Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,38
the other lacquered weekend warriors. Casa Bellicosa was always stocked with fans who applauded on cue every time he appeared—so many worshipful faces that the leader of the free world couldn’t possibly remember them all.
He did, however, occasionally pay attention to the things Barnette Wittlefield told him at four-thirty in the morning.
* * *
—
Diego Beltrán was surprised that the police chief came alone to interview him. The man listened to the whole story without once interrupting.
Then he said, “Diego, can you show me the railroad tracks where you say you found the pearl?”
“Yeah, sure. I offered to take the detectives there, but they weren’t interested.”
“Well, I am,” said Jerry Crosby.
“Do I have to wear handcuffs?”
“Yup. There’ll be another armed officer riding with us.”
Diego said, “Don’t worry, I’m not running.”
“No, you don’t strike me as stupid.”
“You mean because my English is so good.”
Crosby smiled. “That’s got nothing to do with it. I know plenty of English-speaking morons.”
With his wrists cuffed in front of him, Diego was placed in the caged back seat of the chief’s SUV. The other cop, a county sheriff’s deputy, sat up front with the chief. Diego gave directions to the railway crossing. Crosby pulled off the road near the striped warning gates and switched on his red-and-blue roof lights. Diego led him to the section of tracks where he’d picked up the pink pearl.
The deputy stood in the middle of the crossing with his arms up, stopping the cars, while Diego and Crosby walked side-by-side, scanning the debris in the gravel between the ties. Crosby didn’t seem to be faking an interest, and he caught Diego off guard by suggesting they split up to cover more ground.
“Sounds good,” said Diego warily.
“But try to run off, and you’ll be visiting one of our modern emergency rooms.”
“I get it. Can I ask what we’re looking for?”
“Anything,” the chief said, “that might make your story remotely believable.”
There was a cloudless sky, no breeze and a bright sun. If it had been August, ripples of heat would have been rising from the steel rails. Diego’s eyesight was sharp. Between the ties lay a sooty scattering of coins, soda straws, batteries, unmatched socks, condom wrappers, bottle caps, moldy wine corks, bird skeletons, used syringes, bent needles, copper BBs, Styrofoam cups, a rusted harmonica, a large fish hook, a turtle shell, a partial set of vintage dentures, and a filthy baby’s mitten.
Diego had no intention of touching anything; none of the items had any clear connection to his predicament. He looked up when he heard the deputy holler. Warning bells rang from the crossing gates. Diego stepped back and waited while a mile-long train passed between him and the police chief. Diego didn’t even consider running. After the last freight car rolled by, he saw Crosby beckoning from the other side of the tracks.
When Diego crossed over, he found the chief holding a plastic fixture bearing the stylized letters SS.
“What is it?” Diego asked. “Some Nazi thing?”
The deputy, an auto buff, explained that the SS stood for Super Sport. “That means it came off a Chevy. We’ve got a guy can find out the exact make and model.”
“But what’s a car logo got to do with my case?”
Crosby said, “Maybe nothing. But this little beauty was lying in the rocks underneath it.”
With his other hand he held up a small pink sphere.
Diego Beltrán sucked in his breath and said, “No shit!”
“My reaction exactly,” said Crosby.
On the ride back to jail, Diego closed his eyes and propped his head sideways against the rear window. After a while the police chief and county deputy started speaking low, thinking Diego was asleep.
“You didn’t hear about that?” the deputy was saying. “I was workin’ traffic for the motorcade. It was all over the TV and Facebook.”
“When did this happen?” Crosby asked.
“Few days ago. I can’t believe you didn’t know.”
“Was the President in the car?”
“Naw, but his wife was. The route was blocked off for, like, fifteen minutes. But those Secret Service, they know how to button down a scene.”
“All because of a dead snake?” Crosby said.
“You shoulda seen the size of the damn thing. Twenty-footer, at least—and that’s with no fuckin’ head.”
“And you’re sure it was at the same railroad crossing?”
“Positive.” The deputy shook his head and laughed. “What’re the odds, right?”
“Actually, that’s a damn good question,” said Crosby.
In the back seat, Diego Beltrán kept his eyes closed. While he was entertained by the deputy’s tale of the mutant headless snake in the road, his