Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,71
down in the tanning bed.
“It’s not a fuckin’ wig, it’s a piece,” the Knob shot back. “Wigs are for chicks.”
“Hurry up,” said Christian, and set the timer.
The Knob donned the skull cap and adjusted the hairpiece in the President’s iconic style. Then he squeezed into the acrylic cylinder and lowered the canopy cover. He wore small reflective goggles, a black tee-shirt, sweat pants, and socks. Only his face and arms were exposed to the UVA rays, because that’s how Mastodon did it. There was no need for full-body shading because the commander-in-chief never permitted himself to be photographed shirtless, or in shorts.
As soon as the timer went off, the cover of the Cabo Royale swung open and The Knob emerged. The complexion of his cheeks and nose had darkened from marbled salmon to fawn.
“All done,” he said, peeling off the goggles. “I’m gonna go binge some porn.”
“Hold on—what’s that smell?” Christian asked.
“Maybe I farted. So what?”
“No, this is different.”
The Knob said he didn’t smell anything. Christian told him to remove his wig.
“It’s not a wig, goddammit!”
“Let me see that, bro.”
Toward the front of the hairpiece, on the crest of the swooshing peach forelock, Christian spotted a discolored area the size of an M&M. He sniffed it and said, “Oh shit.”
“Whassa matter?” asked The Knob.
“It’s singed.”
“You mean burnt?”
Christian fingered the charred strands. “Something must’ve thrown a spark. I don’t know what, or how.”
The Knob said he hadn’t noticed anything unusual. “But my eyeballs was shut the whole time.”
Christian leaned into the tanning chamber to examine the fixtures holding the fluorescent tube lamps.
“Can I go now?” The Knob said.
“Not yet. We need a do-over.”
“But I gotta piss like a drunk donkey.”
“Get in and give me another five minutes,” Christian said.
“I don’t want my face gettin’ cooked!”
Like that would change your social life, thought Christian. He gave The Knob a microfiber sun mask of the type worn for protection by fishing guides.
The Knob tried to tug the stretchy fabric down over his head but it kept getting snagged on the skull cap’s Velcro patches.
“What’s the damn SPF on this thing?” he bleated at Christian.
“Fifty.”
“Big deal. Fuck it.” The Knob tossed the face mask on the floor.
“You’re only doing five more minutes, anyway,” said Christian.
“Unless I fucking catch on fire.”
“Seriously? Okay, make it four.”
The Cabo Royale operated perfectly during the second trial, but Christian replaced one of the ballasts anyway. Mastodon showed up late and undressed alone, thrusting his suit, necktie, and shoes through the doorway to his butler, who stood waiting with Christian and the Secret Service detail. It was routine for the President to demand total privacy during his tanning sessions, which—upon orders of the White House dermatologist—was never to exceed thirteen minutes.
“He’ll need to hydrate,” Christian reminded one of the agents, who told him that fluids were on the way.
Spalding soon arrived with a tray bearing two unrefrigerated cans of Dr. Pepper, which another agent popped open and tasted. The tanning-room door cracked and one of Mastodon’s hands materialized, motioning for his clothes. Minutes later he walked out freshly bronzed except for the stark white eye circles, which served to project the presence of an immense albino raccoon. He grabbed both cans of soda and lumbered upstairs, a half-step ahead of his security phalanx.
“That’s Pepper numero eleven and twelve for the day,” Spalding told Christian when they were alone. “The man’s basically mainlining corn syrup and caffeine.”
“Least he doesn’t smoke or drink.”
“No, but he gobbles Adderalls like jelly beans. That’s how he stays up all night tweeting. The pills, man.”
“Do they also make you forget how to spell?” Christian said.
“In other breaking news, guess what the cleaning staff found under the First Lady’s bed?”
“Jesus Christ, not so loud.”
“Italian panties,” Spalding whispered. “Cosabella.”
“So what?”
“They were torn!”
“You need a girlfriend,” Christian said, shaking his head.
“What’s in the pail?”
“Hospital-grade sanitizer—it’s for the Cabo.” The cleansing sequence had been ramped up since the pandemic. For applicators Christian employed pressed beach towels embroidered with the Casa Bellicosa logo. “Gets pretty damn toasty in the tanning chamber,” he explained. “The big guy, he sweats buckets.”
“Gross me out.”
“Does that mean you won’t help me wipe it down?”
“Fuck no,” said Spalding as he departed with the empty tray.
“I’ll remember this,” Christian called out, laughing, “next time your visa’s up.”
* * *
—
Joel called and asked to meet for lunch. Angie, who’d just finished relocating a litter of wild cottontails, didn’t have time to shower and change. They sat at the bar in Applebee’s, each with a burger,