by Carl Hiaasen
A short statement buried on the Department of Homeland Security website said Diego Mateo Beltrán was released from custody after “a thorough investigation produced evidence indicating he was not involved in the abduction or homicide of Katherine Pew Fitzsimmons, nor is he a founder or member of an organized criminal enterprise referenced variously as the DBC-88, DBC-77 or DBC-69.”
Dumbfounded by his sudden release, Diego feared it was either a mistake or a government trap. He’d remained hunkered in his darkened motel room half-expecting ICE agents to come crashing through the door any moment.
The next morning he turned on CNN just as the President of the United States began addressing a convention of Christian firearms manufacturers. Diego’s stomach roiled as he waited for the President’s version of how the sensational murder case against him had dissolved. He didn’t expect a public apology for how he was demonized, but he figured the President owed some sort of explanation to his restless, impressionable base.
Yet Diego’s name, and what had happened to him, was never mentioned. Instead the commander-in-chief launched a rant about a new villain that he referred to, variously, as Bang Lo Sinh, Li Sonh Bang, or Lee Roy Bangston—a “diabolical Chinese espionage agent and self-infected virus carrier” who’d allegedly snuck across the Texas border, traveling with a vaccinated mob of Asian gang members.
“These ruthless foreign invaders have come here to rape our great nation, but our great nation stands prepared to rape them first,” proclaimed the President, distractingly caked with apricot-colored makeup. “I promise you, folks, we will track down Bang Lo, we will capture Bang Lo, and we will send Señor Lo down below!”
The convention erupted in cheers. Diego turned off the television. From the phone in his room he called Angie Armstrong and thanked her for getting him out of jail—saving his life, actually—and told her he was leaving nuthouse Florida as soon as possible. He had a second cousin in Union City who’d said he could sleep on her couch until he got his own place.
Jerry Crosby had bought him a one-way ticket from West Palm to Newark. As they drove down Congress Avenue toward the main terminal, Diego asked the ex-chief if he planned to stay in law enforcement. Crosby said he already had interviews scheduled with the police departments in Coral Springs and Key Biscayne.
“There’s also an opening up at The Villages,” he added, “but who wants to drive a golf cart with a siren?”
He had resigned before the town of Palm Beach could fire him. The council needed someone high-ranking to blame for the calamitous night of the pythons, during which Crosby had discharged his service weapon more times than the whole police force had in the previous decade. The shrillest advocates for his dismissal were Fay Alex Riptoad and, naturally, the Cornbright brothers.
During the tense and embarrassing week that followed, seventeen additional snakes—all jumbos—had turned up in random locations on the island. They were captured and later euthanized by experienced reptile wranglers summoned from all parts of Florida and paid from a hurricane fund tapped by the apoplectic mayor.
As Crosby pulled over in the JetBlue drop-off lane, he apologized for the third time to Diego Beltrán for not doing more to help him.
“Hey, we’re both damn lucky to get out of this place,” the young man said, using the visor mirror to check the fit of his wig and fake mustache. “Good luck, Chief.”
“You, too.”
Crosby went home and gave the conch-pearl necklace to his wife. She had tears in her eyes when she put it on. He told her she looked amazing.
Which was true.
* * *
—
Mockingbird was sunning on a private beach at Parrot Cay, enjoying a watermelon margarita, when she opened her laptop and saw an email from one of her husband’s many lawyers.
“Per your request,” he wrote, “please find the secure bank documentation attached.”
It was the copy of a wire transfer of $266,666 from Casa Bellicosa’s food-and-beverage account to the trust fund of a Reno lawyer representing one Suzanne Carhart Brownstein, also known as Suzi Spooner and Gillian LaCoste. Minus attorney fees, the sum received by Ms. Brownstein more than doubled the advance money she had returned to a New York publisher after abruptly canceling her book contract.
“Well, that one’s done,” Mockingbird said, closing her laptop.
Ahmet Youssef, who was reading a book on the chaise beside her, cupped a hand to the side of his head and said, “What?”
“He paid off the pole dancer.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“HE PAID OFF THAT NASTY POLE DANCER!”
Ahmet winced as he nodded. He couldn’t hear much from one side because of a ruptured eardrum. When the doctor at Walter Reed had asked how it happened, Ahmet said there was a freak mishap in his wood shop, the circular saw spraying a splinter of black maple into his right ear. Although the doctor had been unable to find the tiny fragment, he could see that the tympanic membrane was indeed perforated. The Secret Service immediately placed Ahmet on medical leave.
In truth, his hearing loss was unrelated to his furniture-making hobby. One afternoon at the White House, during a lusty coupling in the cramped Lincoln Bath, Mockingbird had clutched at Ahmet’s face with both hands, trying to draw him toward the V of her panties. Unfortunately, in the fervor of that moment, she had inadvertently mashed his agency-issued earpiece deep into the auditory canal. The pain, instant and epic, had put Ahmet on the floor.
He was feeling somewhat better a few days later when he’d boarded the plane to Providenciales. The long flight wasn’t as discomforting as the incredulous stares from Jennifer Rose and the other agents when he’d stepped out of the taxi at the resort. Ahmet understood that his arrival there was essentially an announcement; this was the choice he’d made, and he was prepared to be pegged as a reckless, lovestruck fool.
Yet he was also aware—after a call from the newly retired Paul Ryskamp—that the Secret Service was in a sticky bind. The agency director had received a handwritten note on the First Lady’s stationery inquiring about a recent incident at a retro-Swedish massage parlor in Bethesda involving at least three off-duty agents, a bag of edibles, and a rechargeable Swiffer.
The director didn’t know how the First Lady heard about the escapade, which had supposedly been well covered up, but he found himself more relieved than offended when she offered not to tell anyone, including the media, as long as Special Agent Ahmet Youssef retained his position on her security detail. The director had replied with an eyes-only memo assuring the First Lady there were no plans to reassign Agent Josephson, who had a spotless record and was highly regarded by his supervisors.
A screenshot of the memo was stored on Mockingbird’s phone, which was now inside her beach bag. With the other agents posted nearby, she didn’t want to keep raising her voice, so she texted her hearing-impaired lover from two feet away:
“They let that Diego person out of jail, too.”
“Deported?”
“No, he gets to stay.”
“Wow,” was Ahmet’s response.
“Yeah, wow. Snake Babe should be super—” and here Mockingbird inserted a smiley-face emoji.
“4 sure,” Ahmet texted, raising his margarita glass with his other hand.
Mockingbird raised hers, too, then typed: “Think she’ll keep quiet about us, like she promised?”
Ahmet replied with a shrugging-dude emoji.
Mockingbird mouthed the words: “I hope so.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
“We deny everything,” she texted. “Oops. I mean ME.”
“4-ever?” Ahmet asked.
The First Lady took off her sunglasses and blew him a secret kiss. Then she typed:
“Patience, hon.”
* * *
—
The new tree island w
as farther west than the other one. Angie had found it on Google Earth after Jim Tile provided the GPS numbers and told her about a Miccosukee who rented airboats for cash. She would have hired young Beak to take her out there, but Skink’s message said to come alone.
Even though the boat was old and the engine was loud, Angie loved driving it. Going fast reminded her of the best parts of her old job, pre-Pruitt. She missed the exhilaration of hurling at a deranged speed through the Everglades, snaking through the subtle twists and runnels, the flat hull hissing across the skimmed-down saw grass. She missed riding with her cap turned backwards so that the wind wouldn’t catch the visor. She missed having to dodge the sleepy gators and jump the dry hummocks, and the tickle of broken spiderwebs on her arms. She even missed the sting of the bugs hitting her cheeks.
As the airboat circled the island, spooking snowy egrets, Angie spotted a bareheaded figure sitting on a high branch in a tall cypress, playfully kicking his legs like a boy on a swing.
When she walked into the camp, he was back on earth, waiting for her. His chin showed stubble, and long twists of hair were poking like silver pipe stems from under his new petunia shower cap. He wore an eye patch fashioned from the shell of a small mud turtle, and a faded fatigue jacket with C. TYREE stenciled above the pocket.
“Want a beer?” he asked.
“Thank you, Governor.”
He gave her a bottle of Stella and opened one for himself.
“Jim calls me captain,” he said.
“I know. Is that how—”
“He had another round of chemo today.”
“Damn,” said Angie. “Hey, he’s a tough dude. He’s got a few good miles left.”
“Hope so.” Skink sat down on the ground beside the fire pit. “The White House sent a picture of him and Lord Bumblefuck at the poser ball.”
She laughed and said, “Yeah, I saw.”
Jim Tile had texted a screenshot of the President’s inscription: To my old pal Morgan Freeman—you’ve come a long way since driving Miss Debby!
“We are so fucked,” Skink said quietly.
Angie sat down beside him. There was a rifle propped against a gumbo limbo near his sleeping bag. All his cherished books were stacked in tall neat rows, not walls, and covered with sheets of clear plastic; it had rained like a mother the night before.
“Why the hell Key West?” he asked.
“Meeting a friend,” Angie said. “Okay, a good friend.”
“Lucky prick.”
“We’ll see how it goes.”
Skink looked wistful. “I always loved that town, but I can’t go back. All those cruise ships with their porky pilgrims, I might end up rooting for the goddamn virus.”
“Paul’s house is actually on Angela Street,” she said.
“Ha, that’s a slick move! He must be smitten.”
“No, it’s just a funny coincidence.”
“But what a sweet story to tell your kids.”
Angie felt herself blush. “Just for that, I’m going to bring you one of those classy tee-shirts from Duval.”
“With which I will wipe my surly white ass,” he said.
She noticed a red light blinking on a small device piled among other electronic equipment on an oilskin tarp. Skink said it was a telemetry receiver.
“For the tracking collar I strapped on Pruitt,” he explained. “Same size they use for panthers. Last time I checked, the dumb douche was about six miles from Copeland.”
Holy shit, Angie thought. He wasn’t joking.
“Governor, that’s the middle of the Big Cypress swamp.”
“In all its glory,” Skink said. “I gave him chlorine tablets, a Randall knife, waterproof matches, and a volume from my personal library.”
“Which book?”
“The Sporting Club.”
“You really think a mouth-breather like Pruitt can recognize irony?”
“Oh, there will be a test.” Skink looked away smiling.
Angie figured he still had the freezer because the beer was cold, and she could hear the rumble of the gas-powered generator. She opened her backpack and took out an object wrapped in a plastic Publix bag.
“For you, sir,” she said.
He tore it open thundering, “Oooohhhh, baby! Zuppa del giorno!”
Inside the bag was a road-kill armadillo that Angie had collected on the Turnpike extension in Homestead. Skink ran off to place the curled-up remains on ice. Angie scanned the tree canopy and saw no snake sheds.
When he returned, carrying two more beers, she asked about the pythons.
“They’re gone,” he told her. “I trucked every one of ’em up to Palm Beach, and now they’re all dead.”
“And you don’t feel shitty about that?”
“Sure I do, but they already had a price on their head when I caught ’em. At least with me they got a few pampered months and five-star dining. The truth is they’d been doomed since the day they crawled out of their eggs. Damn things don’t belong here, dear, and they’re a ravenous menace. Agree or not?”
Sharply Angie said, “That little Caribbean iguana you hatched doesn’t belong here, either.”
Skink clicked his teeth. “Sadly, a hawk took him yesterday. Pythons are too big to have such worries.”
“And you saved the biggest for the President’s party.”
“Maximum impact. She was a beauty, wasn’t she?”
“What the fuck, Governor? The man weighs two-hundred-and-seventy pounds!” Angie exploded to her feet. “There isn’t a snake on this planet fat enough to swallow that moose and you know it. So what was the point? Why did you do all this?”
“To imbed the idea,” Skink said. He seemed amused that she didn’t see the big picture. “ ‘The mind, once stretched by a new idea, never returns to its original dimensions.’ That’s from Emerson, by the way. All I was hoping to do is stretch some goddamn minds.”
Angie closed her eyes and murmured, “Jesus H. Christ.”
She sat down again, and he put his arm around her.
“No harm done,” he said.
“Really? Tell that to the family of Katherine Fitzsimmons.”
Skink’s good eye squinted. “What do you mean?”
“The woman that got eaten at the Lipid House!” Angie said angrily. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about.”
“Of course I do.”
“The very first python.”
“Oh, that wasn’t one of mine,” he said.
Angie pushed his arm away and stared at him hotly. “Don’t bullshit me, Governor.”
“I’m dead serious. That big glorious beast motored up there all by herself.”
“No. Freaking. Way.”
“I swear, Angie. Where do you think I got the inspiration?”
“Shit,” she said, keeling against his shoulder. She wanted to cry and she wanted to laugh.
Skink poured the rest of her beer on the ground.
“You need something stronger,” he said.
“Yes, sir, I do.”
Acknowledgment
I will forever be grateful to Sonny Mehta, my editor of almost thirty years, who passed away in December 2019. Working with Sonny was a gift I never took for granted, and he was also a good friend in difficult times. If it weren’t for his understanding and encouragement, this novel might never have been written. I will miss him, as will so many other writers and editors who benefited from his grace, extraordinary perception, and maddeningly infallible instincts.
C.H.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Carl Hiaasen was born and raised in Florida. He is the author of fourteen previous novels, including the best sellers Bad Monkey, Lucky You, Nature Girl, Razor Girl, Sick Puppy, Skinny Dip, and Star Island, as well as six best-selling child
ren’s books, Hoot, Flush, Scat, Chomp, Skink, and Squirm. His most recent work of nonfiction is Assume the Worst, a collaboration with the artist Roz Chast.
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