by Carl Hiaasen
“So he got away with it,” Angie said to Crosby.
“He did a good job covering his tracks. Plus, nobody gives a shit that Burns and Prince Percocet are dead.”
“Because of those two, Diego’s still in jail. Because of the damn stolen pearls.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about that.”
“But you can, Jerry. Absolutely.”
“We had this talk before. The answer’s still no.”
“I’ve got some new information that you need to hear.” Angie dropped her voice to tell him about the First Lady’s daring affair with the Secret Service agent named Keith.
The chief said, “First of all, I don’t believe it. Second, how in the world does that help Diego Beltrán?”
“Are you kidding?” Angie laid out her plan, step-by-step, then whispered, “Your job would be totally safe. All you’ve got to do is hook me up with the right person at Casa Bellicosa.”
“Now you’ve lost your damn mind,” Crosby said.
“It’ll work. I know it will.”
“No way, Angie.”
“Meaning no way will it work?”
“Meaning no way will I get involved.”
She said, “I don’t need an answer right now.” She purposely hadn’t told him about Paul Ryskamp’s reaction to the plan, or the last thing he’d said before he walked out of her apartment: What you’re proposing, Angie, is an actual crime.
“Please, Jerry,” she said.
“Back off. I can’t help you.”
“But, deep down, you wish you could?”
“Deep down, I wish I had a vineyard in Bordeaux. Goodbye.”
He got up and left. Just like that. Didn’t even offer to pay for his damn tea. That was two walk-outs in one day.
When the server brought the bill, Angie looked up and said, “Can I ask you something, Philippe? When did testicles go out of style?”
The young man paled, and went from chipper to chastened. “I’m super sorry, ma’am. Was, uh, the service unsatisfactory?”
“Not at all, sir. I’m just venting.”
Angie paid the tab, exited proudly in her boots, and drove home determined to think up a new strategy.
SEVENTEEN
Mockingbird ate lunch alone—tuna salad with kiwi crescents—at a corner table in one of Casa Bellicosa’s informal dining rooms. Keith Josephson and two other agents were triangularly positioned nearby. Between bites, the First Lady would look up and wave mechanically at gawking club members and their guests. She didn’t like sitting alone, but the alternative was joining her husband at a raucous patio barbecue for a mob of TV wrestlers who’d performed in his latest anti-impeachment commercial.
The night before, he had called Mockingbird to his suite and asked her to arrange a photo session with the women who called themselves the Potussies. At first she had declined.
He said, “Come on, baby. Be a team player.”
“I’m not your baby. Is that what you call the pole dancer you’re sleeping with?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Liar,” said Mockingbird. “You got her a cabana over at the Breakers. Anyway, I can’t stand those rich old vultures and I’m not doing their selfies.”
“Hell, no, use the White House photographer! Two minutes and you’re done. Christ, they’ve been trying to get a picture with you for years,” the President said. “I need to throw ’em a bone. They donate a shit-ton of cash.”
He wore silk burgundy pajamas and sat barefoot on the edge of the bed. His feet were like moist loaves, the tiny toes appearing more decorative than functional. Mockingbird sometimes found it hard to believe this was the same man she’d married; he looked like a different person now—as if someone had put a fire hose up his ass and inflated him with meringue. His ego seemed to have swollen proportionally.
It wasn’t that long ago when she’d fallen hard for him; now he was a raging, gaseous oaf. Gone was any trace of the sly charm and tenderness. In their early years he could actually laugh at himself, but Mockingbird couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen an honest smile on his face.
“Come on,” he said, “I don’t ask you for much.”
They both knew what he meant.
Mockingbird said, “All right. One group photo, that’s it.”
“Good girl. I like those earrings, by the way.”
She felt her cheeks flush.
“Didn’t even know pearls came in pink. Did I buy those for you?”
“You did,” she said, which was true in a roundabout way. Keith Josephson got a government salary, and her husband was the head of the government.
“The Potussies will be here for lunch tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll set up the photo op for when they’re done.”
“And probably drunk.”
“Sure, but you’re a pro at this shit.”
“The best,” Mockingbird said thinly.
“Listen—whatever you heard about that woman at the Breakers, it’s a total fake lie. She’s not a stripper, she’s my nutritionist.”
“And doing a fine job, I can see.”
Mockingbird had returned to her room and sobbed, though not as loudly as she had on that first election night. She hated the emotional cage, the brittle charade. Her romance with Keith was the only unscripted part of her life, and she felt grateful that he was reckless enough to fall for her. The seduction had been a challenge—like all the Secret Service, he was conditioned to be steely and methodical. It had taken weeks just to make him smile, but that was the moment she knew the deal was done.
Several of her friends cheated on their cheating husbands, but they weren’t surrounded by handlers and media every time they stepped outdoors. For Mockingbird, it would have been impossible to sustain a secret affair anywhere but inside the hermetic orbit of the White House; the only men with whom she spent private time were those assigned to protect her. She was lucky that the one she loved was just a little bit weak.
When she was done with lunch, Keith approached her table and said, “The Potussies are ready for their photo-up.”
“Oh, are they now.”
“Would you like to see the list of names?”
“God, no,” the First Lady said.
The White House photographer had arranged the women in a standing semicircle before a decommissioned fireplace in the Poisonwood Room. Mockingbird positioned herself in the middle and was nearly overcome by a riotous clash of odors—perfumes, hairsprays, and top-shelf booze. The Potussies were tipsy though not incapacitated.
“I’m Fay Alex Riptoad,” said the one on Mockingbird’s immediate right. “We’ve met a few times before.”
“Why, of course. So lovely to see you again.”
“Your husband is a great, great American hero.”
“That’s very…kind.” Mockingbird gave the photographer a look that could not be misunderstood: Hurry up and take the fucking picture.
“As a matter of fact, I saw the President here last night at dinner,” the Riptoad creature continued, “but couldn’t catch his attention. I was hoping to speak with him about the termination of our Secret Service protection—it seems terribly risky, given all that’s happened. I’d be surprised if he was even aware of the decision.”
“What? I’m sorry—Secret Service?”
“Oh yes. Each of us had our own personal agent, ever since Kiki Pew was butchered by that horrid Diego gang.”
“Your own personal agent,” Mockingbird repeated, incredulous and also appalled at the waste of manpower. Silently she counted all the tinted little heads—there were six of them. It was unbelievable. Surely Keith would know the full story.
The photographer aimed his camera. “Say ‘brie,’ ” he chirped at the women, and snapped off a dozen frames.
Afterward Mockingbird dutifully shook hands with each of the Potussies, who as they dispersed were cordial if not especially warm. Fay Alex hung back to make one final pitch:
“Could you please share our security concerns with the President? Sadly, we all know this threat is real—I’m sure he’ll agree that our loyal little tribe can’t endure one more senseless attack.”
With a well-practiced nod, the First Lady said, “I’ll speak with my husband.”
“The agents can be a tremendous comfort,” Fay Alex added with a sly whisper, “as you know.”
“Uh…yes. They’re the best at what they do.” Mockingbird managed to hold a steady gaze though her nerves were jangling.
She mumbled goodbye to the Riptoad gargoyle and followed her Secret Service detail out of the room. It wasn’t until she got in the elevator that she realized she was standing besides Strathman, not Keith.
“Agent Josephson was called into a meeting,” Strathman explained.
“Oh. All right.”
“We’re clearing the gym now. Your regular workout is scheduled in forty-three minutes.”
Mockingbird said, “No, I think I’ll have a nap this afternoon.”
She was vaping in the tub, admiring a chevron of pelicans skimming gracefully over the Intracoastal, when Keith knocked lightly. He came in, shut the bathroom door and haggardly leaned his back against it. His face was drained, his jaw set.
“What’s wrong, hon?” she asked.
“They know.”
“Calm down. Deep breaths.”
“I can’t go on with this. We can’t go on.”
“Come here,” said Mockingbird, sitting up. “Right now.”
* * *
—
The Knob stood on the scale and hit the day’s mark, two-hundred-and-sixty-nine pounds. Christian told him to put on the wig made of Mastodon’s hair and lie down in the tanning bed.
“It’s not a fuckin’ wig, it’s a piece,” the Knob shot back. “Wigs are for chicks.”
“Hurry up,” said Christian, and set the timer.
The Knob donned the skull cap and adjusted the hairpiece in the President’s iconic style. Then he squeezed into the acrylic cylinder and lowered the canopy cover. He wore small reflective goggles, a black tee-shirt, sweat pants, and socks. Only his face and arms were exposed to the UVA rays, because that’s how Mastodon did it. There was no need for full-body shading because the commander-in-chief never permitted himself to be photographed shirtless, or in shorts.
As soon as the timer went off, the cover of the Cabo Royale swung open and The Knob emerged. The complexion of his cheeks and nose had darkened from marbled salmon to fawn.
“All done,” he said, peeling off the goggles. “I’m gonna go binge some porn.”
“Hold on—what’s that smell?” Christian asked.
“Maybe I farted. So what?”
“No, this is different.”
The Knob said he didn’t smell anything. Christian told him to remove his wig.
“It’s not a wig, goddammit!”
“Let me see that, bro.”
Toward the front of the hairpiece, on the crest of the swooshing peach forelock, Christian spotted a discolored area the size of an M&M. He sniffed it and said, “Oh shit.”
“Whassa matter?” asked The Knob.
“It’s singed.”
“You mean burnt?”
Christian fingered the charred strands. “Something must’ve thrown a spark. I don’t know what, or how.”
The Knob said he hadn’t noticed anything unusual. “But my eyeballs was shut the whole time.”
Christian leaned into the tanning chamber to examine the fixtures holding the fluorescent tube lamps.
“Can I go now?” The Knob said.
“Not yet. We need a do-over.”
“But I gotta piss like a drunk donkey.”
“Get in and give me another five minutes,” Christian said.
“I don’t want my face gettin’ cooked!”
Like that would change your social life, thought Christian. He gave The Knob a microfiber sun mask of the type worn for protection by fishing guides.
The Knob tried to tug the stretchy fabric down over his head but it kept getting snagged on the skull cap’s Velcro patches.
“What’s the damn SPF on this thing?” he bleated at Christian.
“Fifty.”
“Big deal. Fuck it.” The Knob tossed the face mask on the floor.
“You’re only doing five more minutes, anyway,” said Christian.
“Unless I fucking catch on fire.”
“Seriously? Okay, make it four.”
The Cabo Royale operated perfectly during the second trial, but Christian replaced one of the ballasts anyway. Mastodon showed up late and undressed alone, thrusting his suit, necktie, and shoes through the doorway to his butler, who stood waiting with Christian and the Secret Service detail. It was routine for the President to demand total privacy during his tanning sessions, which—upon orders of the White House dermatologist—was never to exceed thirteen minutes.
“He’ll need to hydrate,” Christian reminded one of the agents, who told him that fluids were on the way.
Spalding soon arrived with a tray bearing two unrefrigerated cans of Dr. Pepper, which another agent popped open and tasted. The tanning-room door cracked and one of Mastodon’s hands materialized, motioning for his clothes. Minutes later he walked out freshly bronzed except for the stark white eye circles, which served to project the presence of an immense albino raccoon. He grabbed both cans of soda and lumbered upstairs, a half-step ahead of his security phalanx.
“That’s Pepper numero eleven and twelve for the day,” Spalding told Christian when they were alone. “The man’s basically mainlining corn syrup and caffeine.”
“Least he doesn’t smoke or drink.”
“No, but he gobbles Adderalls like jelly beans. That’s how he stays up all night tweeting. The pills, man.”
“Do they also make you forget how to spell?” Christian said.
“In other breaking news, guess what the cleaning staff found under the First Lady’s bed?”
“Jesus Christ, not so loud.”
“Italian panties,” Spalding whispered. “Cosabella.”
“So what?”
“They were torn!”
“You need a girlfriend,” Christian said, shaking his head.
“What’s in the pail?”
“Hospital-grade sanitizer—it’s for the Cabo.” The cleansing sequence had been ramped up since the pandemic. For applicators Christian employed pressed beach towels embroidered with the Casa Bellicosa logo. “Gets pretty damn toasty in the tanning chamber,” he explained. “The big guy, he sweats buckets.”
“Gross me out.”
“Does that mean you won’t help me wipe it down?”
“Fuck no,” said Spalding as he departed with the empty tray.
“I’ll remember this,” Christian called out, laughing, “next time your visa’s up.”
* * *
—
Joel called and asked to meet for lunch. Angie, who’d just finished relocating a litter of wild cottontails, didn’t have time to shower and change. They sat at the bar in Applebee’s, each with a burger, fries, and a cup of black coffee. Joel wore a jacket and tie because he had a job interview.
“Assistant manager at Staples,” he said. “See, fantasies do come true.”
“Try to be a ray of positivity.” Angie pinched a brown tick from her shirt, crushing it between her fingers. “Little bastard,” she said, and went to the restroom to wash her hands and check herself for more job-related parasites. When she returned to the bar, Joel said he had some news.
“Krista and I moved in together,” he said.
“Sweet! Her place, I assume.”
“Yeah, the condo in Palm Beach Gardens.’’
“She seems like a good one. I’m happy for you, Joel.”
“Thanks. But there’s something else I couldn’t talk about in front of her. I’ve been getting some phone calls.”
“Oh shit,” Angie said. “Pruitt?”
“Six o’clock sharp, every evening.”
“Ass. Hole.”
“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to freak. Krista doesn’t know yet, but I’ve got to tell her.”
“No need to scare her. I’ll deal with it.”
“This has been going on a week or so,” Joel said.
“And what does he say when he calls? The usual?”
“That’s the thing. At first he’d just rant and rave and hang up, but last night it got real. He said he knows where Krista lives so she better watch out. He said I ought to make you start her car every morning.”
Angie pushed her plate away. “Did he mention the actual address?”
“No, so he’s probably been bluffing. But still…”
“The phone numbers he uses, they’re all spoofed?”
“Yup. Different area code every time.”
“Okay, I’m on it.”
“What’re you going to do?” Joel asked.
“Go find him, what else.”
“That’s nuts, Angie. You’ve got cop friends—let them handle it.”
She said, “You guys should go stay with your dad and the equestrian.”
“What’s our cover story?”
“The condo’s getting painted. Or tented for fleas, I don’t care. Bedbugs?”
Joel nodded pensively and took a sip of coffee. Angie called for the check and got up to leave.
“Yo, finish your burger,” said Joel.
“Next time lunch is on you, when you’re a big shot at Staples.”
“Where are you going? See, this is exactly what I was afraid of.”
“Good luck with the job interview,” she said. “Then go talk to your girlfriend and get packed. Tell her the bedbug crew is coming tomorrow, whatever. You’re a bright young fellow, you’ll think of something.”
