Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,58
that are conspiring to cross the border to rape, kill and muttilate other innocent citizens who happen to believe in my beautiful vision for this fantastic nation. NO MORE DIEGOS!!! And God bless America!’ ”
The Potussies clapped as spiritedly as their wooziness allowed. Fay Alex Riptoad considered the recitation to be one of her finest and by no means easy, since the President clearly had fired off the multi-segmented tweet without waiting for his full-time proofreader. The “N.M.N.” in his identification of Uric Burns was cop-speak for “no middle name” and should have been deleted on the first edit, but more problematic was the higher than usual number of spelling errors that Fay Alex defensively referred to as typos.
Once the Twitter presentation was finished, the gathering dissolved into a nasal cacophony of overlapping conversations that from outside the Poisonwood Room must have sounded like crows on a road kill. An immodestly beaming Fay Alex was interrupted on her way to the powder room by her personal Secret Service agent, whose name was William something. He said that the Cornbright brothers, who were also lunching late at Casa Bellicosa, wished to meet with Fay Alex in the Gumbo Limbo Room. They said it was an urgent matter.
Fay Alex found Chase and Chance in cordovan armchairs at a bay window overlooking the impeccable croquet lawn, upon which a quartet of geriatric billionaires in shin-high socks spastically flailed candy-colored mallets. The slow-motion melee was being watched with cruel glee by the two Cornbrights. They wore crested navy blazers, button-down Oxfords, creased linen pants (beige and twilight blue, respectively), and Ferragamo driving shoes that had never tapped the accelerator of an American-made vehicle. The young men rose in tandem to greet Fay Alex Riptoad, and Chance immediately asked if she’d heard the big news about Uric Burns.
“Certainly,” she said. “I’ve been in constant contact with Chief Crosby.”
When Chase asked to speak privately, she signaled for Secret Service Agent William to wait outside. His arctic nod suggested that he’d rather be waxing his nut sack than trailing Fay Alex around.
As soon as he was gone from the room, Chance spoke up: “So, the man who committed suicide is the same one who called in the tip about Mother’s body?”
“That’s right,” said Fay Alex. “He was one of the three killers, just trying to cash in. The police were waiting outside the bank to arrest him, but by then he’d already hung himself off that bridge. As POTUS himself said: Two scumbags down, one to go—”
“So Burns never collected any of the reward?” Chase asked.
“Of course not. That wasn’t ever going to happen.” Fay Alex sighed to herself, thinking: No wonder Kiki Pew gave up on these two stains in the gene pool.
Chance pressed on with pursed-lip intensity. “So, what about our hundred grand? Is anyone else trying to claim it? Is there a time limit?”
“Chief Crosby says none of the other tips were legitimate.”
“Then we, like, get to keep all our money?”
Fay Alex said, “Yes, Chance. The family can, like, keep the money.”
The Cornbright brothers emitted a lupine howl, knuckle-bumped each other, and called out for more drinks. Fay Alex excused herself and, in more or less a straight line, headed for the double doors of the Gumbo Limbo Room.
Her white Mercedes was idling in the shade of the portico. William opened a rear door for her, but then he sat in front with the driver.
Fay Alex said, “I don’t understand why you won’t ride back here next to me.”
It was the third time that day she’d brought it up. The agent patiently repeated his explanation: “Because I can see more when I’m up here, Mrs. Riptoad.”
“But Kelly Bean says her Secret Service man sits right beside her everywhere they go!”
“It’s a judgment call, Mrs. Riptoad.” William turned his attention to his sunglasses, thumbing a microfiber cloth in practiced circles over each mirrored lens.
Fay Alex, who’d assumed that a Secret Service escort would obey orders as unquestioningly as all her employees, sulked all the way home. There she retreated to her bedroom, shut the door, and endeavored to nap her way out of the steep vodka migraine that would ultimately delay her appearance that evening at the Bath Club, which was hosting a Disney-themed mixer for Peyronie’s Syndrome Awareness Week.
* * *
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Angie knew Paul Ryskamp wasn’t thrilled that she’d invited the police chief to join them on their first date. However, the President’s inflammatory new tweet had so badly aggravated both Ryskamp