Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,35
would be a good idea to sit down with Diego Beltrán, one-on-one.
NINE
When Germaine Bracco returned from a productive road trip to Beckley, West Virginia, he found stuck in his door the business cards of two police detectives. Germaine didn’t bother unpacking; it was time to move. He pulled a second suitcase from a closet and stuffed it with the remainder of his clothes and personal belongings, including an unlicensed .38 he’d stolen from the handbag of a patient who’d fallen asleep on the table, her ears bristling with needles. Germaine was a self-taught acupuncturist with no legitimate credentials but many faithful clients. He didn’t want to abandon them, yet there was no choice.
He flung open the door, picked up his suitcases, and found the way blocked by a small woman with an ash-blond ponytail. She was holding a pole tipped with a slender noose.
“Where you going, Germaine?” she said.
“Move out of my way.”
“I’m not the police.”
He said, “I’ve got a plane to catch.”
“Where’s your brother?” the woman asked.
Germaine swung the suitcases trying to knock her aside. When he regained consciousness, he found himself sprawled on the kitchen floor with the noose around his throat. It was loose enough to let him breathe, but not slack enough to let him fit his fingers under the coated wire.
The ponytailed chick sat on the countertop beside the microwave looking down at him. She had pinned him with the pole and was tapping the soles of her hiking shoes together, like Dorothy in her damn ruby slippers.
“Where’s your brother?” she repeated.
“Which one? I got three.”
“Prince Paladin.”
“Who?”
“Keever. The one the cops are looking for.”
Germaine said, “I dunno. I been outta town.”
His voice was scraping and distorted, like one of those undead fuckers in a zombie movie. “What the hell’s this all about—the car? Then go on, strangle me, ’cause I don’t know shit about that.”
“My name’s Angie Armstrong,” the woman said. “This pole is designed to humanely secure wild animals, and I’ve never hurt one. It’s all about controlling the tension on the noose wire, see? If I tug a little too hard from this end—”
“Stop! Holy Christ, just stop.”
“You mentioned a car.”
“They stole a Chevy Malibu. The dumbass texted me a picture. I wasn’t even here, I’s in West Virginia. And I can prove it, too.”
“I believe you, Germaine,” said the woman named Angie. “You were at a pill mill, restocking for your customers. This, while awaiting trial on similar charges in Tennessee. Or is it Arkansas? Anyhow, I’m guessing you need the money to pay your lawyers, but still, it was poor judgment. Who was riding with your brother when they jacked the Malibu?”
“I got no idea.”
The noose tightened. Germaine perceived a fuzzy gray curtain descending slowly behind his eyelids.
“Stop! Fuck!” he hacked. “Dude’s name is Uric. He and Keev, they work together sometimes.”
“So your brother calls him ‘Eric,’ ” the woman said.
“He says it more like your-ick. I only met the dude once, so don’t ask me his last name.”
“Did he speak with an accent?”
“Just normal ’Merican,” Germaine said. “How’d you know about the pills?”
“After you blacked out, I opened your suitcases. Found your stash and also the handgun, which, being a convicted felon myself, I was careful not to touch.”
“You’re a con? No way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bullshit. Look at you!”
“I fed a man’s hand to an alligator. He was a bad guy, but nonetheless it was an overreaction. I did fourteen months at Gadsden and today I’m a model citizen.”
Germaine didn’t know much about the prison at Gadsden, but the gator story didn’t seem like something a person could make up on the spur of the moment. “What is it you want from me?” he asked.
“Your douche brother and his partner broke into my apartment,” said the woman named Angie, “and then my storage unit. They stole something important.”
“So, you want it back.”
“Not anymore. I just need to know who they were working for.”
Germaine squirmed. “Maybe they workin’ for theyselves.”
The woman slid off the countertop, stood her full weight on Germaine’s chest, and stared down the pole, straight into his watering eyes. Since his arms were free, he considered punching her legs out from under her—but what if she didn’t let go of the noose when she fell? It might snap his goddamn neck.
She confirmed the risk, explaining that Germaine didn’t possess the natural layer of fur that protected the necks of raccoons, otters, skunks and so forth while being subdued with that particular device. When she demanded to see the