Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,22
TV reporter quoted a White House spokesperson saying that the First Lady was never in danger, and that the motorcade had proceeded to Casa Bellicosa with no further delays. Law-enforcement authorities were said to be investigating how the python ended up on the First Lady’s route.
“I bet they already found the car,” the Prince said dejectedly.
“Oh, right. At the bottom of that canal? No way, José.”
“You were the one in charge of lockin’ the trunk!”
“Bullshit. I was in charge of buryin’ the body,” Uric said. “You’re the one supposed to close the trunk. A retard baboon couldn’t screw up a job that simple.”
The dead woman’s pink pearls and diamond earrings remained in a front pocket of Uric’s pants. He considered the gems a well-earned bonus, and couldn’t think of one good reason to mention them to his partner.
“Can I ask why the hell you call yourself Prince Paladin?”
The Prince said, “That was my stage name. I was in a reggaeton band.”
“A what?”
“Before I started dealing pills.”
“X?”
“Naw, Vicodins mainly.”
“And then…?”
“Then I got busted. This was up around Pittsburgh.”
Uric said, “So, how come you’re out already? You beat the rap?”
“I wish. Did six months and three days.”
“All you got was six months?” Uric snatched the TV remote away from the Prince, who was flipping through channels like a gacked-up chimp. “Six months for opioids? Jesus, did you have to blow the judge? Or just let him blow you?”
The Prince shrugged and reached for the rum bottle.
“Oh, now I get it,” said Uric. “The feds cut your time ’cause you flipped. You rat-fucked your friends.”
“They weren’t no friends a mine. And don’t come down on me, bro. Sometimes you get in a situation, you gotta do whatever it takes.”
“That’s a true statement, Your Highness.” Uric finished his drink and stood up. “Sometimes you do.”
SIX
Angie Armstrong was at the hair salon when her phone began to ring. Her eyes were closed and Mike Campbell’s cosmic guitar solo from “Runnin’ Down a Dream” was playing in her head.
The man holding the sharp scissors happened to be an ex-boyfriend of solid character. They’d broken up over religious differences; he was a re-enlisted Catholic, and Angie refused to set foot in church—any church, not just his. Baptist, Lutheran, Presbyterian, it didn’t matter. She was not a fan.
“Under what circumstances,” she’d mused to Martin the hairdresser one Sunday morning in bed, “could you envision Jesus Christ, a humble carpenter, hawking rosaries at the Vatican Gift Shop?”
That ended their relationship, except for Angie’s monthly haircut. These days they mostly talked about the sorrowful plight of the Marlins or Dolphins.
“Your phone,” Martin said, snipping briskly.
“I know.” Angie opened her eyes.
“Well, answer it.”
“That would be rude,” she said, “interrupting an artist at his craft.”
“What’s rude is your choice of a ringtone.”
“Gaga?”
“It’s the words.”
“Shut up!”
“ ‘Pornographic dance fight?’ ”
“You, who worshipped Prince,” said Angie, “are complaining about naughty lyrics?”
Martin snipped faster and louder. “Babe, are you fond of your earlobes?”
“I’ve been told they’re cute.”
“Then answer that stupid phone.”
The caller ID showed a 202 area code, which was Washington, D.C. A man on the other end identified himself as Agent Paul Ryskamp from the United States Secret Service. He sounded legit.
Angie’s first thought was that Pruitt, her nightly phone harasser, had gone off the rails and called her in as a threat to the vacationing President.
But it wasn’t that. “We’re contacting you about a large snake in our possession,” the agent said. “You might’ve seen it on the news.”
“I watched basketball last night. Heat and Mavs went to overtime. What type of snake?”
“Burmese python. Been dead for a while.”
“No problem. A hundred dollars plus gas and tolls,” Angie said.
“Sounds fair.”
“I’m curious, sir, how such a specimen ended up in the custody of your particular agency.”
“Me, too,” said Ryskamp. “When can you be here?”
“Washington?”
“No, Ms. Armstrong. We’ve got an office in West Palm.”
The Secret Service kept an unmarked suite in a downtown office building, from which agents had a distant view of Casa Bellicosa across the Intracoastal Waterway. The space had been selected not for its proximity to the presidential getaway, but rather because the landlord donated half-a-million dollars for media commercials supporting Mastodon during his impeachment trials.
Paul Ryskamp was waiting for Angie in the lobby. She didn’t pick him out as an agent immediately because he wore board shorts and an untucked, pineapple-themed tropical shirt. With sun-streaked hair and a Gulf Stream tan, he looked more like a tiki bar mixologist-in-training. She guessed he was in his late forties.
They rode a private