Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,111
Jerry Crosby, who chose to share it selectively.
When Mastodon returned to the ballroom to join his wife, the patriotically bedecked Potussies aligned on stage to perform their tribute. Those who’d been bold enough to ask Fay Alex Riptoad why she’d put on a veil had been told it was a historically accurate re-creation of an Abigail Adams favorite. If anyone noticed her bandaged ear beneath the burgundy lacing, they didn’t mention it.
Behind his tribal mask, the President beamed as the Potussies began to sing.
Roll on, roll on
You big unimpeachable you
Mockingbird leaned toward her husband and, without moving her lips, whispered, “They sound hideous.”
“Are you kidding? It’s a fantastic song.”
“Pure torture.” She reached for her purse and stood up.
“You can’t leave in the middle of their big number!” Mastodon protested. “You and I are supposed to have the first dance.”
“Ask your nutritionist,” Mockingbird said. “Or does she require a pole?”
Outside, the Intracoastal was flat, the cloudless sky sprayed with stars. Crossing the west lawn, the First Lady felt a chill and wished she’d brought a wrap. Ahmet Youssef and Special Agent Jennifer Rose led her entourage, and no flirting was observed—in fact, the two hardly exchanged a word. Mockingbird allowed herself a bittersweet smirk; Miss Blondie would have to find someone else to build her a Shaker writing desk.
They walked all the way to the end of the seawall, where a pair of figures stood beside a flickering tiki torch. One of them turned out to be Paul Ryskamp. The other was a tired-looking younger woman in a sleeveless, bloodstained Versace.
“Are you the one who sent me the note?” Mockingbird asked her.
“That’s me. Thanks for coming.”
“What note?” Ahmet said.
The First Lady held up a Casa Bellicosa cocktail napkin, folded in half to cover the message. “I found it under my soup bowl.”
“May I see it?” Ahmet held out his hand.
Mockingbird shook her head. “No, you may not.”
“Oh, relax,” the young woman said to the agent, “it’s not like I spit in the lobster bisque.”
“Can I have your name, ma’am?”
“Yes, sir, it’s Angela Armstrong. I prefer Angie.”
Paul Ryskamp spoke up: “This is the wildlife expert we brought aboard to handle the python fuckery. She’s been cleared.”
Mockingbird told Ahmet that she wished to speak alone with the woman. “This concerns you, too,” she said to him under her breath.
The agents stepped away, all except Ahmet and Ryskamp forming a wide, protective half-circle on the grass. A patrol boat flashing its lights slowed to an idle no more than fifty yards off the seawall, in case the President’s wife somehow wound up in the water.
Ahmet and Ryskamp positioned themselves at the next tiki torch down the line and muted their microphones.
“Your tie’s crooked,” Ryskamp said.
Ahmet’s face reddened but he kept his eyes fixed on Mockingbird. She liked to knot his necktie for him when they got dressed after making love.
“You’re not my problem anymore,” Ryskamp told him. “This is my last week.”
Ahmet nodded. “I heard. Why are you retiring? They pushing you out?”
“Hell, no. I just can’t work for this ignorant clown anymore.”
“Yeah. I get that.”
“You see what he did to his face?” Ryskamp said. “He looks like one of those gargoyles in Ghostbusters.”
“They said it was an accident in the tanning bed.”
“There was no evidence of tampering but, still, what the fuck?”
Ahmet laughed quietly. “Where’d he come up with that awesome African mask?”
“Unbelievable,” Ryskamp agreed. Then, after a pause, he said, “Look, man, I hate to see a career like yours go down in flames, but that’s your future if you don’t break it off with Mockingbird.”
“You don’t understand how it feels to fall this hard.”
“I’ve been with women who wouldn’t leave their husbands for me, and she ain’t leaving him for you.”
“Just wait,” Ahmet said.
“Jesus Christ, I give up.”
“When’s the last time you fell in love, Paul?”
“I don’t know. A few days ago?” Ryskamp turned and fondly looked down the seawall toward Angie Armstrong, whose torch-lit expression indicated she wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the First Lady of the United States.
* * *
—
She was absurdly tall, gorgeous and poised, but Angie saw turbulence in her eyes.
“That’s a shame about your dress,” the First Lady said.
“Have you ever been blackmailed before?”
“Is that what’s happening here?”
“I’m not judging you. Agent Keith is a great-looking guy,” Angie said. “Sorry, I mean Ahmet. Plus, your husband’s screwing a stripper who’s writing a book about it. That’s never good for a marriage.”
Thinking: Thank you, Paul.
Mockingbird said, “The dumb whore couldn’t write a