Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,40

on her left arm.

“Animal bite,” Angie said, hoping the customers at the next table couldn’t hear her over the music.

“You mean was a man? Why did he bite you?” the dancer asked.

“It wasn’t a man. It was a marsupial. Did you give Uric’s name to the police detectives?”

“I tell them I don’t know.”

“Why did you hold back?”

“Because when it’s for free, I don’t remember things so good.”

“If either of these bozos come back, call me,” Angie said. “Next time I’ll bring you some swamp boots.” She handed one of her business cards to the Russian, who put it with all the dollar bills in the waistband of her thong.

Spalding kept his eyes away from Angie’s cleavage by focusing on the dancer’s butt: “Sweetheart, are those Jiminy freaking Crickets?”

“Yes!” Farrah Moans spun and bent over to show off her ink. “I love so much the Disney World!”

Then she put on Angie’s shirt—the fit was snug, but it didn’t matter because she left the front unbuttoned. On clacking heels she marched to the stage, scissored herself to a brass-plated pole and began twirling.

Nobody in the strip club even glanced at Angie in her T.J. Maxx bra as she and Spalding hurried out through a side door.

* * *

—

As he did every Saturday morning, Uric Burns went to the farmers’ market and shoplifted organically grown produce. Blueberries were his fave. He gobbled them by the fistful on the drive to Lipid House, where he wheeled through the open gates and parked his van under the portico. He wasn’t worried when two square-jawed security guys approached and told him not to move.

“I’m here to see Mr. Teabull,” Uric said.

“Stay right where you are.”

It was when Uric heard the sirens that he tensed up. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…

But it wasn’t the cops coming to arrest him for ditching the old lady’s body.

A line of late-model black SUVs, led by police on motorcycles, wheeled into the driveway. Uric wasn’t an attentive follower of current events, but as a criminal with loads of idle time he watched enough TV to recognize the long-legged hottie stepping from one of the Escalades:

It was the First Lady of the United States. She wore wide movie-star shades, a clingy print dress and matching heels. Her hair was perfect.

Uric tried to imagine this sleek gorgeous woman hopping into bed with a person as soft and mountainous as the President. Uric wasn’t seized by a feeling of disgust or even pity, but rather a forensic sort of curiosity about how the sexual act itself was choreographed. She would need to perch on top, obviously, because the missionary position would result in crushed organs and suffocation. Maintaining her balance in the absence of a saddling device would require the skills of an aerialist. Uric wondered if the Secret Service supplied a spotter—possibly the tall dark-skinned agent who was leading the First Lady’s entourage into the mansion.

Once she was safely swept out of public reach, the other agents dematerialized and the commotion subsided. When Tripp Teabull walked out of the entrance, he glowered at Uric’s dirty van.

“Move that piece of shit outta here!” he barked.

Uric said, “Let’s us go for a ride.”

“Are you joking?”

“Okay. Be a douche.” Uric yanked the keys from the ignition. “Call a fuckin’ tow truck. I can wait.”

Teabull got in the van, and soon they were southbound on A1A. Uric lighted a cigarette and rolled down his window. Teabull wouldn’t stop yammering. Where the hell are we going? I’ve got the tri-county Hep-C benefit tonight! What’s this all about? Where’s your dumbshit partner?

“You owe me money,” Uric cut in, “for the snake job.”

The caretaker seemed relieved. “So that’s what this is all about? Come on, man, the damn thing ended up in the middle of the road. That wasn’t our deal.”

“Wait—you’re not gonna pay me?”

“No, no, of course I’ll pay. All I’m sayin’ is…okay, forget it. Turn around and go back—I’ve got the cash in my office.”

Uric tapped his cigarette ash on Teabull’s lap. “Check out all the poon on the beach. Too bad they don’t allow topless.”

“The fee is eight thousand dollars,” said Teabull, “just like we agreed. Split it with your buddy however you want.”

“But eight grand, see, that was just for jackin’ the snake. You conveniently forgot to tell me there was a dead fuckin’ body inside of it, which is a major add-on. Hey, look, we’re almost there…”

Teabull stayed silent as the van passed the Par-3 golf course. Moments later Uric stopped