Squeeze Me

by Carl Hiaasen

  It was nearly midnight when his seventeen-foot skiff was spotted drifting toward the seawall of the Winter White House. A Coast Guard speedboat made the interception and dropped off two athletic ensigns, a man and a woman. Seconds later they both dove off the transom and swam rapidly back to their patrol vessel. Other crafts in the presidential security force were summoned, and soon the waterway was a-twinkle with so many red, green, and blue lights that it looked a Christmas flotilla.

  Mockingbird stood watching the scene from her second-story bedroom. She wore only a lacy white thong and a pair of pink conch-pearl earrings, five carats each. After setting her glass of cabernet on the windowsill, she took an unauthorized disposable phone from a makeup drawer and dialed Special Agent Keith Josephson.

  He was sound asleep at a hotel on the mainland.

  “Hi, hon, it’s me,” the First Lady said. “What the hell is going on behind the house?”

  “Uh, don’t know. I’ve been in bed for an hour.”

  She described what she was seeing from her window. “There’s helicopters all over the place. How fast can you get here?”

  “Why? Where’s Strathman?”

  Strathman served as the lead agent on Mockingbird’s Secret Service detail when Josephson was off-duty.

  “He’s right where he always is, sitting in the hallway sexting one of his girlfriends,” she said. “But I don’t need anything from him, Keith. I need you.”

  Josephson swung his feet to the floor. “Let me see what I can find out.”

  He first called Paul Ryskamp, who’d also been sleeping and knew nothing about the incident on the waterway behind Casa Bellicosa.

  “Try Strathman,” Ryskamp advised Josephson. Then he said: “Are you somewhere you can talk?”

  “My room.”

  “That’ll work. So, Keith, you know what I’ve got to ask—”

  “It’s Ahmet.” He was fully awake now. “Come on, man. A little respect.”

  Ryskamp said, “Sure. As long as nobody’s listening in.”

  “How’d you like if it they changed your name to Osama?”

  “On the other hand, you didn’t have to say yes. You could’ve stayed ‘Ahmet’ and gone back to TSD.”

  TSD was the agency’s Technical Security Division, which monitors the intruder sensors and explosive-detecting devices on the White House grounds.

  “But you wanted to move up the ladder, and who doesn’t?” Ryskamp continued. “Still, can we agree it was a poor decision to start boning the First Lady? We’ve talked about this.”

  “Talked as friends, you said. Off the clock, off the record.”

  “Yeah, and as a friend I’m asking if it’s still going on between you and her.”

  “Honestly, I’m not comfortable with that question.”

  Ryskamp groaned. “Honestly, you both must have lost your minds.”

  “I really care about her, Paul. She’s nothing like the person you read about in the media. She’s funny, really smart, warm—”

  “Okay, let’s also agree a magnetic, beautiful woman. Can’t you find one who isn’t married to the goddamn President of the United States?”

  “She says they haven’t done it in years. Not even a handy.”

  “You promised to end this.”

  “I did. I mean I tried. She’s lonely. Bored out of her mind. And it’s not like we do it in the Lincoln Bedroom. We’re careful. We pick our moments.”

  “In what universe,” Ryskamp said, “do you see a happy end to this story? Soon as it hits the Times or Politico, your career’s finished—and then, P.S., the agency gets raked by every whistle-dick subcommittee chairman in Washington.”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Paul, this thing between her and me won’t ever get out because it can’t. Mastodon would go high-octane batshit, as in suddenly-I-feel-like-bombing-Iran batshit. His people in the White House will do whatever it takes to keep a rumor like this buttoned up—and that includes paying off the tabloids.”

  “Love your optimism, Ahmet.”

  “Gotta go. That’s her calling back.”

  “Mockingbird?”

  “I bought her a burner phone.”

  “True love,” Ryskamp said. “Shakespeare was born too soon.”

  “Let me know when you find out what’s going on behind the Casa. I’ll be up.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you will.”

  * * *

  —

  The ensigns who’d boarded Ajax Huppler’s boat thought it was empty, but it wasn’t. They leaped off because they saw a huge snake coiled in the bow.

  A Special Forces diver attached a rope to the vessel, and the Coast Guard runabout slowly towed it to a marina. The reptile didn’t move during the ride, nor did it react to the helicopter spotlight that illuminated Huppler’s skiff until it was secured to the dock. At that point a uniformed Palm Beach cop wearing black gloves and night-vision goggles stepped aboard and shot the animal nine times with a semiautomatic. The casting deck was penetrated by numerous slugs, some of which went all the way through the hull with predictable consequences.

  By dawn, when Chief Jerry Crosby got there, the skiff was sitting perilously low in the water. None of the well-armed first-responders had been brave enough to touch the dead snake, which Crosby recognized as the same species that had swallowed Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons. He recruited two unenthusiastic officers to help him transfer the python to a large garbage can. Angie Armstrong arrived within an hour to examine the remains.

  She peered into the can saying, “You’re right, that’s another big Burmese. Fifteen-footer, easy.”

  A crime-scene tent had been erected to block gawkers from taking photos. Crosby told Angie that the registered owner of the vessel was missing: “Ajax Huppler. White male, thirty-six. He went out fishing alone last night. They found his truck and trailer at the Curry Park ramp.”

  “Does he happen to own a python?” Angie asked.

  “No pets, according to his mother. Not even a potted plant. She describes him as a solitary soul. His father says creepy loner.”

  “How tall?”

  “Five-ten.”

  “Weight?”

  “An even deuce,” Crosby said.

  Together they overturned the garbage can and spread the bullet-riddled snake on the dock. Stepping back from the gore, Angie said, “Good news. This one didn’t eat anybody.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “See, no lump. Also, it’s not big enough to swallow someone as beefy as your missing angler.”

  “Then what happened out there?”

  “Well, pythons do love water,” she said. “I’m guessing it got tired from the long swim and crawled up into Huppler’s boat for a rest. If he’s not a fan of snakes, he probably freaked the fuck out and jumped overboard.”

  Crosby said, “They counted nine empty beer cans on the skiff.”

  “The contents of which would not improve one’s judgment, or endurance.”

  “None of the life vests are missing.”

  “Supporting the theory of a sudden exit.” Angie shrugged. “Let’s hope the poor guy’s clinging to a piling behind one of these mansions, waiting to be rescued.”

  “Doubtful,” said Crosby. “The feds had an armada out there all night, plus three choppers.”

  “Why the feds?”

  “Because the wind blew Huppler’s skiff toward Casa Bellicosa.”

  “Ah. That means our fearless leader’s in town.”

  “No, but the First Lady is. Are we done with this damn thing?”

  “Yes, sir, we are.”

  The chief helped Angie fold the bloody reptile back into the garbage can. She snapped on the lid and said, “It’s weird, though. This part of the coast is definitely not their usu
al habitat.”

  She’d chalked off the Burmese that grabbed Katherine Fitzsimmons as a geographic outlier, yet here was another jumbo edition straying out of its established range, crossing a busy waterway on a chilly winter night when it should have been dozing in a faraway swamp.

  “How do you think it got here?” Crosby asked.

  “Maybe they’re bailing out of the Everglades to find more prey.”

  “I wish they’d wait until the season’s over.”

  “These are encroachments, Jerry, not an infestation.”

  “Thanks for clarifying. I feel so much better.”

  Together they lugged the can of dead reptile to her new pickup truck. Angie waved goodbye and headed for the Turnpike, where a state biologist with a casket-sized cooler was waiting at the service plaza. On her return drive to the city, Angie called the jail and asked if she could see Diego Beltrán. After a lengthy hold, a deputy came on the line and said Mr. Beltrán would be available for a ten-minute visit.

  Angie was resolved to stay upbeat. She still felt bad for raising the young man’s hopes so high after she’d leaked the Uric Burns suicide note to MSNBC. Rachel Maddow had gone beast-mode, condemning the “No More Diegos!” campaign as xenophobic propaganda, calling for Beltrán’s immediate release, and demanding monetary reparations be paid to him and his family.

  For his part, Special Agent Paul Ryskamp had kept his word and paid a discreet visit to the state attorney, who murkily refused to budge.

  Meanwhile the White House had shot back with a counter-leak so clever and slick that it couldn’t possibly have been devised by the President. Attributed to sources in the Justice Department, the story fed to Fox News and OAN asserted that Uric Burns had falsely exonerated Beltrán in his suicide note in order to protect Burns’s own loved ones, who feared a violent retaliation by Beltrán’s fellow terrorists—the same brutal gang that had “abducted and assassinated” presidential loyalist Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons. The Fox exclusive said Burns believed his family would be spared if, in his final act, he pretended never to have met the murderous Honduran outlaw.

  Every word of the leak was fiction, and Angie naively had hoped that someone in the Burns family would step forward to debunk it. Instead a bespectacled lawyer-spokesperson went on CNN, saying Uric’s parents and siblings were still grieving for him and his victims, and collectively would have no comment.

  So, months later, Diego remained in jail. The cell beside his was now occupied by a loose-fingered accountant, the llama molester having posted bail and fled the jurisdiction. Wyoming was the rumor.

  Diego forced a smile as he entered the interview room. He looked listless and thinner than the last time Angie had seen him.

  “That’s not what paralegals wear,” he said of her khaki capture garb. “I can’t believe they let you in here like that.”

  “Gotta be the briefcase.” She opened it to reveal a stack of legal-sized file folders padded with blank copy paper. Diego made a sound like a deathbed chuckle.

  “Unfortunately, I’ve got nothing new to report,” Angie said.

  “Well, I do. I’m on my third set of lawyers. All the others quit because of death threats.”

  “Maddow mentioned your case again on her program last night.”

  “Whoopee,” said Diego. “The President tweeted about me seventeen times in the last sixteen days. Your friend in the Secret Service said this would be over by now. He said the lazy old bastard would get bored with the ‘narrative’ and forget about me.”

  Angie said, “All of us were hoping that would happen.’’

  “Those maniacs are still demonstrating out front. Didn’t you see them?”

  “Yes, but not as many as before.”

  “One is too many,” Diego said in a raw voice.

  The President’s political-action committees were still hawking “No More Diegos!” merch on their websites—hoodies, caps, pennants, coffee mugs, tumblers, and other kitsch featuring a crude, sneering likeness of Beltrán’s face. That very morning, Angie had spotted one of the bumper stickers on a Range Rover with dealer tags.

  She told Diego that she’d deposited a hundred dollars in his commissary account. “You’re losing weight, dude. Buy yourself some candy bars.”

  “Protection is what that money will buy, and not much, but thanks. How’s the raccoon-wrestling trade?”

  “I got a dope new truck,” Angie said. “Camo rims.”

  Diego actually laughed. “You should have your own TV show.”

  “I swear you’ll get out of here soon. Too many people know the truth.”

  “Thanks for stopping by, Angie.”

  She drove home, showered, and tried to nap. Spalding called and asked her to meet for lunch at the Breakers. When she pointed out that she couldn’t afford lunch at the Breakers, Spalding said he was buying and told her to wear anything except those butch safari clothes.

  She arrived early and took a seat at the Seafood Bar, overlooking the Atlantic. Beside her was a well-fed couple from Montreal counting and recounting their oysters. They had ordered three dozen, and the husband fiercely suspected they’d been shorted. Angie turned her eyes to the ocean, which was royal indigo and regimented with whitecaps to the horizon.

  Tonight would be her sixth date with Paul Ryskamp, who had so far been rewarded with nothing more intimate than hand-holding and breezy good-night kisses. Yet still he kept asking her out, hoping she’d cave, even though Diego Beltrán remained behind bars.

  Angie was seriously considering it. She liked the agent, and their pact had begun to feel punitive. His supervisor had chewed him out for intervening with the case prosecutor; a letter of reprimand was being drafted. Paul tried not to act bothered, but he confided to Angie that if he continued lobbying for Diego’s release he’d be probably be transferred to a desk post in Washington—a dull, demeaning end to an otherwise solid Secret Service career. The man deserved better. He also deserved to get laid. Angie held her phone under the edge of the bartop, where the oyster-slurping Canadians couldn’t see it, and sent a breakthrough text to Ryskamp: “Change of plans. Bring condoms tonight.”

  “Condoms plural?!” he messaged back.

  Angie mic-dropped the phone into her handbag. Spalding entered the restaurant followed by Christian, the height-lacking tanning bed technician, who greeted Angie with a hope-filled smile. The three of them went to a table and Spalding ordered a round of mimosas. Christian said he’d flown down to Palm Beach in advance of the President’s arrival later that week. Spalding complimented Angie on her white satin jeans and joked that she ought to dress like a heterosexual more often.

  “Kiss my white satin ass,” she replied.

  Soon they were joined by a third man that Christian introduced as The Knob. His shaved head looked like a cypress stump. He was tall and wide enough to cast shade over the table. One chubby hand clutched what appeared to be a taxidermied Pekingese, but was later disclosed to be a vividly lush hairpiece attached to a skull cap. The Knob wore ample slacks and a too-snug golf shirt that tragically failed to conceal the outline of floppy, simian breasts. Both his cheeks were freckled and peeling, while his squinty eyes sat in odd circles of milky-white skin. In a flat voice he said hello while rocking slightly from one thick leg to another.

  Angie was looking forward to an explanation of his nickname. When none was offered, she asked, “You must’ve played pro football.”

  “Nope,” said The Knob. “I hate organized sports.”

  Christian pointed at the empty chair. “Saved you a seat, bro.”

  Spalding told Angie that The Knob worked closely with Christian.

  “Tuning the presidential tanning bed?” she asked.

  “No, testing it,” Christian said.

  The Knob had nothing to add; he was already immersed in the menu. The subject of his unconventional occupation di
dn’t arise again until after they’d finished lunch, which took longer than expected because The Knob, acting alone, devoured three orders of lump crab cakes, two plates of linguine, and half of Christian’s fragrant scallop entree.

  “He’s got basically the same height and frame as the President,” Christian explained, “so we use him for the trial tan, just to make sure there’s no temperature issues or electrical glitches.”

  The Knob glanced over at Angie. “Thirteen minutes on my back,” he said with a salacious hitch of an eyebrow. “Easy money, babe.”

  “Has the bed ever malfunctioned?”

  “Like how?” He guffawed and licked the scallop drippings from his lips.

  Christian said, “The President’s weight goes up and down, and The Knob’s supposed to match it pound-for-pound. Some days he needs to drop a few, and other times—like today, obviously—he’s got to pack it on.”

  “What’s your current target number?” Angie asked.

  The Knob said it was top secret. Christian chuckled and, behind The Knob’s head, he flashed two fingers, then six, then nine.

  Angie also intended to inquire about the freaky wig, which the tanning-bed test pilot had hung on the corner of his chair, but Spalding asked first.

  “It’s made from the President’s real hair,” The Knob revealed. “I shit you not.”

  Christian elaborated: “It’s part of our testing protocol, so we can check off the flammability box.”

  Angie heard the phone vibrating in her handbag. She didn’t answer the call but peeked at the frantic follow-up text: A woman from Boca said an errant hawk was trapped inside her daughter’s birthday bounce house. It was a life-or-death crisis, of course. Angie texted back and said she’d be there in forty-five minutes.

  The Knob left the table to go weigh himself. When the check came, Spalding grabbed it, as promised.

  Angie said, “What’s the occasion? You win the scratch-off?”

  “No, I brokered a big deal. My cut was eleven hundred bucks.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Jewels, actually.”

  “Would not have been my second guess.”

  “Conch pearls from South Africa. My brother sent two beauties and we split the commission.”