Squeeze Me

by Carl Hiaasen

  “Where’s he hiding now?” Angie asked Jim Tile.

  “Tree island deep in the ’glades.” He unfolded a handmade map and placed it on the table. “I can’t draw worth a damn,” he said, tapping a long, bent finger on the paper, “but right there is downtown Miami, and way, way out here is him.”

  “Does the hammock have a name?”

  “Whereabouts Unknown is what he calls it.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “I got the GPS numbers. You’ll need an airboat.”

  “That’s not a problem. What else should I bring?”

  “Nerve,” said Tile.

  A server brought each of them a plastic glass filled with tap water and one whole cube of ice. Angie said she wasn’t hungry; Tile ordered a pork chop, steamed broccoli, and whipped potatoes.

  “And black coffee, please,” he told the server, who was young and pretty.

  “She’s from Jamaica, mon,” Tile whispered to Angie afterward. “I’m a sucker for that accent.”

  For a while he talked about his late wife, how much he missed her, the last trip they took together before she got sick. A cruise to San Juan, or maybe it was Nassau. He told a story about her gaily unscripted style of cooking—a meat loaf that even the dog wouldn’t eat—and laughed until he was out of breath. Then he spoke joyfully about his daughter, who worked for the Justice Department but still called him every day. Well, almost every day. She had a law degree from Stetson…

  Although Angie was in a hurry, she didn’t interrupt. She liked listening to the man, and didn’t bring up the subject of Skink again until after he’d finished eating.

  “How’d you and the governor meet?” she asked.

  “I was his driver in Tallahassee. Back then the FHP was in charge of security.”

  Angie would have loved to hear the retired trooper’s version of what had happened in the capital that sent Clinton Tyree skidding over the edge, but she knew better than to push. Tile had been watching out for his wild, haunted friend during all the fugitive years, and he wouldn’t lower his guard now.

  She asked, “How much of what I’ve heard about him is true?”

  “A fraction,” Tile replied, “but that’s enough.”

  “They say he wears a bat-wing eye patch and lives on road kills.”

  “Ha! He’s not a fan of bats.”

  “I’d never put you on the spot, Mr. Tile.”

  He patted her arm. “I’d never tell you anything, anyway.”

  “But how does he know me? And why did he send you to my court hearing?”

  “Ask him when you get there, Angela.”

  She bit her lip. The last man to call her Angela was the judge who sent her to prison.

  “Fine,” she said. “He knows I’m coming, right?”

  “Hell, no. If I told him that, he’d be gone.”

  “So what’s he going to say when I suddenly show up at his hideout?”

  “Probably ‘Get the fuck outta here!’—pardon my French. Then it’ll be up to your charming, green-eyed self to calm his rude ass down.”

  Tile slid the map toward Angie. She re-folded it and put it in her handbag. “Does the governor have a gun?” she asked.

  “I’d be amazed if he didn’t. Now, you don’t mind, I believe I’ll have a piece of pecan pie.”

  Angie had one more question: “Is your friend alone on that island?”

  “If he was,” said Jim Tile, “you and me wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  * * *

  —

  Mockingbird continued to call him Keith in front of the other agents. When the two of them were alone, he was Ahmet.

  “We don’t have much time,” he told her.

  “What else is new,” she said, locking the door.

  They disrobed, oiled each other up, and got on the massage table, Mockingbird having feigned a migraine and instructed her deep-tissue guru to take the afternoon off. She hadn’t told Ahmet about her productive chat with Paul Ryskamp, but he suspected that she’d made a major, behind-the-scenes move; otherwise he would have been on that flight back to D.C.

  He muted his microphone but left his earpiece in place, as always, in case a threat surfaced elsewhere on the property. During foreplay the curled tube dangled distractedly from the side of his face, along with the wire to the pocket radio unit that he’d propped on a corner of the table. The apparatus always bothered Mockingbird but Ahmet refused to unplug it, so they’d become skilled at having sex in an orderly way that wouldn’t dislodge his earbud, or send the receiver tumbling to the floor.

  Over time their stealth intimacy had grown more and more intense, almost Tantric except for the speed—they never had more than a few minutes alone together, and other Secret Service agents were always nearby. Mockingbird kept a playlist of meditation tunes for her deep-tissue sessions, but she didn’t use it with Ahmet because he said sitar music was a buzz kill. Instead she put on Post Malone, keeping the volume loud enough to muffle what few moans they inadvertently made.

  Afterward they took turns showering, in case somebody knocked on the door. Ahmet rinsed only his lower half so as not to drip water in his sensitive earpiece. As he was getting dressed, Mockingbird asked what he thought of Jennifer Rose.

  He said, “Smart and steady. She’s a good agent. Why?”

  “Maybe you should flirt with her a little. You know, just to put the idea out there.”

  “What idea?”

  “To make them quit gossiping about you and me,” Mockingbird said.

  “Are you out of your mind? There’s no flirting in the Secret Service.”

  “Calm down,” she said. “You’re putting your underwear on backwards.”

  “I can’t believe you’re serious. What’s left of my career is already hanging by a thread.”

  “Just think about it, please.”

  Ahmet buttoned his shirt and said, “I’m pretty sure Jen’s seeing somebody.”

  “Oh, so what.” Mockingbird was still wearing only a towel. Her hair was pinned up, and the conch-pearl earrings he’d bought her shined like hibiscus dewdrops.

  “You don’t have to do anything with her. In fact, you better not,” she said. “All I’m talking about is a smile or a laugh when you’re in the same room. Body language, Ahmet, that’s it. A fake show for all those snoops on the kitchen staff.”

  “I’m no good at acting. I can’t fake—”

  “Here, hon, let me help you with that.”

  As she reached up to knot his necktie, her towel came undone and dropped.

  “Oops,” she said.

  He took her by the arms and pulled her close. She still smelled like her special massage oil—eucalyptus and bacon mint. Ahmet stifled a sneeze and said, “Are you sure the President doesn’t know about us?”

  “Nobody around him would have the guts to tell him. Even if they did, he’s too damn vain to believe it.”

  “Yes, but what if—”

  “Hush,” said Mockingbird. “He can’t accuse me of anything, not while he’s got that pole dancer stashed in a cabana down at the beach. Suzi, the phony nutritionist. Have you seen the thighs on that woman?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I love that you still call me that.”

  “Reflex,” Ahmet said self-consciously.

  He had never imagined himself capable of having a thing with the First Lady of the United States, much less falling in love with her. The agency’s rules against such entanglements were inflexible and unambiguous; instructors at the Rowley Training Center devoted an entire afternoon to the topic:

  Do NOT fuck anyone you are guarding, male or female. NO intimate contact of any type, with any part of your body, under any circumstances! Do not initiate, do not accede, do not even contemplate! ARE WE CLEAR?

 
Sometimes Ahmet wondered if he was subconsciously trying to get himself fired. Perhaps he was cracking under the pressure of the job, and secretly wanted to bail. As a teenager he’d aspired to be nothing more complicated than a pro hockey player. It was too late for that, but there was still woodworking; Ahmet enjoyed making household furniture, and he was good at it. His specialty was Shaker media cabinets.

  In college he’d played well as a first-line forward, but no NHL teams drafted him. He joined the Boston police and was on Boylston Street when the bombs went off during the marathon. Afterward Ahmet and other Arabic-speaking officers got assigned to an anti-terrorism squad, but he never felt at ease despite being half-Irish. The day he applied to the Secret Service, his longtime girlfriend dumped him because she didn’t want to move to Washington; she owned a pottery studio and had only four payments left on the kiln.

  As a special agent, Ahmet had limited free time. He dated sporadically, rarely following up, and even his cabinetry output declined. He hadn’t slept with a woman in almost a year when Mockingbird made the first move—a furtive pinch on his ass while he escorted her through the private entrance of her favorite botox-and-enema salon on Blue Marlin Lane. Ahmet had been careful not to react, but weeks later it happened again in the hallway outside her suite at Casa Bellicosa. When she surreptitiously tugged one of his fingers, he turned and fell into eye contact. The next night, she called him into her wardrobe closet on the pretense of being unable to reach a certain Panama hat on a certain high shelf.

  And when she kissed him, he kissed her back.

  The affair was reckless, nerve-racking, and utterly addictive, made more thrilling by the impassive role that each of them was forced to play in public. Although they never spoke about devising a future together, Ahmet wanted to believe that, beyond the heat of the moment, Mockingbird cared for him as much as he cared for her. He understood it was likely the biggest mistake of his life; it was also the biggest rush.

  When she kicked her towel away, he said, “No, we’re supposed to have you out on the croquet lawn in seven minutes.”

  “For what?”

  “Make-A-Wish photo op.”

  “Oh, right. That poor child.” She let go of Ahmet and asked, “Is she in a wheelchair?”

  “I don’t have that information.”

  “I’ll start crying if she is. I can’t help it, hon. I’ll break down and sob.”

  “That’s all right,” he said. “This was her wish, to visit the Winter White House and meet you in person.”

  “But why?” Mockingbird asked.

  “Obviously she’s a fan.”

  “God, if she only knew.”

  “Don’t talk like that.” Ahmet put on his suit jacket, slipped the radio receiver into an inside pocket, and smoothed his sleeves.

  Mockingbird gave a frustrated sigh. “Seven minutes? My hair’s a nightmare!”

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “Now we’re down to five,” he said, “and you look perfect, ma’am.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Angie dreamed she was still a veterinarian at her father’s clinic. There was another cocker spaniel on the operating table, another swallowed ping-pong ball on the X-ray. Angie made the first incision and then ran out crying. Her dad chased after her, but she was too fast. She heard him yell that she was a quitter, a weakling, an ingrate. He shouted for her to come back and finish the surgery, but she kept running.

  Her eyes were dry when she woke up, which was surprising. She called Joel to find out if he’d heard anything more from Pruitt.

  “Nothing,” he said. “What did you do to him?”

  “Noose and a bobcat.”

  “You mean a bobcat bulldozer.”

  “No, a bobcat bobcat. As in Lynx rufus.”

  “Holy shit, Angie.”

  “I was careful not to hurt the pussy, or the cat.”

  “Are you trying to get arrested again? You miss that delicious prison food, or what?”

  Angie said it would be best if Joel and his girlfriend stayed at Dustin’s house a little while longer, until they were sure Pruitt had been spooked off.

  “No, Krista wants to be back in her condo ASAP,” Joel whispered into the phone.

  “Wild guess: Because of the equestrian?”

  “She will not back off that yoga shit. Krista’s been faking cramps to get out of doing the classes.”

  “Just a few more days, Joel. Hang in there.”

  Angie hung up, ate a bowl of dry Frosted Flakes, and re-read the all-caps text from Chief Jerry Crosby. Then she put on a long-sleeved shirt, bush pants, and hiking shoes, and drove to Sunrise Avenue on the island to remove a seventeen-and-a-half-foot Burmese python from a designer beachwear shop where the First Lady recently had purchased several swimsuits. A panicked security guard had fired four times. One bullet fatally struck the snake, and the other three took down a mannequin in a Missoni tankini. Once on-scene, Angie spent time commiserating with Crosby and the agitated store owner before loading the deceased reptile in her truck.

  On the way to the Turnpike, she stopped at the county jail to visit Diego Beltrán in the medical wing, where he was being treated for stab wounds.

  “You look better than expected,” she told him, “all things considered.”

  Actually, Diego looked terrible. He lay ashen and heavy-lidded, cuffed to a hospital bed. There was an oxygen tube in his nose and a drainage tube in his chest. He said he had a punctured lung.

  “Who did it?” Angie asked.

  “Ayran Brotherhood.”

  “How many?”

  His breathing was shallow but controlled. He held up two fingers and said, “They saw my face on TV this morning. Fox News did an update on my case. Guess the bored white boys wanted to be heroes.”

  “By shivving you.”

  “Yeah, with sharpened bed springs.”

  “Valiant, God-fearing patriots,” said Angie.

  Diego looked away. “I’m never getting out of here alive.”

  “You will. I promise.”

  He said, “There’s nothing anyone can do for me. Don’t you see?”

  Angie was raging inside. She thought of arranging a painful payback for the racist shit-sticks who tried to murder Diego, but she knew they’d be well-protected on their cell block.

  She squeezed Diego’s hand. “All I can say is, don’t you fucking dare give up.”

  He turned back, smiling sadly. “Why? You know somebody at the top?”

  “I will soon,” she said with a wink. “I got invited to a special party.”

  “Yeah? Will you be dancing?”

  “Get some rest, amigo.”

  The Turnpike was a mess, so Angie crossed back to the interstate. She cranked up the radio hoping to take her mind off the attack on Diego. This was a problem, her dogged temper. It was the only reason she had a rap sheet. Feeding a poacher’s hand to an alligator was more than a mad impulse; locating that particular reptile had required deliberation, and a detour.

  Calm the fuck down, Angie told herself, speeding down the highway.

  She jumped off on the Palmetto, which was, miraculously, clear all the way to the Tamiami Trail. The airboat driver had said to meet him at the S-333 spillway, a few minutes west of Krome Avenue. His was the only truck in the parking lot when Angie pulled up. She walked down the launch ramp and smiled at the sign warning visitors not to feed the wildlife.

  The airboat driver shook her hand and said to call him Beak.

  “Like a bird’s?” Angie said. “I don’t see that. Your nose looks fine.”

  “My real name’s Ivan. I had to try on something else.”

  Angie handed over three hundred dollars cash, Jim Tile’s hand-drawn map, and a paper napkin on which she’d written the GPS numbers for the tree island.

  “What’s in the sack?” Be
ak asked.

  “Rope.”

  “Looks heavy.”

  “Not really,” Angie said.

  “Okay, hop in.”

  He was late-twenties; good smile and no visible ink. Tangled blondish hair, Brad Pitt-style shades, and a camo cap turned backwards so the wind from the ride wouldn’t blow it off. Also, he was clean-shaven, one of Angie’s requirements. She found herself thinking unprofessional thoughts.

  Before flipping the ignition switch, Beak handed her a set of noise-suppressing earphones with a microphone arm. The airboat’s propeller was a big two-blade Whisper Tip, the same type Angie had on her engine when she worked for the state. She knew what Beak’s answer would be if she asked to take the stick, but the thought of driving stirred good memories; crossing thin water at crazy speeds was one of the things she missed about her old life.

  The afternoon was mild, with a rippled mackerel sky and a touch of northwest in the breeze. Herons, purple coots, and warblers scattered ahead of the roaring airboat—the marsh still attracted lots of birds. Angie spotted a young eagle circling and, much higher, a line of turkey vultures weaving like a black kite string in the thermals. Beak tapped her shoulder and pointed to a pair of anhingas perched on a log, their coat-hanger wings spread wide. Angie was disappointed that the mic in her headset didn’t work; she was nervous about meeting the ex-governor, and would have liked the distraction of chatting with her young, attractive guide.

  Jim Tile’s coordinates were solid. It took twenty-four minutes to reach the tree island, and Beak circled twice before steering slowly through a gap in the reeds. As they glided toward the bank, Angie spotted a long, metallic form that had been covered with hand-cut branches—an aluminum johnboat. From the air it would have been invisible.

  She put on her backpack, picked up the knotted bag, and jumped ashore.

  “Come back in an hour,” she said to Beak.

  “Why don’t I just hang here and wait?”

  “No, sir, I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you lookin’ for ’shrooms?” Beak asked. “ ’Cause I know some way better spots.”