Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,113
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