by Carl Hiaasen
“Weeee-heeeee!” exclaimed Darrell Grant.
“I’ve got,” Moldy panted, “all kinds of connections.”
The first blow was not a punch but a chip shot. Moldy felt his nose explode. Through the mush he saw the ex-husband, poised in a one-armed backswing. This time the blade of the club caught Malcolm Moldowsky flush in the throat. Madly he gulped for a breath.
“Fore!” Darrell said.
Moldowsky shut his eyes. This was worse than being shot; the newspapers would have a field day.
He clawed uselessly at the madman’s legs. The next two swings dislocated Moldy’s lower jaw. His cheeks filled with warm blood, spit and broken orthodonture. Even if he’d decided to cry for help, he couldn’t. His face was a divot.
God, he thought, what a sorry way to die.
Is it a nine-iron or a wedge? Those fuckers in the press would make a point to find out. Oh, definitely.
The congressman offered Erin a job as his executive secretary in Washington.
“What would I do?” she asked, twirling her pearls.
“Keep my spirits up,” said David Dilbeck. “Forty-five grand a year, plus major medical.” He cradled the champagne bottle like a doll.
Looking down from the captain’s table, Erin said, “You’re so cute.” She tapped a foot on his shoulder, teasing. Dilbeck tried to kiss it. Erin reminded herself to stay alert; the dirty old geezer was halfway gone.
He said, “Is it time for the jungle toy?”
“Not just yet. You like this song?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The congressman’s head lolled, and the cowboy hat fell to the floor. He picked it up and replaced it.
Erin said, “It’s called ‘Whipping Post.’”
Dilbeck perked up. “Is that right?”
“By the Allman Brothers.”
“Well, I’ve been such a naughty boy,” he said, “I believe I could use a whipping.”
Erin continued dancing. Apparently there would be no sexual catatonics tonight; Davey was fully conscious, primed for action.
He said, “Wouldn’t you care to whip me? I’m a bad, bad boy.”
“It’s just a song, sweetie.”
“But I love you so much.”
“Of course you do.”
“Here, let me prove it.” He shoved the champagne bottle into the ice bucket, and began fumbling with the buttons of his jeans.
Erin spun away, shaking her ass to the bluesy rhythm. She thought: Off we go!
The congressman said, “Look here.”
She turned back, smiling the 500-watt smile. “It’s adorable,” she said.
He stood up, wobbly, and wiggled the limp thing in his hand. “Please touch it,” he said.
“Im a dancer, sweetie, not a urologist.” Erin kicked him lightly in the sternum, and he sagged back into the canvas chair.
He said, “God, I’ve had too much to drink. Did I give you your money?”
“You sure did.”
“And did I show you my pictures?”
“Put your little friend away,” she said.
“Then you’ll look at my pictures?”
Erin said sure. She needed a break, anyway. While David Dilbeck tucked himself in, she stepped off the table and put on her dress. She turned down the stereo, poured a ginger ale over ice and pulled up a chair. She made sure her purse was within arm’s reach.
Dilbeck opened a photo album across his lap. He tapped at an eight-by-ten picture of himself with a corpulent white-haired man. “Know who that is?”
“Tip O’Neill,” said Erin.
Dilbeck was astounded. “You are something special.”
“Former Speaker of the House.”
“Right!”
“So what do I win,” Erin said, “a dinette set?”
Beaming, the congressman said, “Tip and I are very close.”
“I can see that. It looks like you’re scratching his balls.”
Dilbeck flushed. “Please! We were at a prayer breakfast.”
Erin reached over and flipped the page. The next photograph had been taken outside the White House: Dilbeck with an arm around General Colin Powell. The general wore an expression that suggested recent taxidermy.
“This was during the Gulf War,” said Dilbeck, matter-of-factly. “Colin and the President invited certain members of Congress for a briefing. Classified, of course.”
Erin asked if they’d given out balloons. Dilbeck nearly lost his temper. “Darling,” he said, “you should have some respect.” His tone had turned chilly.
“I’m sorry, Davey.”
Rapidly he flipped through the album, jabbing at significant memories. “See here: Bill Bradley, Chris Dodd … and there’s Al D’Amato—we were on a fact-finder together in Riyadh. This one is me and Newt Gingrich—remind me to tell you my Gingrich story.”
Erin said, “I hope that’s just cheese dip on his tie.”
“You listen,” Dilbeck said, lecturing with a champagne slur, “these are important goddamn people. I’m an important person.” He slapped the album shut and raised it with both hands, as if it were a holy tablet. “These are the men who run this nation,” he said, “the men who control the fate of the world!”
Erin tried not to laugh. The poor schlub truly believed himself to be a pillar of state.
The congressman said, “It’s difficult to describe the raw power. It’s intoxifying, darling. Completely addictive. If you came with me to Washington, you’d feel it immediately. You would also understand its seductions.”
Erin said she didn’t mean to poke fun. Dilbeck laid the album on the table, and placed a hand upon it. Again he said, “These are important men.”
“Chuck Norris?”
“That was a charity benefit in Georgetown—”
“Come on, Davey—”
“For polio or something.”
“I know, but—”
“Look, Erin, it’s a matter of appreciating who I am. It’s a matter of respect.”
“Davey, you know whose picture I’d really like to see? Malcolm Moldowsky. Is he in your album?”
Dilbeck’s jaw tightened. “No, he’s not.” Then, suspiciously: “Do you know Moldy?” Was it possible? Had the little rat-fucker been holding out on him? Hurriedly Dilbeck reframed the question: “How do you know Moldy?”
“By reputation only,” Erin said with a wink.
The congressman, more perplexed than ever, cursed in a shaky drunken voice: “Stop, goddammit! Stop making fun and show some goddamn respect.”
“Respect?” Erin smiled. “Aren’t you the same gentleman who had sex with my laundry lint?”
“Let’s change the subject.”
She took him by the wrists and guided his slack hands to her breasts. Dilbeck seemed wary and apprehensive, as if anticipating an electric shock.
Erin wouldn’t let him pull away. She said, “Thrilling, huh? Two pleasant handfuls of fat.”
“Jesus—”
“That’s your basic human breast, Davey. Ninety-eight percent fat, with a cherry on top. What’s the big attraction?”
He yanked away, clenching his fists to his gut.
“Thousands of dollars,” Erin said, “just for a peek and a jiggle. It baffles me, sweetie.”
“That’s enough.” The congressman was gray, despondent. “You’re killing me. You’re killing the whole evening. Is that the plan?”
Erin said, “I’m curious, that’s all.” She told herself to settle down, hold her temper.
Dilbeck was saying, “I struggle with fleshly temptations. All men do.”
“You have a wife, Davey.”
He lunged for the champagne bucket. “Congratulations,” he snapped. “The night is officially ruined.”
Erin put on her favorite Van Morrison tape. She stripped off the dress, got on the captain’s table and began to dance again—this time, slowly. Soon David Dilbeck and his afflicted moans faded from her consciousness. The songs washed over her soul. She felt euphoric and energized.
Every move was perfect—every kick, every fluid turn, every thrust of the hip. She took the pearls in her teeth and closed her eyes, imagining moonlight.
Outside on the deck, something made a sharp noise. Erin blocked it out of her mind. She was far away, dancing on a sugary beach in the islands. Above the dune was a palm orchard, and the only sound was a soft chorus of wild birds.
Darrell Grant couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen his ex-wife without clothes. He was pretty sure it had been in the bathroom—she, washing her hair in the shower; he, covertly looting the medicine cabinet for Darvons. Long fucking time ago, Darrell thought. He’d forgotten what a nice body she had. A little puny up top but, God, what great legs! Swaying in the doorway of the cabin, crutching with the nine-iron, he felt an intriguing tingle in his groin. Amazing really, considering the high-octane pharmaceuticals he’d ingested. The male plumbing was truly an engineering marvel.
Inside the yacht was an old man wearing stiff new jeans, a striped shirt and a black ten-gallon hat. He looked shitfaced or sick, possibly both. Darrell Grant walked into the salon and sat next to the old cowboy. With his unbroken arm, he waved mischievously at his former spouse, up on the table. Darrell felt himself hardening. He leaned forward and said, “Hey, you’re pretty damn good. Let’s have a look at that sweet little pussy!”
The sight of her ex-husband hit Erin like a blast of frigid air. She thought Shad had run Darrell off for good, but here he was, fucking things up again. Amazing. His presence greatly enhanced the potential for fiasco. Erin kept dancing and stared straight through him while she weighed her next move.
Darrell Grant felt a leafy hand at his shoulder. It was the old cowboy, pulling himself up in the chair. He put his lips to Darrell’s ear and said, “You know who I am?”
The man’s breath made Darrell grimace. “Ever heard of Listerine?”
“I’m in love with this lady,” the congressman confided.
“You poor old fuck.”
“And my boots, they’re full of Vaseline.”
“I loved her once, too,” said Darrell Grant, “but all she did was cut me down.”
Dilbeck looked sympathetic. Darrell said, “Call it a basic clash of philosophies. She can be hell on your self-esteem.”
“A hard one,” the congressman agreed, “but still I’m swept away.”
He said there was plenty of club soda in the liquor cabinet, in case Darrell Grant wanted to work on those bloodstains in his shirt. Darrell said no thanks. His shattered bones had begun to throb; whaling on the well-dressed midget hadn’t helped. Darrell feared that the late Señor Gomez’s painkillers were finally wearing off. He tapped out a half dozen more, tossed them into his cheeks and guzzled lukewarm champagne until his eyes watered.
The congressman said, “I’ve got some Extra-Strength Tylenols.”
“Lord Christ.”
The Van Morrison tape ended. Erin kept going. She started singing “Carmelita,” to herself. The song was almost too slow for table dancing.
Darrell Grant attempted to hook her ankles with the nine-iron. “Where’s Angie?” he demanded. Erin eluded him.
Dilbeck said, “Let her finish. This is so beautiful.”
“Yeah, it’s a fucking ballet.” Darrell Grant grubbed in his pockets. “Hey, beautiful, this is for you!”
He lurched halfway out of the chair, and slipped something under the elastic of Erin’s lace garter. It was a nickel. Erin stopped singing and dancing. She removed the coin and held it in the palm of one hand. The two men waited to see what she would do next.
Erin was smiling in a private way as she stepped off the table, still smiling as she got dressed.
The congressman said, “I suppose we’re done for the night.”
Darrell pounded the nine-iron sharply on the table. “Erin, I want my daughter. No more goddamn games.”
“It’s over,” she said, adjusting the pearls.
“Fuck the courts,” Darrell declared. “Angie and me are headed to Arizona. Retirement Capital of North America!”
Erin opened her handbag and dropped the nickel inside. Then she took out the .32.
“Let’s go for a drive,” she said.
Darrell Grant cursed under his breath. The congressman felt a subtle contraction in his chest.
Some Saturday night, Erin thought. Me and the two men in my life. Aren’t I a lucky girl.
31
Predictably, Shad was detained at the guard booth outside Turnberry Isle. The security men remembered his earlier visit with the monkey creature on his neck; tonight they said his name appeared on no guest lists. Shad averted an unpleasant argument by producing coupons for free rum drinks and nude pasta wrestling at Orly’s club; the security men couldn’t have been more appreciative. Sgt. Al García arrived as they were waving Shad through the gate. The detective flashed his badge and coasted into the compound. He parked next to Shad, and the two men hurried together to the Sweetheart Deal.
The first thing they noticed was the blood on the deck. In the salon, García inspected the empty champagne bottles, the congressman’s photo album, and a pile of compact discs, still in their wrappings. Shad thumbed through a stack of cassettes left on the stereo cabinet.
“These are hers,” he said.
They searched the staterooms and found no bodies, no other signs of violence. Erin and the congressman were gone.
“Mierda,” said Al García. He went out to the deck and examined the brownish splatters. Apparently the victim had been dragged, then lifted off the deck. García felt a shudder of nausea; it wasn’t the sight of the blood, but the thought of whose it might be. Shad was on the dangerous edge of cold rage. He gripped the rail and stared hauntedly into the tea-colored water. His pinkish skull glistened with perspiration, and he hissed ominously when he inhaled.
García said, “Don’t assume too much.”
A rumble came from Shad. “Yeah. What’s a little blood.”
The detective stepped across to the dock. On his knees: “There’s more here. Know what that means?”
“He didn’t dump her over the side. So what?”
A fifty-three-foot Hatteras convertible was moored next to the Rojos’ yacht. García wanted to check it out. Shad located a flashlight on the bridge of the Sweetheart Deal. They boarded the fishing boat together and found more freckles of blood in the cockpit, near the fighting chairs. There was also the smudge of a partial footprint: the rounded heel of a man’s boot.
Morosely, Shad said, “That’s our boy.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Al García pointed at the fishbox. “You want me to do the honors?”
“If you don’t mind.” Shad looked away.
The detective unfastened the latches and threw open the lid.
Buoyant with relief, he said: “Surprise, surprise!”
Shad turned to see. “Who the hell is that?”
“One of the most powerful men in Florida.”
“Not anymore.”
“No,” Al García said. “He be deceased.”
Malcolm J. Moldowsky had fit easily into the fishbox, which he shared with three glassy-eyed bonitos. The aroma of the dead fish failed to overpower Moldy’s imported cologne.
“I don’t get it,” Shad said.
“The bonitos probably are shark bait for tomorrow,” García speculated. “Mr. Moldowsky is a late addition to the buffet.”
Shad leaned in for a closer look. “This is the famous Melvin Moldowsky?”
“Malcolm,” García said, “in the past tense.”
“Nice threads.”
“Feel better now?”
“About a million percent,” said Shad. “Who did it?”
García shook his head. “Maybe Dilbeck went batshit.”
“Don’t say that.”
They were worried about Erin. Whoever had bludgeoned Moldowsky owned a monstrous temper. Shad frowned at the mutilated corpse. “I guess you gotta call somebody.”
“Not right this minute.” Al García clo
sed the fishbox. “He’ll keep.”
They returned to the Sweetheart Deal and searched the salon more carefully. Based on the volume of champagne consumed, García calculated that the congressman was too drunk to drive. “He’s got the limo,” Shad said. “The girls saw it at the club.”
“So the question,” said the detective, “is where are they now.”
The clue was in the head, where Erin had written in lipstick on the narrow mirror: BELLE GLADE. Shad growled profanely while García fished a gold bracelet from the toilet. Watching the jewelry drip, he said, “She’s got a temper, doesn’t she? A simple ‘no thanks’ would’ve done the trick.”
As they hustled to the cars, Shad asked García to radio ahead for help. García told him he’d been watching too much TV. “First off, that’s Palm Beach County, which is way out of my territory. Second, what do I tell ’em, chico?” Facetiously he rehearsed the phone call: “See, guys, there’s this stripper who’s been abducted by this congressman who’s taking her to fucking Belle Glade, of all places, in a goddamn stretch Cadillac. Yes, I said ‘congressman.’ Yes, Belle Glade. Why? Well, we ain’t too sure. But we’d appreciate six or seven marked units, if you can spare ’em….”
“Fuck it,” Shad muttered.
“As much as cops love strippers, they hate politicians,” García said. “They hear it’s Dilbeck, they’ll all be oh-six. Off duty and unavailable.”
“So we’re the whole damn cavalry.”
“Mind if I drive?”
“Sure,” Shad said, “you’re the one with the siren.”
Darrell Grant had never ridden in a limousine. He was enjoying it so thoroughly that the circumstances seemed irrelevant. He accepted the fact that his former wife was holding him at gunpoint.
Darrell said to Dilbeck: “This your car?”
The congressman nodded. “It’s made available for my use.”
“What do you do? What’s your gig?”
“I’m a member of the House of Representatives.”
“Which means …?”
“I represent the people of South Florida in Congress. And yourself?”
“I steal wheelchairs,” Darrell Grant replied.
Dilbeck glanced plaintively toward Erin, who sat on the bench seat across from the two men. The congressman’s roses lay next to her. She held the gun steady in her right hand.
