by Carl Hiaasen
Bang Abbott was steaming. "Twenty-five grand is a joke. Do you have any fucking idea what this girl Ann knows about Cherry Pye? The damage she can do?"
"I can probably jack 'em up to fifty if maybe you slide five my way," said Chemo. "Also, I strongly advise you don't hurt the actress unless you want to die extra slow, and skinned out like a damn trout." Ominously he hoisted the vinyl-cloaked weed whacker.
Bang Abbott dropped back a step. "Christ, I'm not a killer!"
"Well, I am. Where's she at now?"
"She's safe, swear to God. Asleep in the car."
Chemo had stopped walking again, due to the unexpected presence among the power tanners and Frisbee tossers of at least a dozen uniformed law-enforcement personnel. Some were Miami Beach cops and some were Customs and some were Border Patrol. The photographer turned clammy with fear, the Colt feeling like an anchor on the frayed waistband of his trousers.
Cool as ice, Chemo said, "Hey, Slim, check this out."
The object of the officers' interest was a blue-over-white Donzi speedboat that somebody had beached at high speed during the night. Tourists were clustered around, snapping pictures with their cell phones. The boat had trenched across the sand and now lay canted to its port side, thirty yards from the waterline, a row of empty Land Shark bottles aligned neatly on the transom. Nobody was on board, and the cops seemed eager to locate the driver and/or passengers.
"Talk about drunk," Bang Abbott said.
Chemo surmised it was a smuggling operation. "They bring Haitians over from Bimini," he explained.
"And just leave the damn boat?"
"All the time."
"Crazy," said Bang Abbott.
Chemo turned and headed back in the opposite direction, the photographer at his heels.
"Go back and tell your people I don't want their money, I want Cherry."
"Or what?" the bodyguard asked.
"Don't worry. I got a plan."
"Shit for brains is all you got."
A seagull had caught sight of Chemo's exotic hairpiece and began dive-bombing for nest material. As Bang Abbott tried in vain to shoo away the bird, Chemo smoothly unveiled the yard trimmer attached to his stumped left elbow joint. He touched the switch and, with one sweeping motion, he annihilated the gull in mid-swoop. Clumps of mulched feathers fell like sticky snow upon a group of lotion-drenched French models, who began to squeal disharmoniously.
To Bang Abbott, Chemo said, "Fifty grand's a lot of money, Slim."
"No can do," said the shaken photographer, and started running as fast as his gelatinous legs would push him toward Ocean Drive.
15
The assistant day manager of the Comfort Inn was named Vincent. He liked his job. The speed was just right, leaving him plenty of energy at night for cruising the clubs, where he dealt Ecstasy, roofies and bootleg Cialis. Somehow the money was always gone by dawn, so Vincent was grateful for his gig at the motel.
He was slouched in front of his laptop, downloading some particularly extreme porn, when a street person appeared at the check-in desk. The man was quite tall and he had a fake eye that looked like it came from a stuffed moose. He was dressed in a crusty trench coat and wore two ratty gray braids growing at odd measures from his shaved scalp. The braids were garnished with colored plastic cylinders.
"Good morning," the man said.
Vincent smiled neutrally. "I'm sorry. We have no rooms available."
"I don't need a room. I need information."
"We're not hiring at the moment," Vincent said, at which point the street person reached over and confiscated Vincent's laptop, which was by far the most valuable thing he owned. Vincent hopped to his feet and said, "Give it back or I'll call the cops!"
The man asked Vincent if his boss was aware that he was jerking off to gang-bang videos on company time.
"Gimme that back!" Vincent cried and lunged across the check-in desk, but the street person was surprisingly agile.
"Isn't this supposed to be a family establishment?" the man said. He snapped the laptop shut. "I'll give this to the police when they show up. They'll want to see all the filth."
Vincent believed that his boss--the manager, who was due to arrive any minute--would react poorly if the lobby was full of cops, and even more poorly if the cops were gathered around Vincent's laptop watching Jenna Jameson do a frat-house pledge class.
"What do you want, dude?" he asked.
The street person said, "Man named Claude checked in late last night. What's the room number? He had a young woman with him."
Vincent logged on to the motel's desktop. "Here it is--Claude Abbott. They're in 432."
"How'd he pay?"
"AmEx," Vincent said.
"You're kidding."
"We don't take cash after midnight. You want me to call up to the room and tell 'em you're here?"
"Just give me a key, son. It's a surprise."
"Okay, what about my laptop?"
"When I'm done," said the street person.
"Done with what, dude?"
"Socializing." The man took the key card and went to the elevator. He kept Vincent's laptop pinned under one arm.
As soon as Vincent was alone, he darted from behind the desk and hurried toward the parking lot to intercept his boss, if necessary. He had no desire to call the police, who would inevitably run his name in their database and learn he was on probation for grand theft, a drunken transgression involving a golf cart, a tow chain and an ATM machine. Vincent had neglected to mention the episode on his employment application.
Seeing no sign of the boss's car, he hustled back to the lobby and assumed his duty position at the check-in counter. Moments later, the street person stepped off the elevator and informed him that Room 432 had been vacated; Mr. Abbott and his companion were gone.
"I never even saw 'em," Vincent said, "and I got here at seven-fifteen."
"There was a phone in the toilet bowl."
"Don't look at me!"
"I'll need his credit card slip." The stranger motioned with two fingers.
"Man, you know I can't do that."
The street person said, "Okay." He sat on the floor and tugged off one of his rancid sneakers and started pummeling the shell of the laptop until Vincent surrendered the paper invoice upon which Claude Abbott's American Express information was imprinted.
"Thank you, son," the man said. He returned the dented computer to Vincent, who with both arms clinched it to his chest.
"What's your problem?" he hissed angrily at the stranger.
The man took a beer bottle from an inside pocket of his coat, sucked down the dregs and placed the empty on the counter. "I hope you recycle," he said.
Cherry Pye's mother and father weren't the only Buntermans who were counting on Skantily Klad to be a megahit. Each of Cherry's deadbeat brothers held a bogus high-paying position with her personal management company, and none was intellectually equipped to go out and find a real job. Leonard, the eldest, lived in Steamboat Springs and spoke to his famous sister maybe once or twice a year, whenever his stash of autographed swag ran out. The middle brother, Adam, divided his time between Barbados and Cabo, and communicated with the family mainly through bank transfer notices. The youngest of the boys, twenty-three-year-old Joshua, had a gallery in La Jolla dedicated to homoerotic sculpture and watercolors on butcher paper, painted with the tail of his deaf Persian cat.
The former Cheryl Bunterman had no idea what level of cash flow was necessary to keep herself and her moocher siblings afloat. However, Ned Bunterman, who managed the books, was keenly aware that the family's lifestyle would change immoderately if Skantily Klad bombed. The money--all that money from the other albums!--finally had dried up, and the Buntermans were rapidly burning through Cherry's seven-figure advance for Skantily.
Janet Bunterman told him to quit worrying. "The record's going to be huge. Where are you, by the way?"
"Palm Springs, remember? My tee time's in twenty minutes. The lupus fund-ra
iser?"
Janet Bunterman thought: Right. Whatever.
"The tour hasn't sold out," her husband noted gravely, "not even the Garden. I spoke to Maury."
"Why do you have to be so negative, Ned? It's not Cherry, it's the economy. I heard Springsteen was down seven percent."
Ned Bunterman said, "You heard wrong, darling. The Jonas Brothers were up, too. Coldplay, way up. And Britney's still selling out arenas, even after those gross beach pictures." A British paparazzo using a sniper-grade scope had spotted the singer sunbathing in an ill-chosen tank suit in the Maldives.
"Just wait till the CD comes out," Janet Bunterman said. "We'll sell out the Garden and everyplace else. They'll be adding shows, you watch."
Her husband didn't bring up Spin magazine's ugly advance review, which rechristened the record "Skankily Klad." It was a blessing that Cherry didn't like to read.
He said, "A publicity bump would really help."
"The tattoo photos are getting tons of Web hits," reported Janet Bunterman. "I mean, sure, the stupid thing looks like a cattle brand, and I'm absolutely furious with her for messing up her beautiful neckline, but the Google hits are off the chart."
"If only all those people were buying tickets to the show," Ned Bunterman said, "but they're not, Janet. We need something to move the needle." He noted disapprovingly that the Larks were several days behind on Cherry's blog, which they took turns writing.
"They've been tied up on this Annie thing," his wife explained.
"Speaking of which, Maury expects us to pay the so-called ransom. Were you aware of that? When I suggested that the money could come from the label's promotion budget, he went ballistic. He said Jailbait Records doesn't negotiate with criminals."
"That's ridiculous--the music industry would collapse if it weren't for the criminals!"
"Exactly," Ned Bunterman said. "But Maury won't budge. He said this one's all on the family."
Cherry's mother was aggravated. "This security guy, Chemo, he says he can persuade the kidnapper--stalker, whatever--to take fifty grand. Seventy-five for sure."
"That's too much," Ned Bunterman declared. He was thinking about his long wine-tasting weekends with the kinky Danish couple, and how grateful they always were when he picked up the tab for dinners and spas.
"I agree. Way too much," said Janet Bunterman. She was thinking about her thrice-weekly tennis lessons and what usually followed, and how accustomed her pro had become to those thousand-dollar tips she tucked in his jock.
Ned Bunterman said he had to go find his golf shoes. "Tell Mr. Chemo that fifty is our limit. End of story."
"Problem is, we can't afford to make Annie mad. We seriously can't."
Janet Bunterman didn't need to spell it out. On the other end of the line, her husband cleared his throat. "You're certain she's still alive? You said you heard a gunshot during the last phone call--"
"No, she's alive. She called again today." Janet Bunterman tried not to sound disappointed. She'd been telling herself that she wasn't as coldhearted as the Larks, that she'd never truly wished for something awful to happen to Ann DeLusia. On the other hand, the photographer who had abducted her was obviously hinky and unpredictable. There was no guarantee that he would uphold his end of the deal, regardless of how much money he was paid. The Buntermans were compelled to be cautious.
"The ransom thing," Ned Bunterman said, "wasn't that our idea?"
"Correct. He never asked for any money."
"Just for Cherry, right? A private shoot."
"Ned, what are you thinking? Don't even say it."
"Worst-case scenario--"
"No!"
"Hear me out," said Cherry's father.
Hostage keeping was hard work, and Bang Abbott felt exhausted. Watching his captive sleep off the Ambiens didn't help. He tried to rouse himself by recounting--as he did many times each day--the tryst with Cherry Pye aboard the private jet. It was a pleasant exercise that usually buoyed Bang Abbott's spirits, but not in his current state of fatigue and self-doubt.
The scheme to exchange Ann for Cherry appeared to be in tatters, and the more he thought about the ransom offer transmitted by the ghoulish one-armed bodyguard, the less insulting it seemed. He could skate away from this mess with fifty grand, tax-free, and no chance of going to prison. Cherry's handlers would take the necessary steps to ensure that the actress wouldn't press charges or peddle her kidnapping story to the media. They'd make it up to her, big-time, because they would have no choice.
Meanwhile, Bang Abbott would rejoin the maggot mob and get back in the hunt for Lindsay, Paris, Nicole, Kim, Katie, Kate, Katy, Posh, Star, Mischa, Penelope, Jen, Julia, Jessica, Reese, Winona, Gisele, Heidi, Miley ... No!
He didn't want to go back to the street.
Cherry Pye was his destiny; the definitive portfolio.
Her final days, in pictures.
The photographer felt something brush against his leg and he kicked at it, eliciting a wounded cry. He opened his eyes--Christ, had he dozed off?--and saw Ann recoiling beside him in the car, her nose bloodied.
"Way to go," she snuffled.
He looked down and saw the Colt lying where she had dropped it near the brake pedal, after he'd accidentally booted her in the schnoz. She must have been stretching across from the passenger side, trying to swipe the gun from beneath his seat.
The sneaky little twat! He should've left her in the trunk.
Ann flipped down the visor and examined her injury in the vanity mirror. She sighed. "This is lovely. Goes with the tatt."
"Hey, I didn't do it on purpose." Bang Abbott rummaged through his camera bag for a box of lens tissues, which he handed to her.
Packing both nostrils, she said, "I never understood you guys. What a scuzzy way to make a living."
"Babe, we're just feedin' the beast. Soon as nobody cares about Hollywood anymore, we're all out of business." He started the car and steered down the ramp. "They all bitch about the paparazzi, but guess what? They'd totally freak if just one night they came out of a club and we weren't there. Because then they'd know they were done. Over."
Ann said, "So you see yourself as an affirmative presence, not a low-down bloodsucker."
Bang Abbott barked a scornful laugh. "You don't get it. They need us more than we need them."
"Keep telling yourself that." Ann spoke like she had a clothespin on her nose. "I saw a clip on TV, some movie star--I forget who, some bottle blonde--she's picking up her little boy from school and there's, like, twenty of you A-holes waiting in the bushes. I mean seriously, Claude, that's your life? The poor kid was maybe seven years old."
The photographer knew it was a useless debate; for an actress, Ann was incredibly naive. He himself was a veteran of many daycare stakeouts. One time he'd barely escaped arrest after an encounter with a well-known nanny who took a vicious swing at him, causing her to lose her grip on the young daughter of either Jamie Lynn Spears or Jennifer Garner. The little bugger landed in a sandbox, smack on her noggin, and immediately started squealing like a pig in a wood chipper. The nanny dialed 911 and Bang Abbott ran off; he didn't shoot a single frame, and he never found out whose kid he'd been surveilling.
"Everybody's fair game. No rules," he said. Some people couldn't fathom how he did what he did, but he'd never lost a minute of sleep. His was a legitimate industry, trafficking in the vulgarities of fame.
Ann shook her head. "It's not your pits that stink, Claude, it's your soul."
"Harsh."
"Yeah, well."
He passed his cell phone to her. "Call Cherry's old lady again. Tell her no more dicking around."
The conversation was brief and unproductive. It was Ann's impression that Janet Bunterman was trying hard to sound concerned.
"Does he at least let you pee?" she inquired.
"In a supervised setting."
"What about the gun?"
"Five bullets left," Ann said. "He wants an answer right now."
"We're still
working up some options."
"Janet, I swear to God."
"Stall him," Cherry's mother suggested.
"Right. We'll play some Scrabble. Take your sweet goddamn time."
"Annie, please--I mean please--this is our A-number one top priority. Call back a little later, okay?"
Ann tossed the phone into Bang Abbott's lap. She said, "I'm so over these people."
"Nothing?"
"She says they're still working up an offer. Unbelievable."
The photographer said, "Well, screw that."
He found another parking garage, chose another empty floor and again locked his hostage in the trunk of the rental. This time she wasn't sedated, so there was plenty of complaining.
Afterward Bang Abbott walked to Pubes, which wouldn't open for hours. He poked around the Dumpster in the back alley, near the rear entrance to the VIP room, and soon spotted what he was looking for. Gingerly he placed it in a plastic bag.
Next he went shopping. Handcuffs were easy to find; there was a sex boutique on Fifth Street. However, the clothes were a problem--he didn't know Ann's size, and the clerk at the consignment shop was useless. Later, in a second-floor room at a Marriott, Bang Abbott showed Ann the new ensemble.
She said, "Great. I'll look like a Mennonite bridesmaid."
After a hot shower--he allowed her five full minutes alone--she tried on the cotton dress, which hung down to her shins and fit like a tent. It was mousy gray with a pale crosshatch pattern, and buttoned primly up the front. For footwear Bang Abbott had selected a pair of plain brown flats that were two sizes too large.
"How much did all this set you back, Claude? Thirty, forty bucks?"
He said, "Maybe you want to sleep in that nasty black rag for a few more days."
She eyed the gamy cocktail dress on the floor and shook her head.
"I didn't think so," he said.
The sight of the handcuffs drew sarcastic commentary, which Bang Abbott ignored. He led Ann to the bathroom, which was still steamy from the shower, and told her to sit on the floor. After rolling up the right sleeve of her dress, he cuffed her wrist to the bare pipe behind the toilet bowl.
