Joel said, “She isn’t joking.”
“I’m not allowed to have a gun,” Angie elaborated. “It’s the law.”
“Okay. Wow.” Krista had no follow-up questions.
After lunch, Angie got in her pickup and headed out Okeechobee Road toward the interstate. Joel and Krista were in the same lane, directly ahead in Krista’s VW sedan. They’d all stopped at the railroad tracks, waiting for a half-empty passenger train to pass, when Angie noticed who was driving the green minivan behind her.
It was Pruitt, the dumb lunatic. He had a stranglehold on the steering wheel with his good hand—gloved—and his bare prosthetic. His disguise was neon-framed shades, a dark knit cap, and an unfortunate Rasta-style beard. Under different circumstances, Angie would have burst out laughing. But clearly Pruitt was on the hunt, undaunted by the interactive bobcat experience that Angie had arranged at his sister’s place.
The crossing gates went up and traffic began to move. Angie grabbed for her phone but it fell down the crack between her seat and the console. She was taken by surprise when Pruitt flew past her and then suddenly cut back, forcing her to stomp the brakes. When she caught up to him, he was tailgating Krista’s VW.
Angie got a chill down her neck. Krista and Joel were probably busy talking, unaware of what was happening. They’d be going north on I-95, and the entry ramp was already in sight. Angie considered sideswiping Pruitt’s minivan but she decided to wait; she couldn’t risk causing a crash that might hurt other drivers.
Maybe Pruitt was putting on a show, or maybe this time he’d really unraveled. There was no way to know if he was armed, and the thought of him shooting at Krista and Joel—even if only to rattle them—terrified Angie.
She rolled up close and began tapping the minivan with the front bumper of her pickup. The poacher looked in the rearview, shaking his fist. Angie responded with a spirited double flip-off and continued bumping.
Pruitt was no longer paying attention to Joel and Krista in the VW, which was pulling away. To challenge Angie he sped up erratically, slowed down, then accelerated rapidly again. She wouldn’t back off. The next time she made contact, she heard one of her headlights shatter. By now Pruitt was so upset that he was bouncing like a beet-faced toddler in a high chair. When Angie motioned with a mocking forefinger for him to follow her, he shook his head heatedly at the mirror.
So she rammed him again and stuck out her tongue as she passed on the left side, in the crosshatched pavement between the road and the northbound interstate entrance. She was betting that Pruitt couldn’t resist chasing her, and she was right. He veered off and tailed her to the second ramp, which looped to the highway’s southbound lanes. Angie was hoping other motorists on Okeechobee were dialing 911, though she also knew that road rage was so common in South Florida that incidents falling short of a point-blank homicide were not a police priority.
Once the two vehicles merged into the torrent of cars and trucks on I-95, Pruitt dropped back so far that no one except Angie would have known he was pursuing her. Like a plump green bee, the van flitted in and out of view in her mirrors. She groped beneath her seat for the phone but couldn’t extricate it. Her next hope was to flag down a cop car—as luck would have it, she saw exactly zero on the drive between West Palm and Lake Worth.
Pruitt was less than a quarter-mile behind when Angie wheeled into the apartment complex where she lived. She didn’t park in the lot but drove headlong across the sidewalks and over the grass, mowing down a ponytail palm before stopping a few feet from her front door. She dashed inside and hurriedly assembled the most serious-looking weapon she owned: the tranquilizing rifle that she saved for bears, wild boars and other large, noose-resistant critters.
When Angie ran back out, she saw the green minivan parked behind her truck. She approached from the passenger side, the dart gun raised to her shoulder.
The van’s engine was running, the windows were open, and the radio was blasting Outlaw Country on Sirius. Nobody was in the front seat.
She called Pruitt’s name several times before stepping closer. Drops of fresh blood were visible on the gray upholstery, and a revolver lay on the floorboard between the accelerator and brake pedal. Dangling like a severed claw from the steering wheel was a clenched prosthetic hand.
Angie backed away, got the phone from her pickup truck, rushed inside, and called Chief Jerry Crosby. A few minutes later, when she peered out the window, the minivan was gone.
TWENTY-FIVE
“It was a rental,” the police chief informed Angie when she went to see him later. “The county dragged it out of Lake Mangonia this morning.”
“And Pruitt?”
“No corpse in the van. No gun, either. He hasn’t turned up at any hospitals.”
Angie sniffed the air. “I believe I smell cannabis.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure.”
They were alone in Crosby’s office at the police department. The door was shut. He looked different, like the off-switch had been flipped.
She said, “I get it, Jerry. You’re stressing big-time, and that’s allowed. I sure wouldn’t want your job.”
He took the bong out of a drawer and offered her a hit. She declined but encouraged him to fire up.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “I’d be sacked in two seconds.”
Angie asked if Paul Ryskamp had told him about her trip to the Everglades. The chief said yes, he’d been advised that a mentally unstable individual might be freeing multiple pythons on the island to disrupt the Commander’s Ball.
With a drowsy shrug he added, “The information has been shared with my officers, at least half of whom will crap their pants if they see a snake.”
“Have them call me right away. I’ll be on the property.”
“Yes, I heard,” said Crosby.
In fact, he’d just returned from the Winter White House, having been summoned to escort a woman named Suzanne Carhart Brownstein off the property through a maze of private hallways. Ms. Brownstein, an adult entertainer whose stage name was Suzi Spooner, had been fucking the President cross-eyed inside his private suite when the First Lady arrived to show him the gown she’d chosen for the Commander’s Ball. The President himself had requested the fashion preview but soon thereafter lost track of time, precipitating an awkward scenario in which the First Lady and her Secret Service agents were forced to wait outside his locked door, squeamishly enduring a chorus of bovine rutting.
Mockingbird’s composure had dissolved somewhat quickly, and she’d made her presence known vocally and also by hammering on the wall with a five-inch stiletto heel. No Secret Service personnel were available to transport the dishevele
d stripper—all agents from the backup teams were on Potussy duty—so the decision was made to call Chief Jerry Crosby, who was known as reliable and savvy. He used an unmarked police car to transport Ms. Brownstein from the presidential estate to a waterfront cabana at the Breakers, which she confided had been visited by the leader of the free world. After dropping her off, the chief had gone back to the station, retreated to his office, and, for the first time in his police career, got baked while on duty.
“What’s your guess on what happened to Pruitt?” Angie asked.
“Maybe he shoots himself by accident in the front seat.”
“But—”
“Injuring the same arm the mechanical hand is attached to.”
“So he leaves it hooked on the steering wheel? What’s with that?”
“Say he yanks it off his arm ’cause of the pain,” said Jerry Crosby. “Say the gunshot’s just a flesh wound, no major organs. He sees you coming with a rifle, bolts from the van and hides somewhere till you go back inside.”
“Maybe. But it’s still ultra-weird.”
“He will be found, one way or another. Until then, you be extra careful.”
“Yes, sir,” Angie said.
“How’s Beltrán holding up? I heard he got stabbed pretty bad.”
“And you’re surprised?”
“I’m sorry. I truly am.” The chief put the bong back in his desk. “The President of the United States wants the kid to stay locked up—a guy in my position, at the local level…you think the White House would ever listen to me? Hell, they basically gagged the state attorney.”
Angie knew Crosby was hoping for her to say she understood his dilemma, but she wouldn’t let him off the hook that easy. He could have done more; he had all the proof he needed that Diego was telling the truth—the second conch pearl from the railroad tracks, the Chevy Malibu videos. When the prosecutors had refused to act, Crosby should have gone to the damn governor.