Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,112

Post-it note.”

“Oh, but I smell a best seller.”

Angie was trying to be civil, and falling short. She was upset by Jerry Crosby’s phone call. The sight of Venus, a bright amber twinkle in the western sky, made her feel a little better. So did the sound of randy Cuban tree frogs screaking to one another in the bromeliads. Then a school of frantic mullet detonated like a pinwheel beside the seawall, chased by a hungry tarpon.

The First Lady said, “What do you want? Money?”

“Not a dime.”

“Then it’s not really blackmail, is it?”

“Hard bargain sounds better. That work for you?” Angie took another napkin from her shoulder bag and handed it to the President’s wife. “I’m pretty sure you know who this is, but I also wrote down his inmate number and cell block. At this very minute he’s in the medical wing at the jail, and I haven’t heard if he’s dead or alive. All I know is he tried to kill himself, thanks to your lying puke-bucket of a husband.”

Mockingbird read the name aloud: “Diego Beltrán. Isn’t he the one who—”

“Quiet!” Angie raised a finger. “The man had nothing to do with the death of Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons. The prosecutors know that. So does the police chief and the Secret Service. So will everybody else, soon enough.”

“But what’s this got to do with me?”

“I know you’re not a stupid person, so why would you ask such a stunningly stupid question?”

The look on the First Lady’s face confirmed that she hadn’t been spoken to that way in a long, long time.

Angie said, “You know TMZ, right? The tabloid website.”

“I’ve seen their TV show.”

“Excellent. Now, if you do what I ask, I promise that nobody at TMZ will get a detailed, anonymous tip about your relationship with Agent Keith-slash-Ahmet, or the President’s sloppy affair with Suzi Whatever-the-hell-she-calls-herself. That’s my end of the bargain.”

Mockingbird blinked once, slowly. “And what’s mine?”

“First: If Diego Beltrán pulls through tonight, you make sure he’s released from jail within twenty-four hours. Second: You get Immigration to fast-track his application for political asylum. Third: A statement comes out that exonerates him completely—doesn’t have to come from the White House. DHS is fine.”

“DHS?” Mockingbird said.

Angie rolled her eyes. “Department of Homeland Security. Read much?”

“You don’t have to be such a cunt.”

“Girl, this is me being nice.”

“What about the stripper’s book?”

“Write her a check for an outlandish sum,” Angie suggested, “in exchange for shredding the manuscript.”

Mockingbird’s cheeks burned and her throat was as dry as ash. She said, “So, you want me to speak with the President about Beltrán.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What if he refuses to do anything?”

“Here we go again with the dumb questions,” Angie said impatiently. “Apparently, Ahmet-slash-Keith is crazy about you, and I bet you care enough about him that you don’t want to wreck what you have together—or ruin his life—which is just the beginning of what will happen if this avalanche of shit breaks loose. I predict media frenzy and a royal goat fuck. Him. You. The President.”

Mockingbird touched a tissue to the corners of her eyes. It wasn’t an act.

She said, “Why do you care what happens to some random Diego? I mean, who are you?”

Angie gave her a business card.

The First Lady looked annoyed, as if she were being punked.

“ ‘Discreet Captures’? Is this, like, a joke?”

“Nope. You got skunks in your garbage, I’m the one to call,” said Angie. “Now please go talk to your husband.”

She turned and waved an arm at Paul Ryskamp and Ahmet Youssef, who came striding side-by-side down the seawall.

“All done?” Ryskamp asked.

“I believe so,” the First Lady said.

“We are,” said Angie. “Where’s Jerry? Never mind, I’ll find him.”

She went to the Grand Ballroom and peeked through a doorway. The band had taken a break while servers poured coffee and cleared the remnants of the huckleberry mousse. Some guests were milling about the dance floor, and many more were standing in line at the open bars. Fay Alex Riptoad and the Potussies had posted up near their Secret Service escorts at the foot of the stage, soliciting raves for their performance. Angie didn’t see the President at the head table; she assumed he was in mingle mode, milking the donors. She tried to call Chief Jerry Crosby but he didn’t answer.

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?”

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