by Carl Hiaasen
She confirmed the risk, explaining that Germaine didn’t possess the natural layer of fur that protected the necks of raccoons, otters, skunks and so forth while being subdued with that particular device. When she demanded to see the photo of the stolen Malibu, Germaine took out his phone and handed it to her. She stepped off his chest but ordered him to stay down.
“I’ll ask only once more,” she said, so softly that he cowered. “Who were they working for when Keever texted you this picture?”
“All he told me was they took a job from some dude on the island.”
“Meaning Palm Beach.”
“Guess so,” Germaine said.
“Was the man who hired them named Tripp Teabull?”
“Keev didn’t tell me a name, I swear to God.”
“What kind of job?”
“I don’t never ask my brothers ’bout they bidness, they don’t ask ’bout mine.”
“Really? You guys don’t even share stock tips?”
“That’s no lie.”
“Why does Keever call himself Prince Paladin?”
“That’s from when he had a band.”
“Before he started dealing?”
Improbably, Germaine found himself thinking: This crazy bitch is rockin’ those baggy khakis, just like the dead crocodile dude’s wife on TV.
The woman must have read his mind, because suddenly she gave a firm yank on the noose. It elicited from Germaine a sound that one might hear from a coyote with stage-four COPD.
After he regained his breath, she asked, “Where’s your brother now?”
“No clue. Half the time he lives in his damn van.”
“I bet the cops are all over that. Speaking of which, they catch you on the road with suitcases, they’ll assume you’re running because you know what Keever did. They might even think you’re in on it.”
“But I don’t know shit about shit!”
The woman slackened the noose, and Germaine sat up gingerly. “You work for a zoo?” he asked, tracing a forefinger along the wire mark that encircled his throat.
“Nope. Independent contractor.” She held the pole on one shoulder, like a batter waiting on-deck. “The time you met Uric, where was that?”
“Titty bar in west county,” said Germaine.
“Which one?”
He laughed. “Like you would know the place.”
The woman raised the capture stick and positioned the slip noose on the crown of Germaine’s head. She said, “Are we starting over again? Is that really what you want?”
He spat a curse and told her the name of the joint. “You don’t fuckin’ scare me,” he added, slapping the pole away.
“Of course not, Germaine. You outweigh me by a hundred pounds.”
“Hey, I’m watchin’ out for my little bro is all. What is it they say he did?”
“A murder,” said the woman named Angie.
“No. Effing. Way. Keev wouldn’t never kill nobody.”
“Well, I don’t know about ‘never,’ ” the woman said, “but in this case he happens to be innocent. The victim was already deceased by the time he got to her.”
“So you’re sayin’ Keev’s been, like, framed?”
“Yes, sir. An anonymous caller told the cops your brother was the killer.”
“Motherfucker!” Right away Germaine felt better about giving up Uric’s name.
Angie advised him to cooperate fully with the police, then she said goodbye. Later—speeding up the interstate to St. Augustine, where there was an opening for an acupuncturist at a faux Tibetan holistic clinic—Germaine realized that the pretty woman with the skunk noose had failed to return his cell phone.
Which was stolen, anyway, so who gives a shit.
* * *
—
The surviving Potussies gathered for lunch at their traditional round table in the Poisonwood Room (the dining wings at Casa Bellicosa were named after native Florida trees). Fay Alex Riptoad was the last to arrive, bearing intel that the lobster-guava tapenade was no less than three days old and should be avoided. Likewise for the “fresh” Chilean sea bass, which was actually flash-frozen tilefish from Galveston.
In honor of their fallen sister-warrior, the Potussies left one chair empty and a Tito’s martini on the place setting. They arranged themselves by habit. Clockwise from Fay Alex sat Dee Wyndham Wittlefield, of the bauxite and lanolin Wittlefields; Kelly Bean Drummond, of the processed-soy Drummonds; and Dorothea Mars Bristol, of the aerospace Bristols (defiantly unrelated to the denture-paste Bristols). On Fay Alex’s right was Deirdre Cobo Lancôme, of the dolomite Cobos and windstorm-insurance Lancômes; Yirma Skyy Frick, of the personal-lubricant Fricks; and, gloomily, the unoccupied chair of the late Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons.
The average age of the surviving Potussies was 71.3 years, and their cumulative wealth approached half-a-billion dollars. They were presumed to be dependable Christians, although it was a rare Sunday morning when they were able to detail their faces in time for church. Collectively they’d divorced four husbands and outlived nine others. Only two of the women were currently married, and by choice neither resided in the same area code as her spouse.
Ever since a ping-pong mishap had felled their only Roman Catholic member, the Potussies had steered to less strenuous hobbies such as golf and duplicate bridge. They wintered in Palm Beach mainly for the sunshine, gilded charity circuit and cosmetic surgery advances, but what bonded them as a unit was their unshakable devotion to the perpetually besieged President. Throughout the long deep-state witch hunt—the doctored Minsk defecation video, the phony tax-evasion probe, the counterfeit porn-star diaries, the bogus Moscow skyscraper investigation, the hoax penile-enhancement scandal, the fake witness-tampering charges, and both fraudulent impeachment trials—the Potussies had remained steadfast, vociferous, adoring defenders.
It was more than political loyalty; it was cultish fervor, with Casa Bellicosa as the opulent shrine of worship. There, in the darkest of times, the group would make a swooshing entrance wearing haute floor-length renditions of the Stars and Stripes, and Edwardian coiffures spangled with red, white and blue baubles. Led by Fay Alex Riptoad (or, as a stand-in, Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons), the women moved in an adulatory procession, exfoliated chins held high. On one much-discussed occasion, they boldly displayed—upon preternaturally taut, polished cleavages—matching henna tattoos of POTUS’s resolutely pursed, fondly retouched visage.
Other Casa Bellicosans weren’t embarrassed by the flamboyant fan group; just the opposite. The President had many die-hard supporters who preferred to demonstrate their allegiance in more subtle ways such as writing six-figure checks to political-action committees, or loaning out their private jets for the discreet delivery of certain presidential “friends.” (Except for official trips and White House events, the First Lady was seldom seen with her husband. It was well known they slept in different quarters. Her aloofness grated on the Potussies, who found POTUS enormously attractive and in any case deserving of intimate companionship. They were, of course, also miffed by the First Lady’s non-negotiable avoidance of the Palm Beach society scene.)
Fay Alex Riptoad waited until the others got their drinks before she told them the big news about the investigation of Kiki Pew’s death.
“I’ve been fully briefed by the police chief,” she began. “One man’s in custody, and they’re hunting for another.”
“Who did they arrest?” asked Kelly Bean Drummond and Dorothea “Dottie” Mars Bristol simultaneously, though a full octave apart.
Fay Alex sipped her peach Melba mimosa.
Sighed.
Set down her glass.
Touched a linen napkin to the corners of her lips.
With both hands gripped the edge of the table.
Leaned forward, mostly with her neck, like a mildly arthritic co
ndor.
“The man is Hispanic,” Fay Alex hissed, “and illegal.”
The other Potussies variously recoiled, moaned, or gasped. Immediately they began croaking out questions, most of which Fay Alex was unable to answer.
“This much I do know,” she said. “His name is Diego something-or-other, and they found one of Kiki Pew’s pearls in his pocket when they caught him.”
“Oh, dear God, no!”
“That greasy heathen!”
“Monster!”
“One of her pink pearls?”
“Oh, yes,” Fay Alex confirmed, “from the necklace she was wearing the night of the White Ibis.”
A discussion produced the unanimous sentiment that court trials in such brutal cases were a waste of public tax dollars, and that the culprit should be dragged by his hairy nut sack straight from the booking desk to the death chamber.
“Do not pass Go!” erupted Deirdre Cobo Lancôme. It was a quip favored by one of her late husbands, who’d heard it from a squash partner who worked as a Human Resources specialist, laying off middle-aged executives.
“Does POTUS know about this Diego person?” asked Dee Wyndham Wittlefield, whose close friends were required to call her “Dee Witty.”
Fay Alex said she wasn’t sure if the President was aware of the latest developments. “Although I’m sure he’d be keenly interested,” she added. “He was quite fond of Kiki Pew.”
“As he is of us all,” said Dee Witty. “And this sort of foreign-bred…fiend is exactly what he’s been warning us about. Murderous invaders, rapist clans and so forth. I will definitely be speaking with my brother.”
Dee Witty’s brother Barnette was a presidential confidant, one of seventeen lawyers working full-time to suppress, mislead or discredit ongoing investigations of the executive branch. Barnette Wittlefield met with the commander-in-chief every morning at four-thirty a.m. bringing news of the latest subpoenas along with four bags of Egg McMuffins.
“That’s a good idea,” said Fay Alex. “POTUS listens to Barney. A phone call from the Oval Office would fast-track this Diego character to the flaming gates of hell. It’s the least we can do for our dear, sweet, magnificent friend.”
She raised her mimosa. “To Kiki Pew! To justice!”
The other Potussies, moist-eyed, joined in the toast.
In truth, the President didn’t know Katherine Pew Fitzsimmons from any of the other lacquered weekend warriors. Casa Bellicosa was always stocked with fans who applauded on cue every time he appeared—so many worshipful faces that the leader of the free world couldn’t possibly remember them all.
He did, however, occasionally pay attention to the things Barnette Wittlefield told him at four-thirty in the morning.
* * *
—
Diego Beltrán was surprised that the police chief came alone to interview him. The man listened to the whole story without once interrupting.
Then he said, “Diego, can you show me the railroad tracks where you say you found the pearl?”
“Yeah, sure. I offered to take the detectives there, but they weren’t interested.”
“Well, I am,” said Jerry Crosby.
“Do I have to wear handcuffs?”
“Yup. There’ll be another armed officer riding with us.”
Diego said, “Don’t worry, I’m not running.”
“No, you don’t strike me as stupid.”
“You mean because my English is so good.”
Crosby smiled. “That’s got nothing to do with it. I know plenty of English-speaking morons.”
With his wrists cuffed in front of him, Diego was placed in the caged back seat of the chief’s SUV. The other cop, a county sheriff’s deputy, sat up front with the chief. Diego gave directions to the railway crossing. Crosby pulled off the road near the striped warning gates and switched on his red-and-blue roof lights. Diego led him to the section of tracks where he’d picked up the pink pearl.
The deputy stood in the middle of the crossing with his arms up, stopping the cars, while Diego and Crosby walked side-by-side, scanning the debris in the gravel between the ties. Crosby didn’t seem to be faking an interest, and he caught Diego off guard by suggesting they split up to cover more ground.
“Sounds good,” said Diego warily.
“But try to run off, and you’ll be visiting one of our modern emergency rooms.”
“I get it. Can I ask what we’re looking for?”
“Anything,” the chief said, “that might make your story remotely believable.”
There was a cloudless sky, no breeze and a bright sun. If it had been August, ripples of heat would have been rising from the steel rails. Diego’s eyesight was sharp. Between the ties lay a sooty scattering of coins, soda straws, batteries, unmatched socks, condom wrappers, bottle caps, moldy wine corks, bird skeletons, used syringes, bent needles, copper BBs, Styrofoam cups, a rusted harmonica, a large fish hook, a turtle shell, a partial set of vintage dentures, and a filthy baby’s mitten.
Diego had no intention of touching anything; none of the items had any clear connection to his predicament. He looked up when he heard the deputy holler. Warning bells rang from the crossing gates. Diego stepped back and waited while a mile-long train passed between him and the police chief. Diego didn’t even consider running. After the last freight car rolled by, he saw Crosby beckoning from the other side of the tracks.
When Diego crossed over, he found the chief holding a plastic fixture bearing the stylized letters SS.
“What is it?” Diego asked. “Some Nazi thing?”
The deputy, an auto buff, explained that the SS stood for Super Sport. “That means it came off a Chevy. We’ve got a guy can find out the exact make and model.”
“But what’s a car logo got to do with my case?”
Crosby said, “Maybe nothing. But this little beauty was lying in the rocks underneath it.”
With his other hand he held up a small pink sphere.
Diego Beltrán sucked in his breath and said, “No shit!”
“My reaction exactly,” said Crosby.
On the ride back to jail, Diego closed his eyes and propped his head sideways against the rear window. After a while the police chief and county deputy started speaking low, thinking Diego was asleep.
“You didn’t hear about that?” the deputy was saying. “I was workin’ traffic for the motorcade. It was all over the TV and Facebook.”
“When did this happen?” Crosby asked.
“Few days ago. I can’t believe you didn’t know.”
“Was the President in the car?”
“Naw, but his wife was. The route was blocked off for, like, fifteen minutes. But those Secret Service, they know how to button down a scene.”
“All because of a dead snake?” Crosby said.
“You shoulda seen the size of the damn thing. Twenty-footer, at least—and that’s with no fuckin’ head.”
“And you’re sure it was at the same railroad crossing?”
“Positive.” The deputy shook his head and laughed. “What’re the odds, right?”
“Actually, that’s a damn good question,” said Crosby.
In the back seat, Diego Beltrán kept his eyes closed. While he was entertained by the deputy’s tale of the mutant headless snake in the road, his thoughts kept returning to the pink pearl that the chief had collected from the tracks. It was solid proof that Diego was telling the truth about where and how he’d found his own pearl—and that he’d had no involvement with the robbery and murder of the old lady on the island.
Diego was confident he’d be freed from jail the next morning and taken back to the immigration detention center, where he would join the others and resume work on his asylum application.
In a place like South Florida, such heart-bound faith in the justi
ce system could best be described as quaint.
TEN
Angie said, “Tell the truth. As a man, do you find any of this arousing?”
Spalding answered carefully. “Not at all.”
“The dancing’s awful, the music sucks, the drinks are piss.”
“It’s a strip joint, Angie.”
They were seated among the late-nighters at Prime Vegas Showgirls. Angie had asked Spalding to come along as backup. Nonetheless, she had three times been approached by couples asking hopefully if she was bisexual.
“It’s the khaki thing,” Spalding said. “You should’ve worn a skirt.”
“I told you, I was working late.”
“So was I, Lady Tarzan, but you don’t see me in my damn butler suit.”
A performer who called herself Karma paused at their table to offer a private dance. Angie gave her five bucks and showed her a mug shot of Keever Bracco, which the woman pretended to study. “Nope, never seen him before,” she murmured with a medicated smile, and wandered on.
Angie had already scoped out the stage-side bar patrons; in the dim reddish light, almost all of them in some way looked like Keever Bracco. She had little hope that the dancers would be much help, particularly if he was a good customer. It was also possible that Germaine Bracco had lied to her about the name of the club where he’d met his brother and the man known as Uric.
To Spalding she said, “Tell me about the new job.”
“The lily-whitest place I’ve ever worked. Practically everyone’s on visas from the Eastern bloc—it’s like a Romanian Hell’s Kitchen.”
“What does the staff say about our commander-in-chief?”
“Check this out: His Secret Service code name is Mastodon.”
“Could’ve been worse,” said Angie.
“The guy drinks between eighteen and twenty-one Dr. Peppers a day, room temperature only. And right before bed, every single night, he eats an entire Key Lime pie topped with Chantilly cream.”
