Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,27
want the state lab to dissect that animal. I’m betting on Teabull, the caretaker at Lipid House.”
“Because he was afraid the bad publicity would hurt his event business. Makes sense to me.”
“Admit it. You’re just playing along.”
The agent said, “No, I’m keeping an open mind.”
“Knock it off. Wasn’t I up-front about my hitch in prison?”
“I already knew about your felony record. And you probably knew I knew.”
“Every word I’ve told you today is true.”
“Our mission at the agency,” said Ryskamp, “is to protect the President and his family. At this point we’re confident the dead snake wasn’t deliberately placed in the road to block the motorcade, and that it posed no danger to the First Lady. Consequently, that’s where my professional interest in the python ends. I’m sorry.”
“But what about Mrs. Fitzsimmons?” Angie asked.
“Finding her body is a matter for the local authorities. It’s a dark, weird narrative, for sure.”
“No shit. Sir.”
“Thanks for the beer,” the agent said.
After he was gone, Angie sat frowning at the empty bar stool. Nothing could be done for the deceased socialite, wherever her mortal remains might be. But those goddamn burglars, Angie thought, ought to be held accountable for what they did. Meanwhile the bad-luck reptile reposed in a cardboard appliance box packed with dry ice in the bed of Angie’s pickup. The Secret Service, she’d discovered, does not pay in cash. Ryskamp had left her with a four-page voucher request and a promise that a check from the U.S. Treasury would appear in Angie’s mailbox after the paperwork was processed.
Which meant at least three months.
The bar was on busy Clematis Street in downtown West Palm. Angie had parked on a side road several blocks away. As she approached her truck, she noticed that the tailgate was down. Three skinny figures stood in the back, struggling to lift the appliance box. As Angie crept up behind the truck, she thought it wise that the state of Florida no longer allowed her to carry a firearm. She slammed shut the tailgate, hopped to the driver’s seat, jammed the key in the ignition and stepped on the gas. Two of the would-be thieves got launched immediately; the third hung on until Angie took a corner at high speed, the airborne asshole waving a defiant middle finger in the moments before his face impacted a stop sign.
Angie stopped at her apartment and took the bagged python head out of the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. Then she drove to her secret burial ground near the Loxahatchee Slough and dug a round pit. When she opened the cardboard box, she was enveloped by cool tendrils of smoke curling up from the chunked dry ice. She backed up the truck and, using a cattle rope, dragged the snake corpse out of the box, off the flatbed and into the grave. The head went in last.
An hour later she was home, standing in the shower. After the hot water ran out, she got dressed and called Joel about meeting for dinner. He said he was going out with his father and the equestrian girlfriend.
“Her pelvis must be healed. It’s like a miracle,” Angie remarked.
“You mean healed enough for that? I wouldn’t know.”
“I suppose he’s still infatuated.”
Joel, who was maddeningly neutral, said, “Dad’s just Dad.”
“Does she limp now?”
“Would that make you feel better?”
“Elated, I’m ashamed to say.”
“You need to meet a new guy,” Joel said, “soon as possible.”
“I’m on it,” Angie said.
On a whim, she changed from jeans and flats to a black dress and heels, brushed her teeth and headed for a Mediterranean restaurant called Nikko, which was on the island and therefore out of her price range. The drive up from Lake Worth was neither scenic nor speedy, but Angie was accustomed to mad interstate traffic. Besides the Greek salad, the main attraction at Nikko was a hazel-eyed assistant manager named Spalding, who’d been helping Angie practice her flirting. Spalding had a killer accent, and plausibly presented himself as South African. He’d been unattached since breaking up with the college-age daughter of covid refugees who’d packed up and moved the clan back to Connecticut.
Angie was surprised to see Spalding texting alone at the bar in Nikko’s. She took the seat beside him and asked if he was on a break.
He looked up and smiled. “I’m not working tonight, Lady Tarzan.”
He’d tagged her with the annoying nickname because of her line of work. She tolerated it only because she liked him.
“You’re probably waiting for a rich babe