Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,110
the flowers in the trellis—and remained fatefully extended in that surrreal, perpendicular pose. Angie wondered about the acid trip it was experiencing, what kind of hallucinations might visit such a primeval brain.
Oh well, she thought. The end was quick.
She dried her tears, fixed her eyeliner, and walked out of the restroom. Ryskamp was pacing outside, speaking into his sleeve. He accompanied Angie to her pickup so she could stow the gun and the machete, and retrieve her first-aid kit. Along the way they could hear the President’s reboot of the Commander’s Ball, a second “Hail to the Chief” melting improbably into “Bennie and the Jets.”
After locking the truck, Angie followed Ryskamp to Casa Bellicosa’s storied billiard room. There she began stitching up the violently pruned left ear of Fay Alex Riptoad, who was too vain to let herself be seen by any of the prominent physicians attending the event, especially the widowers.
“You look too young to be a plastic surgeon,” Fay Alex commented from the antique snooker table upon which she’d been placed.
“Hold still, please. This won’t take long,” Angie said.
“Where’d you go to school?”
“The University of Florida.”
“And where’d you intern?”
“At a spay clinic in Daytona,” said Angie. “I’m a vet. Well, was.”
“Very funny.” Thanks to Fay Alex’s disproportionate intake of alprazolam and vodka, she barely noticed the needle pokes and suturing.
“The hell happened to your dress?” she grumbled at Angie.
“I guess I got my period.”
“That’s disgusting. Would you make a joke like that in front of your mother?”
“Mrs. Riptoad, did you see the second Tyson-Holyfield fight?”
“What on God’s earth are you talking about?”
“Check it out on YouTube,” Angie said. “Just one more stitch, okay? This one might sting.”
Later she and Ryskamp took a walk to the farthest end of the seawall. The outdoor speakers, laboriously disguised as foliage, were now blaring The Collusionists’ intrepid take on “Climb Every Mountain,” the President being a fan of Broadway show tunes.
“It took five guys to carry the damn thing,” Ryskamp said to Angie, “but the dead snake’s in the back of your truck.”
“Have any more shown up tonight?”
“Not here.” He told her about the pythons at the other private Palm Beach clubs.
“Give me the addresses. I need to go.”
“No, you don’t. Jerry Crosby shot ’em all.”
“Personally?” Angie was trying to envision it.
“I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t impressed,” Ryskamp said. “There’s no sign anywhere of your mad hermit, by the way. Nobody’s got a clue how he pulled this whole thing off, but it’s already blowing up on social media. The mayor’s freaking.”
“Jerry’s a good guy.”
“They’ll fire his ass anyway.”
“He can do better,” said Angie.
“Sorry about your Versace.”
“Are you shitting me, Paul?”
“I’ve got a confession to make.”
“Don’t tell me you guys aren’t really paying for it.”
Ryskamp thought that was funny. “You will definitely be reimbursed. No, Angie, this is something else.”
“Hope your mic’s off.”
“It is,” he said, stepping closer. “Nobody on the President’s staff ever said you couldn’t wear your Steve Irwin outfit tonight. That was just me.”
“You made it up? Why?”
“Because I knew you’d look incredible in a dress like that, and you do. Well, you did.”
“Fucker.” Angie felt herself blush; at least he didn’t say she looked amazing. “You tricked me,” she said, “and for that I deserve a hot lingering kiss.”
“Later. Promise.” Ryskamp tapped at his earpiece. “The First Lady’s lead agent just contacted me.”
“Her lover, you mean.”
“For some reason, she wants to meet you,” Ryskamp said.
“Oh, does she?”
“Like right now.”
“What an honor,” said Angie.
* * *
—
As Mockingbird took her seat at the table, her husband went to the men’s room to snort the last of Stanleigh Cobo’s secret dick powder. The first bump had failed its hydraulic mission and, according to Suzi Spooner, smelled like jock-itch talc.
Still, she had gamely promised Mastodon a chance to rebound.
He laid out the rails on the top of his hat, took two sniffs, and sat down on the toilet to scroll through all the adulatory tweets he was receiving. An audio clip of his fiery opening remarks had been posted on the White House website and was now exploding on the internet. Mastodon cackled as he read one worshipful comment after another from his easily incited fans.
Among the places that the broadcast caused a stir was the TV room of the Palm Beach County Jail, where inmate Diego Beltrán had listened to the President’s words, swallowed six hundred milligrams of Ambien, and passed out lifeless on the floor. The news was relayed first to Police Chief