Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,41
on the shoulder of the road beside the billionaire Venezuelan’s future mansion. The construction crew had padlocked the chain-link gate; a shredded ribbon of yellow police tape fluttered from one of the fence poles.
Uric shut off the ignition, grinned and said, “Scene of the crime, bro.”
Teabull was on edge but also aggravated. Years of abusing minimum-wage staff had conditioned him to vent unsparingly. He said, “The only reason they found her was because you guys fucked up the concrete. It’s your own goddamn fault!”
Uric punched him in the face. “The bill doubled,” he said, “on account of the dead granny in the snake, plus all my extra manual labor. I hope you got sixteen grand in your office. Oh shit, dude, look at you.”
He used a dirty towel to dab the blood from Teabull’s mouth and nose.
The caretaker sniffled and said, “Chill out. I’ve got your damn money.”
Uric waved the rag. “And I got your damn DNA. You better hope I don’t accidentally on purpose drop this bloody rag where they dug up the old lady. You want a tour of the property?”
“No! Christ, no.”
“Okay. Your loss.” Uric pulled his door shut. “Did I tell you I got a hotline number to the cops, with my own special code?”
Teabull wiped his face with a sleeve. “Unbelievable. You, a police informant?”
Uric slugged him again. “I’m not a motherfuckin’ informant, I’m a tipster. Also known as a ‘information broker.’ ”
Teabull pinched the bridge of his nose and tilted his head upward. “Take me back to Lipid House. I’ve got to meet with the caterers.”
“And pay me, don’t forget,” said Uric.
“Right. And pay you.”
* * *
—
Filomena Ricci was still hobbling days after the surgery, two liters of fat vacuumed from her chubby knees at a cost of $159. The once-in-a-lifetime bargain had been brought to her attention by an unsolicited email promising perfect results and a speedy recovery. The storefront clinic wasn’t far from Filomena’s apartment, so she drove there for a consultation with the surgeon, who—despite speaking not a word of English and wearing a black beret during the meeting—seemed otherwise professional and reassuring. Through a stroke of luck, his operating schedule happened to be wide open that afternoon, so Filomena agreed to undergo the liposuction then and there.
The procedure had taken longer than expected, and the results were the opposite of flawless. Filomena’s kneecaps looked like rotting grapefruits. Everybody who saw them urged her to sue. On Instagram she posted grisly before-and-after photos, and within an hour she’d been contacted by a dozen law firms. One offered to send their top malpractice ace, and that’s who Filomena assumed was ringing her doorbell.
The visitor was wearing a suit, but he wasn’t a lawyer. A badge on his belt identified him as a detective from the sheriff’s office. He glanced first at Filomena’s crutches and then at the fluid-stained compression sleeves on her legs. She was disappointed when he didn’t ask what had happened to her.
“Are you Filomena Ricci?” he asked.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“You’re listed as the registered owner of a white 2014 Chevy Malibu SS.”
Filomena chortled, “Praise God! You found it.”
The car had been stolen from an alley behind the surgical clinic while she was getting her fat sucked.
“Boo! Hey, Boo!” she shouted to her boyfriend. When there was no answer, she started thumping the floor with one of her crutches. “Boo, get your ass in here! Hurry up, they found Margie!”
That was their nickname for the car—Margie the Malibu.
The detective said, “It was at the bottom of a canal, Ms. Ricci.”
Filomena stopped banging the crutch tip. “What’re you sayin’?”
“Your vehicle was under twenty feet of water. It’s totaled.”
“Fuck me!” Filomena exclaimed. She wouldn’t get a nickel from the insurance company; her policy had been canceled months earlier for nonpayment.
From down the hall came a muffled: “What’s goin’ on, Filly? I’m on the can.”
“Take your time, Boo,” Filomena called back, “and open the damn window.”
The detective said the Malibu had been discovered by a fisherman whose boat anchor snagged on the front bumper. In Florida, canals are the favored dumping choice for auto thieves; a tow company specializing in such retrievals had hauled out Filomena’s precious Margie.
“Take a look at this please,” the detective said. He showed her a picture of a scowling, narrow-eyed man in an orange jumpsuit.
“Who’s this?” she asked. “Is he the asshole stole my Malibu?”
“You don’t know him?”
“Hell, no.”
“His name’s Keever Bracco,” the detective said. “The diver who hooked the chains to your car found his body