the friend murmured.
“I get bored out here. The acid helps.”
“That’s some cage you built.”
“Let’s call it an enclosure,” said the one-eyed man. “Tell the truth: Do I look as ancient and damaged as you do?”
“Way worse—and I can still kick your sorry white ass.”
“Assisted living agrees with you, Jim.”
The friend was too troubled to smile at the joke. He couldn’t stop staring up at the tree canopy, which at first he’d thought was decorated with long streamers of dingy crepe. Now he realized that the garlands in the boughs were made of something else.
Nor was the scene on the ground reassuring: Hundreds of books that the old man had accumulated over the years were now stacked high with their spines facing outward, makeshift bricks that formed a square of connected walls domed by a roll of chicken wire.
The visiting friend’s view of the back wall was blocked, though by moving closer he was able to read the titles on the others. One had been constructed with political biographies—Lincoln, Churchill, Huey Long, Teddy Roosevelt, Joe McCarthy, most of Caro’s LBJ series, Reagan, the Kennedys, the Bushes, the Clintons, all the way up to Obama. The opposite side had been fortified with fiction, from Dickens to Rushdie, including multiple editions of every John D. MacDonald novel. A third, east-facing wall appeared to be reference volumes—several old sets of encyclopedias, the Florida Statutes, dictionaries, gazetteers, medical textbooks, even a 1987 edition of the Federal Criminal Code and Rules; in the center of the partition was a space barely large enough for a grown man to squeeze through, and fitted with a removable panel of clear aquarium glass.
“That’s quite a structure,” said the one-eyed man’s friend.
“Not up to code, I admit, but it serves the purpose.”
The books were dank and blackening with mold, and the old man’s friend could smell the rotting paper. It made him feel sad.
He said, “Put an end to this nonsense, Clint. Please.”
“It’s my last motherfucking rodeo, I promise.”
“I’d better go now. I got another damn CT scan this afternoon.”
The friend began walking down the path toward the water, but the tip of his cane got plugged in soft dirt. The one-eyed man helped him to the airboat and told the driver about a shortcut back to the Miccosukee village.
A week or so passed before the friend decided to do something about what he’d seen at the tree island. He made the call from his handicap-accessible apartment at the Rainbow of Life Senior Center, one of those “compassionately structured” settings where elderly widows and widowers transitioned from ambulatory to bedridden to dead.
He didn’t know if the phone number he dialed was still good, but the kid answered right away and said, “I’m glad to hear from you. It’s been a while.”
“Sorry, but I need a favor.”
“Anything, of course,” the kid said.
“It’s time for your stepmother to meet my friend.”
“I never said a word to her. She doesn’t even know his name.”
“And he appreciates that. We both do.”
“But why all of a sudden does he want to see her?”
“It’s not his idea, it’s mine,” replied the one-eyed man’s friend. “She’ll understand as soon as she sees what’s going on.”
“So this will be a surprise for both of them?”
“Oh yes, Joel.”
* * *
—
Mastodon reacted scornfully when the Secret Service informed him of a possible python threat at Casa Bellicosa. He said that it sounded like the plot of a shitty horror movie, and that he’d look like a pussy for fleeing to Washington just because a snake or two turned up.
The mansion would soon be hosting the season’s most sensational event, Mastodon added, and he wouldn’t miss it for anything. He was, after all, the star attraction.
Mockingbird had a different reason for refusing to leave Palm Beach, and she had no intention of revealing it. She summoned Special Agent Paul Ryskamp to a one-on-one brunch at her private beach cabana and offered him fresh fruit and stone crab claws, which he declined. As soon as he began discussing python scenarios, she reminded him about the headless one that had turned up along the route of her motorcade.
“I wasn’t scared then. I’m not scared now,” she said.
“Until the individual responsible for the snakes is in custody, we believe it’s best if you and the President return to the White House.”
Mockingbird plucked a strawberry from the sterling platter and nibbled off the tip. “I know Agent Josephson’s real name,” she said. “What do you think the media would do with a