Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,84
young and pretty.
“She’s from Jamaica, mon,” Tile whispered to Angie afterward. “I’m a sucker for that accent.”
For a while he talked about his late wife, how much he missed her, the last trip they took together before she got sick. A cruise to San Juan, or maybe it was Nassau. He told a story about her gaily unscripted style of cooking—a meat loaf that even the dog wouldn’t eat—and laughed until he was out of breath. Then he spoke joyfully about his daughter, who worked for the Justice Department but still called him every day. Well, almost every day. She had a law degree from Stetson…
Although Angie was in a hurry, she didn’t interrupt. She liked listening to the man, and didn’t bring up the subject of Skink again until after he’d finished eating.
“How’d you and the governor meet?” she asked.
“I was his driver in Tallahassee. Back then the FHP was in charge of security.”
Angie would have loved to hear the retired trooper’s version of what had happened in the capital that sent Clinton Tyree skidding over the edge, but she knew better than to push. Tile had been watching out for his wild, haunted friend during all the fugitive years, and he wouldn’t lower his guard now.
She asked, “How much of what I’ve heard about him is true?”
“A fraction,” Tile replied, “but that’s enough.”
“They say he wears a bat-wing eye patch and lives on road kills.”
“Ha! He’s not a fan of bats.”
“I’d never put you on the spot, Mr. Tile.”
He patted her arm. “I’d never tell you anything, anyway.”
“But how does he know me? And why did he send you to my court hearing?”
“Ask him when you get there, Angela.”
She bit her lip. The last man to call her Angela was the judge who sent her to prison.
“Fine,” she said. “He knows I’m coming, right?”
“Hell, no. If I told him that, he’d be gone.”
“So what’s he going to say when I suddenly show up at his hideout?”
“Probably ‘Get the fuck outta here!’—pardon my French. Then it’ll be up to your charming, green-eyed self to calm his rude ass down.”
Tile slid the map toward Angie. She re-folded it and put it in her handbag. “Does the governor have a gun?” she asked.
“I’d be amazed if he didn’t. Now, you don’t mind, I believe I’ll have a piece of pecan pie.”
Angie had one more question: “Is your friend alone on that island?”
“If he was,” said Jim Tile, “you and me wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
* * *
—
Mockingbird continued to call him Keith in front of the other agents. When the two of them were alone, he was Ahmet.
“We don’t have much time,” he told her.
“What else is new,” she said, locking the door.
They disrobed, oiled each other up, and got on the massage table, Mockingbird having feigned a migraine and instructed her deep-tissue guru to take the afternoon off. She hadn’t told Ahmet about her productive chat with Paul Ryskamp, but he suspected that she’d made a major, behind-the-scenes move; otherwise he would have been on that flight back to D.C.
He muted his microphone but left his earpiece in place, as always, in case a threat surfaced elsewhere on the property. During foreplay the curled tube dangled distractedly from the side of his face, along with the wire to the pocket radio unit that he’d propped on a corner of the table. The apparatus always bothered Mockingbird but Ahmet refused to unplug it, so they’d become skilled at having sex in an orderly way that wouldn’t dislodge his earbud, or send the receiver tumbling to the floor.
Over time their stealth intimacy had grown more and more intense, almost Tantric except for the speed—they never had more than a few minutes alone together, and other Secret Service agents were always nearby. Mockingbird kept a playlist of meditation tunes for her deep-tissue sessions, but she didn’t use it with Ahmet because he said sitar music was a buzz kill. Instead she put on Post Malone, keeping the volume loud enough to muffle what few moans they inadvertently made.
Afterward they took turns showering, in case somebody knocked on the door. Ahmet rinsed only his lower half so as not to drip water in his sensitive earpiece. As he was getting dressed, Mockingbird asked what he thought of Jennifer Rose.
He said, “Smart and steady. She’s a good agent. Why?”
“Maybe you should flirt with her a little. You know, just to put the idea out there.”
“What idea?”
“To make them quit gossiping about you