Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,39
thoughts kept returning to the pink pearl that the chief had collected from the tracks. It was solid proof that Diego was telling the truth about where and how he’d found his own pearl—and that he’d had no involvement with the robbery and murder of the old lady on the island.
Diego was confident he’d be freed from jail the next morning and taken back to the immigration detention center, where he would join the others and resume work on his asylum application.
In a place like South Florida, such heart-bound faith in the justice system could best be described as quaint.
TEN
Angie said, “Tell the truth. As a man, do you find any of this arousing?”
Spalding answered carefully. “Not at all.”
“The dancing’s awful, the music sucks, the drinks are piss.”
“It’s a strip joint, Angie.”
They were seated among the late-nighters at Prime Vegas Showgirls. Angie had asked Spalding to come along as backup. Nonetheless, she had three times been approached by couples asking hopefully if she was bisexual.
“It’s the khaki thing,” Spalding said. “You should’ve worn a skirt.”
“I told you, I was working late.”
“So was I, Lady Tarzan, but you don’t see me in my damn butler suit.”
A performer who called herself Karma paused at their table to offer a private dance. Angie gave her five bucks and showed her a mug shot of Keever Bracco, which the woman pretended to study. “Nope, never seen him before,” she murmured with a medicated smile, and wandered on.
Angie had already scoped out the stage-side bar patrons; in the dim reddish light, almost all of them in some way looked like Keever Bracco. She had little hope that the dancers would be much help, particularly if he was a good customer. It was also possible that Germaine Bracco had lied to her about the name of the club where he’d met his brother and the man known as Uric.
To Spalding she said, “Tell me about the new job.”
“The lily-whitest place I’ve ever worked. Practically everyone’s on visas from the Eastern bloc—it’s like a Romanian Hell’s Kitchen.”
“What does the staff say about our commander-in-chief?”
“Check this out: His Secret Service code name is Mastodon.”
“Could’ve been worse,” said Angie.
“The guy drinks between eighteen and twenty-one Dr. Peppers a day, room temperature only. And right before bed, every single night, he eats an entire Key Lime pie topped with Chantilly cream.”
“Glorious!”
“And there’s this one dude on the payroll,” Spalding went on, “his only job is to disinfect and tune the President’s tanning bed.”
“Eewww.”
“Yeah, times ten.”
“What about the First Lady?”
“They say she’s nice, but super lonely,” Spalding said. “Supposedly she’s banging one of the agents who’s guarding her. The prevailing sentiment is, ‘You go, girl.’ ”
“Keep a diary, please. By the way, this is the worst gin I’ve ever tasted.”
“It’s a strip joint, Angie.”
A tall raven-haired dancer approached the table. With a heavy Russian accent she said her name was Farrah Moans. She wore see-through platform heels and a satin thong exposing matching tattoos on each buttock. This time Angie laid a ten-dollar bill next to Keever Bracco’s photo.
The dancer eyed it and asked, “Are you also police?”
“Seriously?” Spalding rolled his eyes toward Angie. “Look how she’s dressed.”
Farrah Moans plucked the money off the table and folded it into the V of her thong. “Police too ask me about this person. But the other one, his friend, he liked me. Had big dimple here.” She pointed.
“The middle of his forehead?” Angie said.
“Yes, the forehead.”
“Was his name Uric?”
The Russian held out her hand. Angie took a ten from Spalding and handed it to the dancer.
“Uric, yes. Was him,” she said.
“Last name?”
Again Farrah Moans put out her hand.
Angie frowned. “Come on, sister. We’re out of cash.”
“I really like your top,” the dancer said, stroking one of the sleeves.
Spalding laughed. “That’s a total burn, by the way.”
“No. Top is fresh,” said Farrah Moans.
Angie’s shirt was a short-sleeved khaki with a smudge of squirrel shit on the collar. The “Discreet Captures” logo was stitched in forest-green thread above the left breast pocket.
“It’s too small for you,” she said to the dancer.
“No. Is just right.”
“Fine. You’re the one in show business.”
Angie took off the shirt and handed it to the Russian, who lit up and said, “Last name of Uric is Burns. B-U-R-N-S. He wrote it on dollar bill for me. Also his phone number.”
“Which you didn’t save.”
“Why would I keep? One dollar for what?” the stripper mused. “Also he is not my type.”
Angie self-consciously covered her chest. Farrah Moans inquired about the bandage