Squeeze Me

by Carl Hiaasen

  “Diego won’t be in that jail much longer,” Angie said matter-of-factly.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’m meeting with somebody that can make it happen.”

  “Tell me who.”

  “Nope. Can’t do that.”

  “Aw, come on, Angie Armstrong.”

  She said, “You need a cup of coffee.”

  The chief felt looser than a bobble-head doll. He planted both elbows on his desk to self-stabilize.

  “Well, okay, how soon is soon?” he asked. “When’s your big meeting?”

  “This weekend,” Angie replied, “at Casa Bellicosa.”

  “What?”

  She smiled. “Why do you think I’m going to the ball, Jerry? Not for those damn snakes, I promise.”

  * * *

  —

  Mastodon’s day was thrown off-schedule by the Suzi Spooner incident. The thirteen minutes he’d set aside for tanning were instead spent getting reamed by his irate wife. By the time she stormed out of the suite, Mastodon was late for a long-sought meeting with a surf-crazy Turkish tycoon and prospective hotel investor. The next morning the President would be flying to Alabama for a tour of tornado damage followed by eighteen holes at Augusta and then private fundraisers in Chapel Hill, Hilton Head and Sea Island. He would not re-occupy the Cabo Royale until he returned to Casa Bellicosa on Saturday, before the Commander’s Ball.

  Christian was glad for the extra time to re-inspect and re-test the temperamental machine. The second run-through using Spalding in the chamber had gone off without a hitch, but then a douche identifying himself as a lawyer for The Knob called demanding access to the tanning bed—he wanted photographs and of course all the maintenance records. Christian told him to contact the manufacturer’s corporate office.

  The lawyer said, “You should know that my client’s in bad shape after the accident.”

  “And you should know,” replied Christian, “that being in bad shape was the only reason your client got this gig.”

  Later he went to hang with Spalding on his lunch break. The talk of the kitchen was Mockingbird’s interruption of Mastodon’s noisy tryst. Depending on which version of the episode was circulating, the stranger in the President’s bed was either a retired Olympic gymnast, the revenge-minded wife of a promiscuous Cabinet secretary, or a professional stripper.

  Both Spalding and Christian voted stripper. Whoever she was, she’d been smuggled in and out of the Winter White House without being seen by any of the staff. That was impressive.

  Another topic of Casa gossip was the raunchy behavior of a club member named Stanleigh Cobo, who in a single swoop through the grounds had supposedly propositioned a breakfast buffet attendant, an aesthetician, a laundry sorter, a tennis instructor and three female guests, including the married daughter of a well-known Mafioso. In each instance, the offer had included an unseemly fanning of cash.

  When confronted by the manager while crossing the croquet lawn in orange Crocs, Cobo had indignantly denied approaching any of the women. Then, after being led to the unmarked salon reserved for the embarrassingly drunk or high, he’d collapsed in weepy contrition, blaming his offensive actions on an unspecified “diet supplement” that he’d taken for the first time. He was examined by the club physician and then sent home with a bottle of spring water and a reprimand.

  “The dude looked like a rabid dog. I served him myself,” said Spalding.

  “What the hell was he drinking?” Christian asked.

  “Virgin coladas, swear to God. I’m gonna go grab a smoke.”

  Christian followed his friend outside to the pretend bamboo garden. A cold front was blowing through, the sky piled with gray-shouldered clouds. Spalding lit a cigarette and said rain was in the forecast. Christian said it was snowing up North.

  A surreal warbling arose from a room on the other side of the bay window.

  Roll on, roll on

  You big unimpeachable you

  They lie, they scheme, they plot in the dark

  Like all deep-state traitors do

  But they ain’t as smart, and they ain’t as hungry,

  And they don’t know how to stage a coup.

  Unbendable, unbreakable, unstoppable,

  You big unimpeachable you!

  Christian grimaced and said it sounded like macaws in a microwave. Spalding told him it was the Potussies rehearsing a song they’d written in honor of the President.

  “To be performed live at the Commander’s Ball,” he added, “which lucky you won’t have to suffer through.”

  When the second verse began, Christian spun and said, “Let us motor the fuck out of here.”

  It had begun to drizzle, so they relocated to a latticed gazebo used for waterfront weddings and the occasional renegade bris. From there the off-key Potussies could not be heard. The breeze had picked up and Christian felt the temperature dropping. Spalding heretically flicked his cigarette butt into a flawless hedge and asked about Mastodon’s tanning session that morning.

  “He canceled after getting busted with that chick,” Christian said. “He won’t be back here till Saturday afternoon. Can you break free then, for one last test flight?”

  “No way. We’ll be slammed all day, prepping for the ball.”

  “Come on, man. Thirteen bloody minutes is all I need.”

  “Sorry,” said Spalding.

  “Well, to quote my dear old granddad, shite.”

  “The Cabo’s working great, bro. You kicked its hinky ass, so just chill.”

  “Yeah,” Christian said. “I kinda did.”

  * * *

  —

  The deep-voiced man who called said he needed a large air-conditioned storage unit with an electrical outlet. An hour later he drove up in a box truck.

  Mazzelli, the owner of the warehouse park, was waiting at the office. The man was very tall, and he had a sun-beaten face like an old cowboy. Oddly, he was wearing a bolo tie and a pin-striped suit. His silver hair had been combed back, only half of his beard was groomed and one eye was covered with a black satin patch. For ID he produced an Arizona driver’s license; Mazzelli had no expectation that it was legitimate, and he didn’t care one way or the other.

  “How long you need the space for, Mr. Hayduke?”

  “Couple days.”

  “We got a two-month minimum.”

  “That’s fair.” The one-eyed man signed the lease and counted out three hundred dollars in twenties.

  “Access is twenty-four-seven,” Mazzelli told him. “Your gate code’s the last four digits of your Social.”

  “Outstanding.” The man pretended to re-read the last page of the lease. Mazzelli knew he was memorizing the made-up Social Security number he’d written down.

  “You got a padlock for the unit?”

  The man said, “Yes, but unfortunately there’s only one key. I misplaced the spare.”

  “Not a problem.” Mazzelli had to smile. “We don’t ever go inside unless the cops show up with a warrant. Then we just bust off the lock with a hammer.”

  “I’m storing only personal items. Mostly books.”

  “Honestly? None of my business.”

  “Are you a reader?” the man asked.

  “Me? Naw. I don’t have time.”

  “Do you vote?”

  “Huh?” said Mazzelli.

  “It’s the bare minimum,” the man said, “assuming you believe in democracy. Voting, reading, paying attention—those would be the fundamentals.”

  Whack job, thought Mazzelli. He lied and told the man he’d recently moved to Florida from Detroit. “I haven’t got around to switching my registration yet,” he said.

  “There’s plenty of time before the next election.”

  “Right. It’s at the to
p of my list.” Mazzelli showed him a map of the property. “Your unit is 626-Y. Third building, middle door.”

  “What about the power outlet?”

  “Basic one-twenty, so no heavy appliances.”

  “Ha! The only thing I’ll be plugging in is a heat lamp,” the man said with a startling grin. “The next few nights are supposed to be nippy.”

  A heat lamp for books? Mazzelli thought. What a fag.

  After the man unloaded his truck, he came back to the office seeking restaurant recommendations. “I’m not used to city dining,” he said.

  “What kinda food you like, Mr. Hayduke?” Mazzelli had almost slipped and called him Mr. Haywire.

  “I’ll eat almost anything dead,” the man answered, which was true in a way that Mazzelli could not have imagined.

  “Try the Longhorn on Belvedere,” he said.

  “Thanks, brother.” The man amiably snapped his eye patch and walked out the door, which Mazzelli immediately locked.

  A few days later, after the gay psycho had cleared out, Mazzelli went to inspect the storage space. It was as spotless as a surgical suite, and empty except for one item—a small leatherbound book in the middle of the bare floor. Mazzelli circled cautiously before picking it up.

  The title of the book was The Zurau Aphorisms, written by somebody named Kafka. It had been left open to a page upon which two sentences had been underlined with a green ballpoint:

  The mediation by the serpent was necessary. Evil can seduce man, but cannot become man.

  Mazzelli was no Bible scholar, hated snakes, and his only experience with mediation was a pauperizing day spent with a future ex-wife and two divorce lawyers. He had no idea what fucked-up message the one-eyed freak was trying to send, and no intention of trying to figure it out.

  He closed the door of the warehouse and sailed the book into the nearest dumpster.

  TWENTY-SIX

  A snide cease-and-desist letter from lawyers representing Ms. Stevie Nicks snuffed Mastodon’s planned duet with Roseanne Barr at the Commander’s Ball. In response, the President defiantly ordered an instrumental version of “Leather and Lace” added to the set list, which already included several songs written by performers who despised him. The house band at Casa Bellicosa was The Collusionists, a versatile quintet unfazed by last-minute changes before major events. Often the lead guitarist would sneak in a number by the Dead or even the Chili Peppers, as Mastodon seldom stopped schmoozing long enough to listen to the music.

  Among the first guests to arrive were Stanleigh Cobo and his new date, a saucy whirlwind named Suzi Spooner. Cobo was delighted to be escorting such a woman, handpicked for him by the President, who in exchange had asked Cobo to share his new E.D. antidote. The delivery took place out of earshot of Suzi and the Secret Service agents, in a hallway leading to the President’s private tanning room.

  “Where’d you get this?” Mastodon asked when Cobo handed him the small baggie.

  “It’s the tusk from a narwhal.”

  “Whales have tusks?”

  “They say this shit’s incredible, Mr. President.”

  Cobo had no firsthand testimonials yet because none of the women he’d propositioned at the club had wanted to sleep with him. If Mastodon had gotten wind of Cobo’s serial lechery, he didn’t let on.

  “You chop a line and snort it like coke?” he asked.

  “Preferably off some angel’s ass,” Cobo said.

  “Beautiful, fantastic.” The President pocketed the powder. “One more thing, that girl you’re with?”

  “She’s so hot. Thanks for teeing me up.”

  “Don’t lay a finger on her. She’s my personal nutritionist.”

  “What?” Cobo squeaked.

  “Keep your goddamn cock in your pants,” Mastodon said. “I’d like a word with her now, please.”

  Suzi was already coming down the hall toward the tanning room. She walked past Cobo saying, “I’ll meet up with you in the ballroom, Stanny. Order me anything with vodka.”

  He was waiting with a warming martini when she showed up ten minutes later wearing freshened lip gloss and a gopher-sized bite mark on one shoulder. “The President and me do a daily calorie count,” was the best she could do.

  “It’s working. He’s definitely dropped a few,” Cobo said.

  As dim as he sometimes could be, Cobo had quickly sized up the Suzi situation and was already scouting the crowd for new possibilities. The glass of bourbon in his other hand was his third. He and his fake date slipped outside so he could sneak a cigarette. She wasn’t exactly aglow, so he was curious to hear her review of the narwhal erection dust. In the end, he couldn’t muster the courage to ask.

  The sprawling back lawn of Casa Bellicosa had been lavishly illuminated by amber floods. A chilly breeze blew across the water, from the west.

  “Stanny, I’m cold,” Suzi said.

  “Then you should go back inside. We’re at table seven.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be there soon as I finish my smoke.”

  Cobo waited until Suzi was out of sight before he approached the attractive ash-blond woman in the short, jungle-print dress.

  “What are you looking at?” he asked.

  The woman was aiming a flashlight at the top of a towering royal palm.

  “I dropped an earring,” she said.

  Cobo chuckled. “I get it. None of my business. What’s your name?”

  “Go away,” said Angie Armstrong.

  Stung, the man walked off. Angie moved to the next palm tree along the seawall. Pythons were climbers, but when hiding they favored thicker foliage.

  From behind her, another male voice: “Lady Tarzan?”

  It was Spalding in his Casa monkey suit, balancing a tray of champagne glasses.

  “Lord, I cannot believe my eyes,” he said with a hungry look.

  “Believe it. I’m working.”

  He winked. “I don’t know about you, but the dress is definitely working.”

  Angie shook her head. “And that’s all you got?”

  “Hey, listen, there’s an after-party.”

  “Wild guess. Your place?”

  “Great idea!” said Spalding.

  “Go away.”

  Angie’s next stop was a cocoplum hedge that squared the croquet field. Her removal equipment—including a new machete—was laid out in the back of her pickup truck, parked at the service ramp behind the mansion. Inside the Fendi knockoff bag on her shoulder was a clean .22 Ruger fitted with a suppressor. It was strictly against the law for Angie to be carrying any weapon—much less a silenced semiauto—and strictly against Secret Service regulations for Paul Ryskamp to have given it to her. However, based on her visit to Clinton Tyree’s tree island, Angie had prepared for multiple targets.

  The cocoplum hedge yielded no snakes though she spooked several iguanas. Walking past the swimming pool, she said yes to a vivid rum drink offered by a server whose name tag said she was from Sarajevo. The woman showed no reaction when she saw the military-grade camo flashlight in Angie’s hand, as if it was a perfectly normal accessory.

  A knot of guests stood appraising a life-size ice sculpture of the President swinging a golf club. One of them, a distinguished-looking man with a cane, spotted Angie and began walking toward her. He had close-cropped white hair and wire glasses. She didn’t recognize him until he got close.

  “You look nice, Angela.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Beautiful evening. Good music. Interesting conversations.”

  “Horseshit,” Angie said. “How’d you score an invitation?”

  Jim Tile laughed. “I didn’t.”

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Aren’t you cold in that dress?” he asked guilelessly. />
  They moved to a place where they could talk, next to a statue that was supposed to be Julius Caesar though it looked more like John Goodman in Raising Arizona. Angie asked Tile how he’d made it past all the security.

  “Look at this crowd, young lady,” he said. “You think these rich proper white folks gonna make a scene and turn away a fine-looking black man in a tuxedo, the only black man in this whole damn zip code? Especially when he’s old and a little confused, and then he drops a few names they’ve heard before. Names of people he actually knows—political types, and so forth.”

  Angie said, “But there’s a guest list.”

  “You should see all the characters outside, trying to crash this party. Scammers, posers, pouty-ass billionaires that didn’t get an invite. I feel sorry for the Secret Service tonight.”

  “Mr. Tile, I need to know if he’s here. And what about the snakes?”

  The old man motioned around the grounds with his cane and said, “This is a damn big slice of habitat. You should get back to work, Angela.”

  * * *

  —

  It had turned into the weirdest, most frenetic shift of Jerry Crosby’s law-enforcement career. While most of his officers were working traffic control and perimeter security at the Commander’s Ball, other large though less-exclusive galas were underway all over the island. The police chief was sitting in his SUV in front of Casa Bellicosa and monitoring the dispatch calls when the shit totally demolished the fan, shortly after sunset.

  The first big python interrupted the Carpal Tunnel auction at the Alabaster Club. The second snake derailed the Scoliosis raffle at the Founders Club. A third Burmese appeared in a gin fountain at the Pilgrim Club, then another at the Plymouth Club, then the Sailfish Club, then the Marlin Club, then the Snapper Club, then the Bath Club, and finally the Salt Club.

  Angie Armstrong was tied up at the Winter White House, so Jerry Crosby went and killed each of the pythons himself. All the event managers begged him not to further disrupt their festivities by using a gun, but Crosby had no experience wrestling lethal reptiles and no time to debate other options. He left the dead snakes lying where he shot them, and was assured more than once that he’d be out of a job the following Monday. After a certain number of threats, he no longer gave a flying fuckeroo.