by Carl Hiaasen
“Who are you, anyway?”
Angie introduced herself and told Diego the whole story. He said he didn’t believe it.
“Which part?” she asked.
“The mega devil snake, for starters.”
She showed him the cell-phone photos of the dead Burmese, her ransacked apartment, her burgled storage unit and her burned pickup truck.
“No offense,” said Diego, “but you don’t look like someone who wrestles wild animals for a living.”
“Actually, this is the only pants suit I own. The briefcase is a prop, obviously. Found it at the Dollar Tree.”
“How’s a fake lawyer with a fake briefcase going to help me?”
Angie warily nodded toward a corner-mounted fisheye camera, which Diego had already spotted.
“Are there microphones, too?” he whispered.
She shook her head. “Not allowed. This room is for attorney conferences.”
“And, now, fake attorney conferences. So are we pretending you can get me out?”
“As in free?”
“Back to ICE detention,” Diego said.
He knew the immigration case wasn’t going to disappear, and he doubted that even his real lawyers could win a petition for asylum. Given a choice, he’d rather get deported to Tegucigalpa than rot in a Florida jail with a lynch mob outside.
Angie said, “The only state charge against you is possession of stolen property. That’s usually a low-bail offense, which means the feds are pressuring the cops to keep you locked up here. “
“The stolen property being that one little pearl I found? Dios mio.”
“Honestly, the jewelers association should give you a lifetime achievement award. Retail prices doubled after the President mentioned your conch pearl in that press conference.”
Diego felt beaten down. He rubbed his eyes and said, “How did this even happen to me?”
“Bad luck. You happen to be the brown-skinned Fiend-of-the-Month. Your mug shot’s all over Fox and CNN. The White House wants you alone in a cell with real bars, not a fenced courtyard with picnic tables and soccer games.”
“I get that. So, what’s your secret plan?”
“The priority is to get you exonerated,” Angie said. “Officially exonerated, if possible, but otherwise we go to the media. That would be me telling everything I know about the Fitzsimmons case—starting with the fact that you couldn’t possibly have killed the woman that night because she was already dead by the time you came ashore.”
“But you never saw her body, Ms. Armstrong.”
“No—and it’s Angie—but I saw the lump. And those snake pics I took, don’t you think the Palm Beach Post would put one on the front page, along with my harrowing first-person account? But we don’t make that move unless the cops and prosecutors won’t back down.”
“They know I’m innocent. They know.” Diego told Angie about Chief Crosby discovering another conch pearl on the same railroad tracks.
She said, “Yeah, he showed it to me.”
“Then how is it possible I’m still sitting here?”
“Because the whole country thinks you’re a political terrorist, knocking off rich old white ladies who love the President. A hard ugly mood has taken hold, and you’re the metaphorical bug under the boot heel.”
“Squashed flat.”
“Not just yet,” said Angie, sliding her chair forward. “Tell me everything you told the police chief.”
“I told it to the Secret Service, too.”
“So now tell it to me, beginning the night you and the others got off the boat.”
“What’s the point?’’ Diego said wearily.
“I’d like to hear the story in your own words.”
“Meanwhile, the dude in the cell next to me, he got busted for doing a llama on the ranch where he works.”
Angie said, “Okay, yes, that’s truly awful.”
“It wasn’t even his llama. You get what I’m saying? He took the damn llama on a date!”
“We’ll get you out of here, Diego.”
“I’m so over this. Not that I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m sick of talking to people and then nothing happens. Nada.”
“Just one question, then,” said Angie. “Do you know Keever Bracco or Uric Burns?”
“No!” Diego practically shouted. “Jesus Christ.”
“Never met ’em?”
“No, no, and no! I already told Chief Crosby, and also the Secret Service man.”
Angie said, “I believe you. I do.”
“That’s what they told me, too, but I’m still here. Me and the llama fucker. Sometimes he falls asleep jacking off in the sink. You get the visual? And yet after all this I still want to be an American, which is insane.”
“Try to hold on, Diego.”
“What are my other options?”
Angie rose to leave. “If any of the deputies ask, I’m your lawyer’s paralegal.”
“Don’t forget your pretend briefcase.”
“Hey, did it not work like a charm?”
“You hear those crazies chanting out there?” he said.
“The protesters?” Angie asked.
“Yeah. Who else.” Diego closed his eyes to listen.
“Honestly, I don’t hear them.”
“Well, I can,” he murmured. “All day, all night.”
* * *
—
She met Spalding for a late lunch at the crab shack on the island. He brought along a co-worker named Christian. Angie was annoyed when friends tried to set her up, especially if the friend trying to set her up was somebody with whom she’d once plotted having sex.
Christian was from Denmark and naturally spoke flawless English. He was handsome enough—bleach-toothed, blond and blue-eyed—but he was too short. Angie’s ex-husband stood six-one, and she’d grown accustomed to feeling a chest against her cheek during stand-up hugs. The young Dane was only five-seven in thick-soled Rockports. Angie knew that having a height requirement for prospective dates was shallow criteria but—in the words of Emily Dickinson, Selena Gomez and Darius, the guy who sprayed her apartment for roaches—the heart wants what it wants.
Spalding said that Christian worked the winter season at Casa Bellicosa.
“Guess what his job is, Angie?”
“Pastry chef?” She could be clumsy when aiming for polite conversation.
“God, no.” Spalding laughed. “Chris, tell Lady Tarzan what you do.”
“I service the President’s personal tanning beds,” Christian said, raising his beer mug in a wry self-toast.
Angie was intrigued. “And how does one secure such a prized position?”
“I worked for the manufacturer in Hamburg. One day the Secret Service called and said they needed a technician to take care of two new Cabo Royales—those are our premium models—one here in Palm Beach, the other at the White House.”
“I assume those machines were custom-built,” Angie said.
“I can’t really talk about that, but…”
“Like, big enough for a manatee.”
“No comment,” said Christian, grinning. “The pay was good, and they promised free health insurance, including dental. So right away I said yes. Two visas arrived the next day, one for me and one for my fiancée. Unfortunately, she got homesick after a few weeks and went back to Germany—”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Angie interrupted, “how does one ‘service’ a tanning bed? Meaning what exactly is involved?”
Christian explained he was responsible for checking the fan, capacitors, relay contacts, timer, gas springs, hinges, and ultraviolet lamps.
“And cleaning the whole Cabo after every use,” he added with a queasy wince, “Wiping down the surfaces, and all that.”
Spalding piped up: “He’s got some blood-curdling tales. Tell her what you found that one time in the canopy chamber.’’
“No, do not tell me—” Angie tried waving him off, too late.
“An extra-large Depends,” Christian reported mirthlessly, “burnt to a crisp.”
Angie said she wasn’t hungry anymore. The tanning-bed specialist apologized. He asked if she was seeing anyone.
“I’m sure Spalding told you I’m not,” she said.
“I didn’t know if I should believe him.”
“This time you can. Other times, no.”
“Screw both of you,” said Spalding. “I’m stepping out for a smoke.”
When they were alone, Christian made the rookie mistake of looking Angie in the eyes and saying, “Tell me about yourself.”
“You’re joking.”
“All right, then I’ll start. I just turned twenty-nine, my parents own a chain of coffee shops in Copenhagen, I’ve got two older brothers—”
“Hold it.” Angie made a slashing motion across her neck.
“What, really?”
“I’m sorry, but you’re not my type.”
He blinked in slow motion, like a frost-stunned lizard. “Harsh,” he said.
“No, Chris, it’s merciful honesty. I’m not your type, either.”
“How can you know that already? We haven’t even gotten our entrées.”
Angie felt a bit guilty, even though Christian had met her only twelve minutes ago and therefore couldn’t credibly claim that his feelings were hurt.
Still she said, “You’re right. Let’s see how it goes. I’ll text Spalding and tell him to leave us alone.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“Yeah, he can eat at the bar. That smartass.”
“Thank you, Angie.”
Lunch was fine. Christian ordered fried shrimp and crab cakes, and didn’t make a mess. He seemed good-natured and earnest. Twice he made her laugh.
But, alas, he didn’t grow any taller.
So when the police chief texted Angie asking her to hurry to a place called Blue Pelican Shoals, she lay a twenty on the table, and said farewell to young Christian with a handshake. On the way out, she cut through the bar to alert Spalding that his Scandinavian friend might need some cheering up.
FOURTEEN
The bright afternoon was cool and windy. Angie put on a fleece.
Agent Ryskamp wore a slate hoodie, jeans and black sneakers. Jerry Crosby showed up in the long-sleeved version of his chief’s uniform. It was the first time the two men had met, and they were deep in conversation when Angie arrived.
The purpling corpse of Uric Burns still hung from the bridge abutment. Photographers clambered around like coked-up marmosets. Every agency wanted its own set of photos—the Secret Service, the FBI, the sheriff’s office, the medical examiner’s office, the Palm Beach cops, even the U.S. Marshals. An unprofessional air of amusement was elicited by the colorful fishing lure hooked to the zipper fold of the dead man’s trousers. A secondary point of curiosity was the long-healed ding in the corpse’s forehead.
Meanwhile the media had been roped off in an area beside Soldier’s Creek, where the TV reporters could stage their stand-ups with the death scene in the background. They were also well positioned to observe a dirty white Dodge van being cranked onto a flatbed truck.
Angie, Ryskamp and Crosby stood together, all in sunglasses, apart from the central cluster of onlookers.
“How long’s he been up there?” Angie asked the chief.
“At least twenty-four hours. Inside the van they found a note confessing to robbing and murdering Mrs. Fitzsimmons. Keever Bracco, too.”
Ryskamp yawned. “Burns didn’t write that.”
“No shit,” said Angie. “He didn’t kill himself, either.”
Crosby went on: “The note said he knew he wouldn’t get away with it and didn’t want go to back to jail. Said he’d rather die first, whatever.”
Ryskamp asked if the faked farewell had been written by hand. Crosby said it came from a home laser-jet printer. “Burns didn’t own one,” he added. “Or if he did, they haven’t been able to find it yet.”
“In one of his many palatial residences.” Ryskamp laughed emptily. “You saw this ‘note’ with your own eyes?”
“I did. Got a picture, too.”
Angie said she wanted to go look at the dead man’s body. Crosby asked why.
“Because he’s one of the cockheads who broke into my apartment. I need closure, Jerry.”
Ryskamp said, “You’re taking this very personally.”
“I fucking well am,” Angie snapped.
“Oh, she definitely does,” the chief said to Ryskamp. “However, she should be aware that Mr. Burns soiled himself while expiring, adding to other unsavory elements.”
Angie remarked that nothing could smell as bad as the decaying buzzard carcass she’d removed the previous day from a dairy barn in Moore Haven. “So, Jerry,” she said, “let’s have a peek at the deceased.”
Uric Burns was in nasty shape though Angie had seen worse—week-old floaters, pulled from the swamp—during her time as a wildlife officer. From such experiences she’d learned when not to inhale. Burns’s face was shapeless and mottled; both eyelids had swollen shut and were turning black. The rope had elongated his grimy neck like a snapping turtle’s.
“You sure that’s him?” Ryskamp asked.
“Fingerprints match,” Crosby replied. “Also, the dent in his head.”
“What’s that on his wrist?”
“His coded ID for the Fitzsimmons hotline. He probably wrote it there the day he phoned in the tip. See how the marker ink’s faded.”
The chief’s phone rang, and he moved out of earshot to take the call. During their few moments alone, Ryskamp surprised Angie by asking if she was free for dinner. She surprised both of them by saying yes.
“Seriously?” Ryskamp said with an endearing look of relief.
“Long as you’re not married.”
He held up the bare fourth finger on his left hand. Angie had already noticed.
“Maybe the ring’s in your pocket,” she said.
“Nope.” He turned his front pants pockets inside out.
“Fine,” said Angie, “I’ll meet you at Nikko at seven. Let’s keep it casual.”
He smiled. “Next you’re gonna tell me we’re splitting the tab.”
“Dream on,” she said.
Up on the bridge, two stocky attendants from the medical examiner’s office were struggling to pull the corpse of Uric Burns over the rail and onto the roadway, where a uniformed woman waited with a bright yellow tarp.
When Jerry Crosby got off the phone, he was steaming. “Anybody bring a laptop? Never mind, I need to get back to the office.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Angie.
“He did it again. Same shit as before.”
“Who did what?” said Ryskamp.
“That dysfunctional hump in the White House. Your boss.”
At that moment Ryskamp’s phone lit up; his ringtone was “Life in the Fast Lane.” He glanced down at the caller ID and muttered, “Aw shit. What now?”
“I won’t spoil it for you,” said the chief.
* * *
—
As their newly assigned Secret Service agents stood like totems outside the Poisonwood Room, the surviving Potussies stayed late drinking after lunch. Fortunately, none of the women had driven themselves to Casa Bellicosa, for by mid-afternoon their blood-alcohol levels far surpassed the legal limit. Fay Alex Riptoad would have blown .12 on a roadside breathalyzer; Dee Wyndham Wittlefield, .14; Kelly Bean Drummond, .15; Dorothea Mars Bristol, .17; and for both Deirdre Cobo Lancôme and Yirma Skyy Frick, a teetering .19.
Their deg
rees of incoherence varied due to dosage differences in their prescription meds, none of which was recommended to be taken with cocktails. Of the group, Fay Alex was the least impaired and therefore the best equipped to interpret the President’s latest Twitter commentary. (It was a ritual among the Potussies to pause all social meetings when there was a new tweet stream.)
“Listen up, ladies,” said Fay Alex, standing. She adjusted her Chanel readers and raised her smartphone almost to her nose. Slurred chatter persisted at the table, so Fay Alex barked: “That’s enough, please! Put down your goddamn drinks!”
As the group fell silent, one of the Secret Service agents opened the door and peeked into the room. Fay Alex waved him off, and began to read:
“This is direct from the Presidential Twitter account, as of six minutes ago:
‘I’m delighted to report the death of a second suspect in the robbery and murder of my dear friend, Katherine (KIKI PEW) Fitzsimmons. The Attorney General just informed me that Uric N.M.N. Burns of West Palm Beach has hung himself. Burns knew cops were closing in fast and escape was impossible. A suiside note confessing to his terrible crimes was found in the dead coward’s van…He also tried (BUT FAILED!) to scam reward money from Fitzsimmons family. So, folks, bottom line: two bad guys down and one to go! All our law-enforcement resources can now focus on prosecuting the final suspect, Diego Beltrán, for his role in Mrs. Fitzsimmons’ death. Or should I say aledged role (JUST TO KEEP THE LIBERAL LAWYERS HAPPY!)…This notorious outlaw—who snuck into America illegally—remains locked down at Palm Beach County jail. Thanks to all my supporters for turning out in HUGE RECORD numbers to rally for justice there and other places around the country…As your President, I won’t rest till Diego receives ALTIMATE PUNISHMENT allowed by law. I also promise to protect you from all future Diegos that are conspiring to cross the border to rape, kill and muttilate other innocent citizens who happen to believe in my beautiful vision for this fantastic nation. NO MORE DIEGOS!!! And God bless America!’ ”
The Potussies clapped as spiritedly as their wooziness allowed. Fay Alex Riptoad considered the recitation to be one of her finest and by no means easy, since the President clearly had fired off the multi-segmented tweet without waiting for his full-time proofreader. The “N.M.N.” in his identification of Uric Burns was cop-speak for “no middle name” and should have been deleted on the first edit, but more problematic was the higher than usual number of spelling errors that Fay Alex defensively referred to as typos.
