Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,115
“I heard you had a busy night, too.”
“Probably my last shift in this uniform. I’m going back to the office, clean my gun, and get toasted. What about you?”
“I’ve gotta go stock up on Purina,” she said.
UNCOILED
“Where’d you get this?” asked Giardia, fingering the large emerald.
“Found it in a flower bed where I work,” Spalding said.
“Bullshit.”
The pawnbroker spun around to lock the door. Spalding was nervous; the man’s crusty red tuxedo jacket had a gun-shaped bulge under one arm.
Giardia said, “The hell am I supposed to do with one earring?”
“The stone’s worth twenty grand.”
“Says who, fuckstick?”
“I got it appraised at a Jared’s,” Spalding said.
“Ho! And that’s how stolen gems get priced?” Giardia’s grin was disturbing. It looked like he’d brushed his teeth with tapioca.
He said, “I’ll give you a thousand.”
“Fifteen hundred,” Spalding came back.
“Twelve-five, and motor your amateur ass out of here.”
Giardia handed over the money and placed Fay Alex Riptoad’s emerald earring in the safe.
“How about a receipt?” Spalding asked.
“Sure.” The pawnbroker blew his nose into a Kleenex and dropped the moist wad in front of Spalding. “There’s your motherfuckin’ receipt, junior.”
When Spalding got into his car, he re-counted the cash and then laboriously swabbed his hands and arms with Clorox wipes. He was late arriving at Angie’s apartment, where she’d been waiting to introduce him to her new rescue dogs.
“Fritz is the Labradoodle. The Bichon is Marcel, but don’t call him that,” she said. “Call him Spike.”
“Because?”
“Marcel is no name for a dog. I think it fucked him up.”
“Does he bite?” Spalding asked.
“Not anymore.” Angie opened the kennel doors and the dogs galloped to Spalding. They were wagging their butts, sniffing his slides, licking his toes.
“Hi there, guys!” He knelt laughing and stroked their heads.
Angie was smiling, too. Joel and Krista were supposed to be dog-sitting, but they had spontaneously decided to go to Nassau and get married.
“You’re a natural,” Angie said to Spalding. “Fritz gets a cup-and-a-half of the dry food in the morning, same for dinner. Only three-quarters for little Spike. He’s got gout. I left his pills on the counter.”
“When will you be back?”
“I’m not sure. Couple of days.”
“Key West is super chill,” he said. “I wish I was there.”
“Paul’s loving it. Thanks for watching the pups.”
“Anything for Lady Tarzan.”
“And thanks again for the soup-bowl sorcery. Very smooth.”
Spalding had been one of the servers assigned to the head table at the Commander’s Ball; it was he who’d hidden Angie’s note to the First Lady at her place setting. He hadn’t expected anything in return, so he was happily surprised when Angie gave him Fay Alex Riptoad’s lost earring, which she’d retrieved from a hedge at Casa Bellicosa before departing.
“Don’t worry, that old buzzard will make out like a bandit,” Angie had said when she put the emerald in Spalding’s hand. “Jerry Crosby says the rich always over-insure their jewelry.”
Spalding hadn’t decided what to do with the pawn money. He was thinking of flying home to Cape Town for a surf trip, since he now had some free time. Like all the clubs on the island, Casa Bellicosa had been furloughing staff since the night of the python apocalypse. Cell-phone video of Chief Crosby shooting a thirteen-footer out of a kapok tree at the Pilgrim Club had gone viral, killing the Palm Beach social season as dead as the Burmese. Every scheduled gala had been canceled, or re-booked in a competing county. It was almost worse than the pandemic. Now the membership at Casa was in revolt, lawsuits raining down like dung-tipped spears on Mastodon’s company.
“Here we have the doggy treats,” Angie said, shaking the box. “Only two per day, no matter how pitifully they beg.”
Spalding asked if she had Hulu.
“Yeah, but no porn. In your honor I turned on the parental controls.”
“Rude,” he muttered.
“Also, this is a skank-free zone. You’ll have to take your babes somewhere else to hose off.”
“Okay, that’s enough. Have a great trip, drive safe, and bring me some fritters from Louie’s. Now let me carry your bag to the truck—”
“No, sir.” She hugged Fritz and Spike, and promised Spalding she would Skype him one night from Mallory Square.
“Angie, I’ve got a question. You’re going to the Keys, right? As in ‘romantic getaway’?”
“That’s the plan.”
“So how come you’re wearing those same old ugly-ass khakis?”
“Because I’ve got to make a stop on the way down,” she said, hoisting her duffel bag. “Oh, and this is important, Spalding—do not let those dogs poop on the shuffleboard court.”
* * *
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On the way