Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,36
photo of the stolen Malibu, Germaine took out his phone and handed it to her. She stepped off his chest but ordered him to stay down.
“I’ll ask only once more,” she said, so softly that he cowered. “Who were they working for when Keever texted you this picture?”
“All he told me was they took a job from some dude on the island.”
“Meaning Palm Beach.”
“Guess so,” Germaine said.
“Was the man who hired them named Tripp Teabull?”
“Keev didn’t tell me a name, I swear to God.”
“What kind of job?”
“I don’t never ask my brothers ’bout they bidness, they don’t ask ’bout mine.”
“Really? You guys don’t even share stock tips?”
“That’s no lie.”
“Why does Keever call himself Prince Paladin?”
“That’s from when he had a band.”
“Before he started dealing?”
Improbably, Germaine found himself thinking: This crazy bitch is rockin’ those baggy khakis, just like the dead crocodile dude’s wife on TV.
The woman must have read his mind, because suddenly she gave a firm yank on the noose. It elicited from Germaine a sound that one might hear from a coyote with stage-four COPD.
After he regained his breath, she asked, “Where’s your brother now?”
“No clue. Half the time he lives in his damn van.”
“I bet the cops are all over that. Speaking of which, they catch you on the road with suitcases, they’ll assume you’re running because you know what Keever did. They might even think you’re in on it.”
“But I don’t know shit about shit!”
The woman slackened the noose, and Germaine sat up gingerly. “You work for a zoo?” he asked, tracing a forefinger along the wire mark that encircled his throat.
“Nope. Independent contractor.” She held the pole on one shoulder, like a batter waiting on-deck. “The time you met Uric, where was that?”
“Titty bar in west county,” said Germaine.
“Which one?”
He laughed. “Like you would know the place.”
The woman raised the capture stick and positioned the slip noose on the crown of Germaine’s head. She said, “Are we starting over again? Is that really what you want?”
He spat a curse and told her the name of the joint. “You don’t fuckin’ scare me,” he added, slapping the pole away.
“Of course not, Germaine. You outweigh me by a hundred pounds.”
“Hey, I’m watchin’ out for my little bro is all. What is it they say he did?”
“A murder,” said the woman named Angie.
“No. Effing. Way. Keev wouldn’t never kill nobody.”
“Well, I don’t know about ‘never,’ ” the woman said, “but in this case he happens to be innocent. The victim was already deceased by the time he got to her.”
“So you’re sayin’ Keev’s been, like, framed?”
“Yes, sir. An anonymous caller told the cops your brother was the killer.”
“Motherfucker!” Right away Germaine felt better about giving up Uric’s name.
Angie advised him to cooperate fully with the police, then she said goodbye. Later—speeding up the interstate to St. Augustine, where there was an opening for an acupuncturist at a faux Tibetan holistic clinic—Germaine realized that the pretty woman with the skunk noose had failed to return his cell phone.
Which was stolen, anyway, so who gives a shit.
* * *
—
The surviving Potussies gathered for lunch at their traditional round table in the Poisonwood Room (the dining wings at Casa Bellicosa were named after native Florida trees). Fay Alex Riptoad was the last to arrive, bearing intel that the lobster-guava tapenade was no less than three days old and should be avoided. Likewise for the “fresh” Chilean sea bass, which was actually flash-frozen tilefish from Galveston.
In honor of their fallen sister-warrior, the Potussies left one chair empty and a Tito’s martini on the place setting. They arranged themselves by habit. Clockwise from Fay Alex sat Dee Wyndham Wittlefield, of the bauxite and lanolin Wittlefields; Kelly Bean Drummond, of the processed-soy Drummonds; and Dorothea Mars Bristol, of the aerospace Bristols (defiantly unrelated to the denture-paste Bristols). On Fay Alex’s right was Deirdre Cobo Lancôme, of the dolomite Cobos and windstorm-insurance Lancômes; Yirma Skyy Frick, of the personal-lubricant Fricks; and, gloomily, the unoccupied chair of the late Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons.
The average age of the surviving Potussies was 71.3 years, and their cumulative wealth approached half-a-billion dollars. They were presumed to be dependable Christians, although it was a rare Sunday morning when they were able to detail their faces in time for church. Collectively they’d divorced four husbands and outlived nine others. Only two of the women were currently married, and by choice neither resided in the same area code as her spouse.
Ever since a ping-pong mishap had felled their only Roman Catholic member,