by Carl Hiaasen
A hand touched her arm lightly, and a voice said, “What do you think of the party, Angela?”
It was Jim Tile. He looked tired, and he was leaning heavily on his cane.
“Aren’t you going to ask about my dress?” she joked.
He chuckled and said no, he knew what had happened.
“Mr. Tile, I’ve got some questions. Can you spare a minute?”
“I’m on my way out,” he said. “Walk with me.”
* * *
—
The minute Mockingbird had left the room, Mastodon had begun scouting the crowd for Suzi Spooner. She was easy to find, even through the slits in his tribal face guard. He schmoozed his way toward her table, where she greeted him with a formal-appearing handshake.
“Where’s Stanny?” he asked.
“Went home,” Suzi reported. “Something he ate, I guess. Maybe the shrimp.”
“Naw, the shrimp’s fantastic. Probably just a flu bug.”
She shrugged. “Whatever. I didn’t let him get close enough to breathe on me.”
“Have you ever seen the Palmetto Room? There’s a Picasso and a Hopper, all kinds of classic shit on the wall.”
“Cool.”
“Why don’t you meet me there? I’ll give you a tour,” Mastodon said.
“Fun stuff.”
“See you in five minutes.”
Which turned out to be longer than the actual hookup.
Put off by the President’s blistered countenance, Suzi insisted on doing it doggy style, which for girth-related reasons wasn’t his favorite position. He was counting on Stanleigh Cobo’s exotic boner dust for deliverance, yet again it failed to trigger even a tip-twitch.
Suzi’s response lacked understanding—there was none, in fact—so, while she was muttering in the bathroom, Mastodon buttoned his tuxedo trousers, grabbed the African mask, and slipped out the door. He didn’t expect to see his wife waiting in the hallway.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“Right now? I’ve got to get back to the ball.”
“No, you don’t.”
Peevishly Mastodon propped his mask against the wall. Both sets of Secret Service agents, well-schooled after so many marital quarrels, repositioned out of earshot. One of them was hovering outside the Palmetto Room to whisk Suzi away when she emerged, though Mockingbird saw the whole thing.
“I can explain that,” Mastodon said.
“Don’t even bother.”
“She was checking my BMI. That’s all.”
“It’s hard to take you seriously right now,” Mockingbird said. “Have you even looked in the mirror?”
“I told you—the damn tanning machine shorted out. What’s this all about, anyway?”
“There’s a rumor going around that I’m sleeping with one of my Secret Service agents. It would be bad for both of us if that ever got past these walls.”
Mastodon appeared genuinely startled. Mockingbird wasn’t surprised, cluelessness being a chronic symptom of his self-absorption.
With an air of reproach he jerked his chin toward a watchful quartet of tall, fit agents. “Which one is it?”
“Wake the fuck up,” she snapped. “What if your latest fling hits the media? How many more scandals like this before the evangelicals turn on you?”
“They won’t. Not ever,” he said smugly.
“Can you say the same for me?”
Mastodon pursed his scabbing lips. “What’s the whole point of this conversation?”
“To avoid disaster,” said Mockingbird. “For once, you’re going to shut up and listen to me.”
And he did.
When she finished, he scowled and asked, “Why all of a sudden do you give a shit about some border-jumping beaner?”
“Beltrán didn’t kill anybody. Your people know that.”
“He’s still illegal,” Mastodon huffed, “which means he’s supposed to be locked up.”
“Not for something he didn’t do.”
“Oh Jesus, don’t go all snowflake on me. I’m sending a message that needs to get out there in a big way—no more Diegos, and so forth. Haven’t you seen my Twitter feed? I’m on fire.”
Like a sack of flaming pig shit, thought Mockingbird.
“I want Beltrán out of jail,” she said. “Make the fucking phone call.”
Mastodon’s white-ringed eyes narrowed. “And what are you going to do if I say no.”
“Divorce your cheating ass.”
It wasn’t an entirely empty threat. Mockingbird had been daydreaming about moving back to Manhattan and starting her own fashion label. And Ahmet? He could get any job he wanted; all the top security firms had offices in New York.
“Going to court would be a shit show for both of us,” she told her husband, “but you’ve got the most to lose.”
Mastodon puffed up. “I am the President of the United Goddamn States of America,” he snarled, “and you’re just a fading runway model who hit the jackpot. Don’t ever forget it.”
To his bewilderment, the First Lady didn’t flare. Instead she coolly cocked her head and said, “You watch TMZ, don’t you?”
“What? Fuck, you can’t be serious.”
“Totally. It would be my first one-on-one interview.”
“But you signed an NDA,” Mastodon hissed, “and a pre-nup!”
“Oh, we’ll get everything straightened out. Like you say, that’s why God created lawyers. By the way, your fake nutritionist is writing a book about you. From what I hear, nothing’s off limits.”
“Not Suzi. She’d never do that. No way.”
“Oh really?” Mockingbird said with a lacerating wink. “I bet she got inspiration for a whole new chapter tonight. You might want to pay off the bitch, before it’s too late.”
The most powerful person on the planet had nothing to say as he helplessly watched his ball-busting wife march off with her Secret Service team.
* * *
—
Angie and Jim Tile stood under the portico. A line of couples carrying go-cups and Mardi Gras masks waited for the valets to bring their cars.
“Those people are staring at us,” Tile said.
“It’s because of the damn blood on this dress.”
“No, Angela, it’s because they think we’re a couple.”
“Well then, hell, yes.” She pressed her head against his shoulder.
“Lord Almighty, what are you doing?”
“Messing with these dickheads. Am I making you uncomfortable?”
Tile laughed softly. “Just the opposite.”
“Why are you here?”
“My friend wanted a firsthand report.”
“What are you going to tell him?” Angie asked.
“That the President of the United States asked for a picture with me.”
“It’s probably up on his website already.”
“No shit?” Tile said. “Does that mean I’ve been to the mountaintop?”
“Where’s your friend now?”
“I know you feel bad about killing that snake.”
“Just another payday,” she said.
“I hope that’s not true. My ride’s here, Angela.”
A sleek Genesis G90 rolled to the front of the valet line.
Angie whistled. “Look at you, getting chauffeured around like a movie star.”
“I had to spring for a black one,” Tile said wryly, pointing to the Uber sticker on the windshield. “Not too shabby for an old fart on a state pension.”
She held his cane while he eased into the back seat. The sound system was cranked so loud that she wondered if he heard her say goodbye. She recognized the song, though it took a moment to register.
By then the sedan was moving down the driveway toward the
gates, but not fast enough. Angie kicked off her heels and ran until she got alongside, banging on the roof.
The driver stopped, opened his window, turned down the volume, and lit her up with his smile.
“Buffalo Springfield,” she blurted, half out of breath.
“That’s right! With Mr. Stills kicking ass.”
She said, “Governor, you are officially out of your freaking mind.”
“For what it’s worth.” His laughter boomed from the car. “Get it?”
“Tell me the truth. Did you dose that python?”
“Just a sprinkle, Angie. I wanted her to be soaring at the end.”
He looked shockingly different, and not only because of the bolo tie and pin-striped suit. His jaw was shaved as smooth as teak; his silver hair had been trimmed, groomed and stylishly raked back; and his funky denim eye patch had been replaced with one made of black satin. He flipped it once, revealing that the socket was empty.
She said, “Wild guess. The egg hatched.”
He smiled down at the breast pocket of his suit jacket. A little bright green head was peeking out.
“We’re working on our manners,” Skink whispered.
Angie heard a thump and looked past him, into the back seat. Jim Tile’s eyes were half-closed; the old man was dozing off.
“What was that noise?” she asked Skink.
“What noise, dear?”
“Oh, come on. The pounding.”
Outbound cars were stacking up behind the Genesis. Somebody in a Range Rover flashed the brights and started honking. Skink acknowledged the communiqué by thrusting a middle finger skyward. The honks ceased as soon as the other driver saw the size of the hand that was flipping him off. Meanwhile Angie noticed a pair of the club’s security guards peering intently from their post at the members-only Purell station.
The thumping in the Uber car got louder, like a bass woofer.
She said, “Governor, how can you not hear that?”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. There’s a man in the trunk.”
“No fucking way.”
“Your pesky Mr. Pruitt,” said Skink.
Angie threw her arms around her head. “Oh God, what are you going to do with him?”
“I believe he’d benefit from some alone-time in the Big Cypress.” The ex-governor yawned like an old wolf. “See you in the next life, dear. Wake me up for meals.”
He reached for the radio dial and took his foot off the brake pedal. The G90 began rolling toward the mansion gates.
“What about Pruitt’s dogs?” Angie shouted.
“They’re safe and sound,” Skink called back, “at your apartment.”
She couldn’t take her eyes off the car as it peeled out of Casa Bellicosa, disappearing in the stream of southbound headlights on old A1A.
Chief Jerry Crosby walked up behind her and said, “Who was that?”
“Some smart-ass Uber driver.”
“Jesus, look at your dress.”
“Yeah, a real tragedy,” Angie said. “I heard you had a busy night, too.”
“Probably my last shift in this uniform. I’m going back to the office, clean my gun, and get toasted. What about you?”
“I’ve gotta go stock up on Purina,” she said.
UNCOILED
“Where’d you get this?” asked Giardia, fingering the large emerald.
“Found it in a flower bed where I work,” Spalding said.
“Bullshit.”
The pawnbroker spun around to lock the door. Spalding was nervous; the man’s crusty red tuxedo jacket had a gun-shaped bulge under one arm.
Giardia said, “The hell am I supposed to do with one earring?”
“The stone’s worth twenty grand.”
“Says who, fuckstick?”
“I got it appraised at a Jared’s,” Spalding said.
“Ho! And that’s how stolen gems get priced?” Giardia’s grin was disturbing. It looked like he’d brushed his teeth with tapioca.
He said, “I’ll give you a thousand.”
“Fifteen hundred,” Spalding came back.
“Twelve-five, and motor your amateur ass out of here.”
Giardia handed over the money and placed Fay Alex Riptoad’s emerald earring in the safe.
“How about a receipt?” Spalding asked.
“Sure.” The pawnbroker blew his nose into a Kleenex and dropped the moist wad in front of Spalding. “There’s your motherfuckin’ receipt, junior.”
When Spalding got into his car, he re-counted the cash and then laboriously swabbed his hands and arms with Clorox wipes. He was late arriving at Angie’s apartment, where she’d been waiting to introduce him to her new rescue dogs.
“Fritz is the Labradoodle. The Bichon is Marcel, but don’t call him that,” she said. “Call him Spike.”
“Because?”
“Marcel is no name for a dog. I think it fucked him up.”
“Does he bite?” Spalding asked.
“Not anymore.” Angie opened the kennel doors and the dogs galloped to Spalding. They were wagging their butts, sniffing his slides, licking his toes.
“Hi there, guys!” He knelt laughing and stroked their heads.
Angie was smiling, too. Joel and Krista were supposed to be dog-sitting, but they had spontaneously decided to go to Nassau and get married.
“You’re a natural,” Angie said to Spalding. “Fritz gets a cup-and-a-half of the dry food in the morning, same for dinner. Only three-quarters for little Spike. He’s got gout. I left his pills on the counter.”
“When will you be back?”
“I’m not sure. Couple of days.”
“Key West is super chill,” he said. “I wish I was there.”
“Paul’s loving it. Thanks for watching the pups.”
“Anything for Lady Tarzan.”
“And thanks again for the soup-bowl sorcery. Very smooth.”
Spalding had been one of the servers assigned to the head table at the Commander’s Ball; it was he who’d hidden Angie’s note to the First Lady at her place setting. He hadn’t expected anything in return, so he was happily surprised when Angie gave him Fay Alex Riptoad’s lost earring, which she’d retrieved from a hedge at Casa Bellicosa before departing.
“Don’t worry, that old buzzard will make out like a bandit,” Angie had said when she put the emerald in Spalding’s hand. “Jerry Crosby says the rich always over-insure their jewelry.”
Spalding hadn’t decided what to do with the pawn money. He was thinking of flying home to Cape Town for a surf trip, since he now had some free time. Like all the clubs on the island, Casa Bellicosa had been furloughing staff since the night of the python apocalypse. Cell-phone video of Chief Crosby shooting a thirteen-footer out of a kapok tree at the Pilgrim Club had gone viral, killing the Palm Beach social season as dead as the Burmese. Every scheduled gala had been canceled, or re-booked in a competing county. It was almost worse than the pandemic. Now the membership at Casa was in revolt, lawsuits raining down like dung-tipped spears on Mastodon’s company.
“Here we have the doggy treats,” Angie said, shaking the box. “Only two per day, no matter how pitifully they beg.”
Spalding asked if she had Hulu.
“Yeah, but no porn. In your honor I turned on the parental controls.”
“Rude,” he muttered.
“Also, this is a skank-free zone. You’ll have to take your babes somewhere else to hose off.”
“Okay, that’s enough. Have a great trip, drive safe, and bring me some fritters from Louie’s. Now let me carry your bag to the truck—”
“No, sir.” She hugged Fritz and Spike, and promised Spalding she would Skype him one night from Mallory Square.
“Angie, I’ve got a question. You’re going to the Key
s, right? As in ‘romantic getaway’?”
“That’s the plan.”
“So how come you’re wearing those same old ugly-ass khakis?”
“Because I’ve got to make a stop on the way down,” she said, hoisting her duffel bag. “Oh, and this is important, Spalding—do not let those dogs poop on the shuffleboard court.”
* * *
—
On the way to the airport, Diego Beltrán asked the ex-police chief about the cloth jewelry bag sitting on the console in the car.
“Have a look,” said Jerry Crosby. “It’s for my wife. Tomorrow is her birthday.”
Diego took a slender box from the bag. Inside was a thin gold necklace with a cream-pink conch pearl—the one Crosby had plucked from the sooty gravel in the train tracks on that day with Diego.
“That’s pretty cool, Chief,” Diego said. “She’ll love it.”
He didn’t ask about the other railroad pearl, the unlucky one that had turned him into a hated homicide suspect. It had been released to the heirs of Katherine Pew Fitzsimmons in a sealed baggie indelicately stamped EVIDENCE.
When Diego thanked Crosby for the lift to the airport, the ex-chief said, “It’s the least I can do. Can I ask why New Jersey?”
“Lots of other Diegos up there. Easy to blend in.”
Crosby didn’t bring up the young man’s suicide attempt at the jail. He considered it a minor miracle that someone was on duty who knew how to pump a stomach.
“You got a job lined up?” he asked.
“I’m going to work for the Census Bureau,” Diego said.
“Perfect.”
“Now that I’m legal, right?”
“Welcome to the American dream,” said Crosby.
The county had freed Diego Beltrán thirty-two minutes after prosecutors received a call from Homeland Security, which had received a call from the Justice Department, which had received a call from the White House. Deputies had hidden Diego in the back of a Stanley Steemer van and smuggled him out through a rear gate; the demonstrators, not knowing he was gone, continued chanting themselves hoarse.
Diego never returned to the ICE detention center where the other boat migrants were being held; instead he was transported directly from the jail to a Holiday Inn Express in Delray Beach. The next morning his lawyers informed him not only that the State Attorney’s Office had dropped the stolen-pearl charge, but also that immigration officials had pre-approved his yet-to-be-completed request for asylum, due to the political violence in Honduras that had claimed the lives of his uncles.
