by Carl Hiaasen
When Uric placed the call, he was assigned a number-and-letter code as identification. Confident of claiming the huge reward, he wrote out the sequence on his left wrist using a black Sharpie.
Although he was demonstrably smarter than Prince Paladin, Uric still wasn’t bright enough to see that pinning a front-page murder on a soon-to-be-deceased partner wouldn’t cause the police to stop investigating. Likewise he failed to realize that mentioning the titty bar on the tip-line recording was both unnecessary and problematic.
Cops enjoy interviewing strippers, who are often funnier and more forthcoming than fully dressed witnesses. Eleven nude dance clubs were licensed in the county, and Prime Vegas Showgirls happened to be first on the list compiled by the two detectives assigned to check out Uric’s tip. Inevitably, they were drawn to the six-foot Russian dancer with matching Jiminy Cricket tats. Without hesitation she identified a mug shot of Prince Paladin—whose real name was Keever Bracco—as one of two white customers that had blown all their cash at the club on a recent night.
One detective said, “Tell us about the other guy.”
“Black hair, brown eyes,” the dancer recalled. “He was the man that paid for champagne. He really liked me.” She pointed with a jade mica fingernail to the center of her forehead. “Was dimple right here.”
“A dimple?” the other detective said. “You mean a scar.”
“Did not feel to me like scar. More like hole.”
“Was the man tall or short?”
“Yes, tall,” she said.
“American or Latino?”
“Yes, American.”
“Did either of them say their names?”
“I don’t remember names,” the dancer lied.
By then, Uric—whose forehead indeed bore a noticeable divot—had already strangled Prince Paladin, chained fifty-five pounds of barbells to the corpse and sunk it in the same canal where he’d dumped the stolen Malibu, another move no master criminal would make.
Now Uric needed some cash to tide him over until he collected the Fitzsimmons reward, so he drove his van to a safe pawn shop in West Palm. The owner was a misshapen cretin named Giardia, who habitually wore a cranberry tuxedo jacket to conceal his shoulder holster.
When Uric placed the dead woman’s diamond earrings on the counter top, Giardia scooped them up and humped like a badger toward his vile-smelling office in the rear of the store.
“What the fuck, bro? You tryin’ to get me busted?” he whinnied at Uric, who’d followed him into the room. “Shut the goddamn door.”
Uric said, “Chill your fat ass. Those earrings were my mom’s. I mean before she died.”
“Right. And your mom, she was Jackie Onassis?”
“Her name was Inga, and she was a goddamn saint.”
Giardia held the diamonds up to the bulb of a gooseneck lamp, salaciously turning them with his fingers, marveling at the rich sparkle. “Don’t tell me how you got hold a these. It doesn’t matter,” he said, “because I cannot move ’em. Whoever they belong to, she’s already called the cops.”
Uric smiled. “No, she hasn’t.”
“I’d have to be insane to do this,” said the pawnbroker, though he seemed in no hurry to hand back the earrings.
“How many carats?” Uric asked.
“Don’t even go there. I’ll give you five grand for the pair. Take or leave. And use the back door, bro.”
“Wait. I got more.”
Uric removed the snake lady’s pearls from his pocket and lined them up like rosy marbles on the pawnbroker’s desk.
“Also your mom’s?” Giardia needled.
“From her favorite necklace. The chain got broke, I’m sad to say.”
“Only thing is, they’re, like, all different kinds a pink. What is that one—magenta? And half of ’em, they ain’t even round.”
What a scammer, Uric thought.
He said, “Those are conch pearls. They’re s’posed to look that way, and you know it. Want ’em, or not? I went online and did the research, my man. They’re super rare—guess how much Carter’s sells a conch-pearl ring for?”
“Who?”
“Carter’s. It’s only the most famous jewelry store in all New York.”
Giardia chuckled acidly and clicked his brown teeth. “You mean Cartier’s.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’ll give you eight hundred for all of ’em.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
“I only count eighteen,” Giardia said, rolling the pearls into his right palm. “That’s a queer number for a necklace.”
“Well, you would know.”
“Did you keep some for a girlfriend?”
“Yeah. Your little sister.” Uric assumed that any lost pearls were in the trunk of the Malibu, at the bottom of the canal.
“Just give me the damn money,” he snapped at the pawnbroker.
* * *
—
Mockingbird lay up to her neck in the bathtub. She wore silver seahorse earrings and fresh rose-colored lipstick. Her long auburn hair was pinned into a bun, and her unpainted toes peeked over the marble sill. She turned off the water jets and reached for her Cosmo. It was the third of the evening. She wasn’t keeping track, but somebody on the staff undoubtedly was. They kept track of everything.
Almost.
Her bathroom had a westward view, overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway. Mockingbird put on her favorite Dior shades to watch the sun go down over the mainland. She left them on after darkness fell.
“Yo, Keith,” she called out. “Where are those snake pics?”
“On my phone,” replied a voice from the other side of the door.
“I want to see!”
“Soon as you’re done, ma’am.”
“No, Keith, now.”
Keith Josephson’s real name was Ahmet Youssef, one of the sharpest young agents in the satellite detail assigned to protect the President’s wife. His father was a Syrian Muslim but his mother was Boston Irish, so Ahmet had been raised Catholic. Professionally, the Youssef surname had become problematic because of Mastodon’s festering distrust of Muslims—and anyone looking or sounding like they might be Muslim. To avert a blowup, the Secret Service had created a new neutral-sounding identity for Ahmet Youssef a week before he joined Mockingbird on the campaign trail. Ahmet had been shocked and offended, yet he’d said nothing; the agency offered a solid future, and Mastodon wouldn’t be president forever.
The ID switch had worked splendidly. On Keith/Ahmet’s first trip aboard the campaign plane, Mastodon had expressed no curiosity about his heritage, commented enviously on his skin tone and demanded the name of his bronzing product. Caught off guard, Keith had lied and said he favored tanning beds.
“Agent Josephson, where are you?” Mockingbird sang out from the bathroom.
He entered sideways, averting his eyes as he edged past the makeup table toward the tub. It wasn’t the first time that the First Lady had been naked when she summoned him.
“Would you like a towel?” he asked.
“No, I’d like to see those pictures.”
“My phone case isn’t waterproof.”
“I’ll be careful, Keith. Give it to me, please.”
Mockingbird sat upright, the bathwater dripping in soapy rivulets from her breasts. The walls were plated with gold-lace mirroring, which from several angles gave Keith an unavoidable, glorious view. He gave her the phone. She kept her sunglasses on.
“My God, that thing’s a beast!” she exclaimed. “Even with no head.”
“Burmese python. It was a messy scene.”
“What’s all that goop?” she asked, tapping one of the images on the screen.
“The intestines, ma’am. And other organs, I imagine.”
“Where on earth did i
t come from?”
“This particular species has spread all over the Everglades,” said the agent, unsuccessfully trying to stare at anything other than the First Lady’s body. “We’re not sure how this one ended up where it did.”
Mockingbird laughed. “Are you kidding? It just crawled there, of course. That’s what snakes do. Then it got killed by a car, obviously.”
“No, ma’am. The head was removed with a sharp object, possibly a sword or a machete.”
Mockingbird scrolled back and forth through the graphic sequence of photos. She said, “It’s gross but also kind of exciting, yes?”
“We’re in Florida. This is what goes on.”
“Maybe it’s more. Maybe it’s an omen.”
“Of what, ma’am?”
“We’ll see. Here, catch,” she said, tossing him the phone. Then she rose in the tub and let her hair down.
He held his breath. “Now may I get you a towel?”
“How long ’til my girlfriends arrive for dinner?”
“Twenty-six minutes.”
“Plenty of time, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. Probably.”
“So. Are we going to do this or not?”
“It’s up to you.”
“You’re funny,” she said, plucking off her shades. “Lock the door, Agent Josephson. And take off your gun.”
SEVEN
Special Agent Paul Ryskamp was a good listener but a poor liar.
“I believe you, Ms. Armstrong.”
“No, sir, you do not. And call me Angie.”
“I don’t know much about snakes, but it sure looked big enough to eat a small person.”
“The part about burglars stealing it from my storage unit? There’s an actual police report. Same shitbirds who tossed my apartment.”
Again Ryskamp said, “I believe you.”
“Even though I never actually saw the woman’s body?”
“Just a lump in the python, right?”
“Correct,” Angie said. “As I said, the burglars were hired for one reason—somebody didn’t want the state lab to dissect that animal. I’m betting on Teabull, the caretaker at Lipid House.”
“Because he was afraid the bad publicity would hurt his event business. Makes sense to me.”
“Admit it. You’re just playing along.”
The agent said, “No, I’m keeping an open mind.”
“Knock it off. Wasn’t I up-front about my hitch in prison?”
“I already knew about your felony record. And you probably knew I knew.”
“Every word I’ve told you today is true.”
“Our mission at the agency,” said Ryskamp, “is to protect the President and his family. At this point we’re confident the dead snake wasn’t deliberately placed in the road to block the motorcade, and that it posed no danger to the First Lady. Consequently, that’s where my professional interest in the python ends. I’m sorry.”
“But what about Mrs. Fitzsimmons?” Angie asked.
“Finding her body is a matter for the local authorities. It’s a dark, weird narrative, for sure.”
“No shit. Sir.”
“Thanks for the beer,” the agent said.
After he was gone, Angie sat frowning at the empty bar stool. Nothing could be done for the deceased socialite, wherever her mortal remains might be. But those goddamn burglars, Angie thought, ought to be held accountable for what they did. Meanwhile the bad-luck reptile reposed in a cardboard appliance box packed with dry ice in the bed of Angie’s pickup. The Secret Service, she’d discovered, does not pay in cash. Ryskamp had left her with a four-page voucher request and a promise that a check from the U.S. Treasury would appear in Angie’s mailbox after the paperwork was processed.
Which meant at least three months.
The bar was on busy Clematis Street in downtown West Palm. Angie had parked on a side road several blocks away. As she approached her truck, she noticed that the tailgate was down. Three skinny figures stood in the back, struggling to lift the appliance box. As Angie crept up behind the truck, she thought it wise that the state of Florida no longer allowed her to carry a firearm. She slammed shut the tailgate, hopped to the driver’s seat, jammed the key in the ignition and stepped on the gas. Two of the would-be thieves got launched immediately; the third hung on until Angie took a corner at high speed, the airborne asshole waving a defiant middle finger in the moments before his face impacted a stop sign.
Angie stopped at her apartment and took the bagged python head out of the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. Then she drove to her secret burial ground near the Loxahatchee Slough and dug a round pit. When she opened the cardboard box, she was enveloped by cool tendrils of smoke curling up from the chunked dry ice. She backed up the truck and, using a cattle rope, dragged the snake corpse out of the box, off the flatbed and into the grave. The head went in last.
An hour later she was home, standing in the shower. After the hot water ran out, she got dressed and called Joel about meeting for dinner. He said he was going out with his father and the equestrian girlfriend.
“Her pelvis must be healed. It’s like a miracle,” Angie remarked.
“You mean healed enough for that? I wouldn’t know.”
“I suppose he’s still infatuated.”
Joel, who was maddeningly neutral, said, “Dad’s just Dad.”
“Does she limp now?”
“Would that make you feel better?”
“Elated, I’m ashamed to say.”
“You need to meet a new guy,” Joel said, “soon as possible.”
“I’m on it,” Angie said.
On a whim, she changed from jeans and flats to a black dress and heels, brushed her teeth and headed for a Mediterranean restaurant called Nikko, which was on the island and therefore out of her price range. The drive up from Lake Worth was neither scenic nor speedy, but Angie was accustomed to mad interstate traffic. Besides the Greek salad, the main attraction at Nikko was a hazel-eyed assistant manager named Spalding, who’d been helping Angie practice her flirting. Spalding had a killer accent, and plausibly presented himself as South African. He’d been unattached since breaking up with the college-age daughter of covid refugees who’d packed up and moved the clan back to Connecticut.
Angie was surprised to see Spalding texting alone at the bar in Nikko’s. She took the seat beside him and asked if he was on a break.
He looked up and smiled. “I’m not working tonight, Lady Tarzan.”
He’d tagged her with the annoying nickname because of her line of work. She tolerated it only because she liked him.
“You’re probably waiting for a rich babe in a leather micro-skirt,” she said.
“Nope. Flying solo.”
“Hard to believe.”
“I’ll even buy you a drink,” Spalding said, “because I’m celebrating.”
“Life in general?”
“A new job. Tomorrow I start at Casa Bellicosa. The pay sucks, but at least I don’t have to leave the country.”
There’d been an issue with his work visa—a minor traffic stop, during which police spied a half-smoked joint in a cup holder.
Spalding said, “My manager here tried to get the problem smoothed over, but no luck. Then one of the Ukrainian dishwashers told me that if you get hired at the President’s club, magic things happen to your immigration status. And that, Lady Tarzan, is exactly how it went down. Apparently they’re desperate for fair-skinned foreigners who speak perfect English. No tats allowed, however. They actually did a full-body check.”
“With that visual seared in my mind,” said Angie, “I’ll take a Bombay-and-tonic. Two limes.”
“I’m down for that. Tell me about your day in the fearsome suburban jungles.”
“The highlight? I interacted like a respo
nsible citizen with the United States Secret Service.”
“Stop right there,” Spalding said. “That word ‘interact’—if you were trying to pick me up right now, I’d think you were a total nerd and walk away. We’ve had this chat before, Angie. If you’re going to tell a story to a hot guy, tell it in a way that brings him to the edge of his seat. Or the edge of…whatever.”
The waiter arrived with Angie’s drink. She squeezed the limes, tasted the gin and said, “Okay, how’s this: I spent the afternoon hanging with the Secret Service…?”
Spalding laughed. “Much better!”
“They gave me a large dead python to transport. Eighteen-footer.”
He grimaced. “Again, let’s hit the pause button. You know I’m not a snake person.”
“I can’t talk about it, anyway,” Angie said in a fake whisper. “This case reaches to the highest levels of government.”
Spalding raised his eyebrows. “Now that’s a pretty tasty line.”
“Seriously. I’ve been warned not to discuss it.”
“With bold men at bars?”
“With anybody, anywhere.”
“Bullshit. You can trust me.” Spalding gave her a scheming wink. “By the way, the Secret Service? That’s who cleared me for the server job at the presidential Casa. Fingerprints, photos, birth certificate, heavy-duty background.”
“They didn’t care about the pot bust?” Angie asked.
“Seriously? A hundred bucks says the First Lady vapes like a fiend.”
“I were her, I’d go straight for the needle.”
“Christ, I’m starved,” said Spalding, flipping open the menu. “But first, let me respond to your ‘rich micro-skirt’ comment. I ever meet the right girl, I won’t give a shit if she’s dead broke and dressed like she works in the opal mines.”
