by Carl Hiaasen
Mastodon stared back with a bewitched, child-like expression. Even as his Secret Service team hustled him away, he continued raptly gazing over one shoulder at the surreal, unblinking behemoth.
Later, crossing the north courtyard, the President and his security detail encountered the First Lady with her retinue.
“My God, what happened to you?” Mockingbird said to her husband. “Your face looks like a baboon’s ass.”
Thereby establishing beyond any doubt that she hadn’t forgiven him for subjecting her to Suzi Spooner’s sex yelps while she’d waited in her new Tom Ford gown outside his suite.
“It was the goddamn tanning bed,” he mumbled swollenly. One of his agents handed him the replica tribal mask. Another produced the top hat, slightly dented.
Mastodon took both items and said, “All right, now we can go back to the ballroom.”
His wife shrugged. “Sure. Fine.”
“No, Mr. President, it’s too risky,” his lead agent interjected. “You and the First Lady should return to your quarters until the grounds are secure.”
“Aw, fuck that shit,” Mastodon said. “I’m not missing my own party.”
Mockingbird turned to Agent Ahmet Youssef. “What do you think, Keith?”
Ahmet, who had a crick in his neck from the Chesterfield romp, refitted his earpiece so that he could better hear the ongoing chatter about the reptile in the pavilion. He reported that the situation appeared to be under control, and that there was no longer a threat.
Mockingbird testily motioned for her husband to line up at her side for their standard amicable-couple entrance. Hoping for a thaw in attitude, he said, “The pink earrings look fantastic with that gown.”
“These pearls? They’re my faves,” she said. “Give me your hand. Let’s get this over with.”
* * *
—
That’s a shame about your dress, Angie heard over and over in the bathroom.
“Will those stains come out?” one woman asked.
“Unlikely.”
“Listen, dear, I’ve got a phenomenal dry cleaner on the mainland.”
“It’s snake blood,” Angie said. “But thanks anyway.”
She washed up as well as she could. The decapitation had been clean—one hard swipe of the machete—but she still got splattered.
Fuck the Versace. That animal was so big and beautiful.
She sat in a stall and cried for a while. The python’s problem was being on the wrong continent; her problem was being in the wrong state of mind. A job was a job.
Using the pistol would have been easier but way more dangerous; Paul Ryskamp was right—there were too many bystanders. Angie had waited to make her move until the crowd grew bored and started filtering back toward the ballroom. After a while the snake rose higher—tilting its nose upward, as if sniffing the flowers in the trellis—and remained fatefully extended in that surrreal, perpendicular pose. Angie wondered about the acid trip it was experiencing, what kind of hallucinations might visit such a primeval brain.
Oh well, she thought. The end was quick.
She dried her tears, fixed her eyeliner, and walked out of the restroom. Ryskamp was pacing outside, speaking into his sleeve. He accompanied Angie to her pickup so she could stow the gun and the machete, and retrieve her first-aid kit. Along the way they could hear the President’s reboot of the Commander’s Ball, a second “Hail to the Chief” melting improbably into “Bennie and the Jets.”
After locking the truck, Angie followed Ryskamp to Casa Bellicosa’s storied billiard room. There she began stitching up the violently pruned left ear of Fay Alex Riptoad, who was too vain to let herself be seen by any of the prominent physicians attending the event, especially the widowers.
“You look too young to be a plastic surgeon,” Fay Alex commented from the antique snooker table upon which she’d been placed.
“Hold still, please. This won’t take long,” Angie said.
“Where’d you go to school?”
“The University of Florida.”
“And where’d you intern?”
“At a spay clinic in Daytona,” said Angie. “I’m a vet. Well, was.”
“Very funny.” Thanks to Fay Alex’s disproportionate intake of alprazolam and vodka, she barely noticed the needle pokes and suturing.
“The hell happened to your dress?” she grumbled at Angie.
“I guess I got my period.”
“That’s disgusting. Would you make a joke like that in front of your mother?”
“Mrs. Riptoad, did you see the second Tyson-Holyfield fight?”
“What on God’s earth are you talking about?”
“Check it out on YouTube,” Angie said. “Just one more stitch, okay? This one might sting.”
Later she and Ryskamp took a walk to the farthest end of the seawall. The outdoor speakers, laboriously disguised as foliage, were now blaring The Collusionists’ intrepid take on “Climb Every Mountain,” the President being a fan of Broadway show tunes.
“It took five guys to carry the damn thing,” Ryskamp said to Angie, “but the dead snake’s in the back of your truck.”
“Have any more shown up tonight?”
“Not here.” He told her about the pythons at the other private Palm Beach clubs.
“Give me the addresses. I need to go.”
“No, you don’t. Jerry Crosby shot ’em all.”
“Personally?” Angie was trying to envision it.
“I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t impressed,” Ryskamp said. “There’s no sign anywhere of your mad hermit, by the way. Nobody’s got a clue how he pulled this whole thing off, but it’s already blowing up on social media. The mayor’s freaking.”
“Jerry’s a good guy.”
“They’ll fire his ass anyway.”
“He can do better,” said Angie.
“Sorry about your Versace.”
“Are you shitting me, Paul?”
“I’ve got a confession to make.”
“Don’t tell me you guys aren’t really paying for it.”
Ryskamp thought that was funny. “You will definitely be reimbursed. No, Angie, this is something else.”
“Hope your mic’s off.”
“It is,” he said, stepping closer. “Nobody on the President’s staff ever said you couldn’t wear your Steve Irwin outfit tonight. That was just me.”
“You made it up? Why?”
“Because I knew you’d look incredible in a dress like that, and you do. Well, you did.”
“Fucker.” Angie felt herself blush; at least he didn’t say she looked amazing. “You tricked me,” she said, “and for that I deserve a hot lingering kiss.”
“Later. Promise.” Ryskamp tapped at his earpiece. “The First Lady’s lead agent just contacted me.”
“Her lover, you mean.”
“For some reason, she wants to meet you,” Ryskamp said.
“Oh, does she?”
“Like right now.”
“What an honor,” said Angie.
* * *
—
As Mockingbird took her seat at the table, her husband went to the men’s room to snort the last of Stanleigh Cobo’s secret dick powder. The first bump had failed its hydraulic mission and, according to Suzi Spooner, smelled like jock-itch talc.
Still, she had gamely promised Mastodon a chance to rebound.
He laid out the rails on the top of his hat, took two sniffs, and sat down on the toilet to scroll through all the adulatory tweets he was receiving. An audio clip of his fiery opening remarks had been posted on the White House website and was now exploding on the internet. Mastodon cackled as he read one worshipful comment after another from his easily incited fans.
Among the places that the broadcast caus
ed a stir was the TV room of the Palm Beach County Jail, where inmate Diego Beltrán had listened to the President’s words, swallowed six hundred milligrams of Ambien, and passed out lifeless on the floor. The news was relayed first to Police Chief Jerry Crosby, who chose to share it selectively.
When Mastodon returned to the ballroom to join his wife, the patriotically bedecked Potussies aligned on stage to perform their tribute. Those who’d been bold enough to ask Fay Alex Riptoad why she’d put on a veil had been told it was a historically accurate re-creation of an Abigail Adams favorite. If anyone noticed her bandaged ear beneath the burgundy lacing, they didn’t mention it.
Behind his tribal mask, the President beamed as the Potussies began to sing.
Roll on, roll on
You big unimpeachable you
Mockingbird leaned toward her husband and, without moving her lips, whispered, “They sound hideous.”
“Are you kidding? It’s a fantastic song.”
“Pure torture.” She reached for her purse and stood up.
“You can’t leave in the middle of their big number!” Mastodon protested. “You and I are supposed to have the first dance.”
“Ask your nutritionist,” Mockingbird said. “Or does she require a pole?”
Outside, the Intracoastal was flat, the cloudless sky sprayed with stars. Crossing the west lawn, the First Lady felt a chill and wished she’d brought a wrap. Ahmet Youssef and Special Agent Jennifer Rose led her entourage, and no flirting was observed—in fact, the two hardly exchanged a word. Mockingbird allowed herself a bittersweet smirk; Miss Blondie would have to find someone else to build her a Shaker writing desk.
They walked all the way to the end of the seawall, where a pair of figures stood beside a flickering tiki torch. One of them turned out to be Paul Ryskamp. The other was a tired-looking younger woman in a sleeveless, bloodstained Versace.
“Are you the one who sent me the note?” Mockingbird asked her.
“That’s me. Thanks for coming.”
“What note?” Ahmet said.
The First Lady held up a Casa Bellicosa cocktail napkin, folded in half to cover the message. “I found it under my soup bowl.”
“May I see it?” Ahmet held out his hand.
Mockingbird shook her head. “No, you may not.”
“Oh, relax,” the young woman said to the agent, “it’s not like I spit in the lobster bisque.”
“Can I have your name, ma’am?”
“Yes, sir, it’s Angela Armstrong. I prefer Angie.”
Paul Ryskamp spoke up: “This is the wildlife expert we brought aboard to handle the python fuckery. She’s been cleared.”
Mockingbird told Ahmet that she wished to speak alone with the woman. “This concerns you, too,” she said to him under her breath.
The agents stepped away, all except Ahmet and Ryskamp forming a wide, protective half-circle on the grass. A patrol boat flashing its lights slowed to an idle no more than fifty yards off the seawall, in case the President’s wife somehow wound up in the water.
Ahmet and Ryskamp positioned themselves at the next tiki torch down the line and muted their microphones.
“Your tie’s crooked,” Ryskamp said.
Ahmet’s face reddened but he kept his eyes fixed on Mockingbird. She liked to knot his necktie for him when they got dressed after making love.
“You’re not my problem anymore,” Ryskamp told him. “This is my last week.”
Ahmet nodded. “I heard. Why are you retiring? They pushing you out?”
“Hell, no. I just can’t work for this ignorant clown anymore.”
“Yeah. I get that.”
“You see what he did to his face?” Ryskamp said. “He looks like one of those gargoyles in Ghostbusters.”
“They said it was an accident in the tanning bed.”
“There was no evidence of tampering but, still, what the fuck?”
Ahmet laughed quietly. “Where’d he come up with that awesome African mask?”
“Unbelievable,” Ryskamp agreed. Then, after a pause, he said, “Look, man, I hate to see a career like yours go down in flames, but that’s your future if you don’t break it off with Mockingbird.”
“You don’t understand how it feels to fall this hard.”
“I’ve been with women who wouldn’t leave their husbands for me, and she ain’t leaving him for you.”
“Just wait,” Ahmet said.
“Jesus Christ, I give up.”
“When’s the last time you fell in love, Paul?”
“I don’t know. A few days ago?” Ryskamp turned and fondly looked down the seawall toward Angie Armstrong, whose torch-lit expression indicated she wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the First Lady of the United States.
* * *
—
She was absurdly tall, gorgeous and poised, but Angie saw turbulence in her eyes.
“That’s a shame about your dress,” the First Lady said.
“Have you ever been blackmailed before?”
“Is that what’s happening here?”
“I’m not judging you. Agent Keith is a great-looking guy,” Angie said. “Sorry, I mean Ahmet. Plus, your husband’s screwing a stripper who’s writing a book about it. That’s never good for a marriage.”
Thinking: Thank you, Paul.
Mockingbird said, “The dumb whore couldn’t write a Post-it note.”
“Oh, but I smell a best seller.”
Angie was trying to be civil, and falling short. She was upset by Jerry Crosby’s phone call. The sight of Venus, a bright amber twinkle in the western sky, made her feel a little better. So did the sound of randy Cuban tree frogs screaking to one another in the bromeliads. Then a school of frantic mullet detonated like a pinwheel beside the seawall, chased by a hungry tarpon.
The First Lady said, “What do you want? Money?”
“Not a dime.”
“Then it’s not really blackmail, is it?”
“Hard bargain sounds better. That work for you?” Angie took another napkin from her shoulder bag and handed it to the President’s wife. “I’m pretty sure you know who this is, but I also wrote down his inmate number and cell block. At this very minute he’s in the medical wing at the jail, and I haven’t heard if he’s dead or alive. All I know is he tried to kill himself, thanks to your lying puke-bucket of a husband.”
Mockingbird read the name aloud: “Diego Beltrán. Isn’t he the one who—”
“Quiet!” Angie raised a finger. “The man had nothing to do with the death of Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons. The prosecutors know that. So does the police chief and the Secret Service. So will everybody else, soon enough.”
“But what’s this got to do with me?”
“I know you’re not a stupid person, so why would you ask such a stunningly stupid question?”
The look on the First Lady’s face confirmed that she hadn’t been spoken to that way in a long, long time.
Angie said, “You know TMZ, right? The tabloid website.”
“I’ve seen their TV show.”
“Excellent. Now, if you do what I ask, I promise that nobody at TMZ will get a detailed, anonymous tip about your relationship with Agent Keith-slash-Ahmet, or the President’s sloppy affair with Suzi Whatever-the-hell-she-calls-herself. That’s my end of the bargain.”
Mockingbird blinked once, slowly. “And what’s mine?”
“First: If Diego Beltrán pulls through tonight, you make sure he’s released from jail within twenty-four hours. Second: You get Immigration to fast-track his application for political asylum. Third: A statement comes out that exonerates him completely—doesn’t have to come from the White House. DHS is fine.”
“DHS?” Mockingbird said.
Angie rolled her eyes. “Department of Homeland Secu
rity. Read much?”
“You don’t have to be such a cunt.”
“Girl, this is me being nice.”
“What about the stripper’s book?”
“Write her a check for an outlandish sum,” Angie suggested, “in exchange for shredding the manuscript.”
Mockingbird’s cheeks burned and her throat was as dry as ash. She said, “So, you want me to speak with the President about Beltrán.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What if he refuses to do anything?”
“Here we go again with the dumb questions,” Angie said impatiently. “Apparently, Ahmet-slash-Keith is crazy about you, and I bet you care enough about him that you don’t want to wreck what you have together—or ruin his life—which is just the beginning of what will happen if this avalanche of shit breaks loose. I predict media frenzy and a royal goat fuck. Him. You. The President.”
Mockingbird touched a tissue to the corners of her eyes. It wasn’t an act.
She said, “Why do you care what happens to some random Diego? I mean, who are you?”
Angie gave her a business card.
The First Lady looked annoyed, as if she were being punked.
“ ‘Discreet Captures’? Is this, like, a joke?”
“Nope. You got skunks in your garbage, I’m the one to call,” said Angie. “Now please go talk to your husband.”
She turned and waved an arm at Paul Ryskamp and Ahmet Youssef, who came striding side-by-side down the seawall.
“All done?” Ryskamp asked.
“I believe so,” the First Lady said.
“We are,” said Angie. “Where’s Jerry? Never mind, I’ll find him.”
She went to the Grand Ballroom and peeked through a doorway. The band had taken a break while servers poured coffee and cleared the remnants of the huckleberry mousse. Some guests were milling about the dance floor, and many more were standing in line at the open bars. Fay Alex Riptoad and the Potussies had posted up near their Secret Service escorts at the foot of the stage, soliciting raves for their performance. Angie didn’t see the President at the head table; she assumed he was in mingle mode, milking the donors. She tried to call Chief Jerry Crosby but he didn’t answer.