Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,87
His was the only truck in the parking lot when Angie pulled up. She walked down the launch ramp and smiled at the sign warning visitors not to feed the wildlife.
The airboat driver shook her hand and said to call him Beak.
“Like a bird’s?” Angie said. “I don’t see that. Your nose looks fine.”
“My real name’s Ivan. I had to try on something else.”
Angie handed over three hundred dollars cash, Jim Tile’s hand-drawn map, and a paper napkin on which she’d written the GPS numbers for the tree island.
“What’s in the sack?” Beak asked.
“Rope.”
“Looks heavy.”
“Not really,” Angie said.
“Okay, hop in.”
He was late-twenties; good smile and no visible ink. Tangled blondish hair, Brad Pitt-style shades, and a camo cap turned backwards so the wind from the ride wouldn’t blow it off. Also, he was clean-shaven, one of Angie’s requirements. She found herself thinking unprofessional thoughts.
Before flipping the ignition switch, Beak handed her a set of noise-suppressing earphones with a microphone arm. The airboat’s propeller was a big two-blade Whisper Tip, the same type Angie had on her engine when she worked for the state. She knew what Beak’s answer would be if she asked to take the stick, but the thought of driving stirred good memories; crossing thin water at crazy speeds was one of the things she missed about her old life.
The afternoon was mild, with a rippled mackerel sky and a touch of northwest in the breeze. Herons, purple coots, and warblers scattered ahead of the roaring airboat—the marsh still attracted lots of birds. Angie spotted a young eagle circling and, much higher, a line of turkey vultures weaving like a black kite string in the thermals. Beak tapped her shoulder and pointed to a pair of anhingas perched on a log, their coat-hanger wings spread wide. Angie was disappointed that the mic in her headset didn’t work; she was nervous about meeting the ex-governor, and would have liked the distraction of chatting with her young, attractive guide.
Jim Tile’s coordinates were solid. It took twenty-four minutes to reach the tree island, and Beak circled twice before steering slowly through a gap in the reeds. As they glided toward the bank, Angie spotted a long, metallic form that had been covered with hand-cut branches—an aluminum johnboat. From the air it would have been invisible.
She put on her backpack, picked up the knotted bag, and jumped ashore.
“Come back in an hour,” she said to Beak.
“Why don’t I just hang here and wait?”
“No, sir, I’ll be fine.”
“Are you lookin’ for ’shrooms?” Beak asked. “ ’Cause I know some way better spots.”
Angie waved and then turned to follow Clinton Tyree’s footpath to his hideout in the shadows.
* * *
—
Paul Ryskamp found Stanleigh Cobo behind a peach-pulp mask at the Casa Bellicosa spa. The agent introduced himself, showed his badge, and asked the aesthetician to step out. Cobo plucked the peach pits from his eyelids and sat up inquiring, “Did something happen outside? Is there a shooter?”
Ryskamp tossed him a towel and said, “We can’t have a serious conversation until you wipe that crap off your face.”
“But it needs ten more minutes.”
“Do it now. I don’t have all day.”
“Where did you get such a bad attitude?” Cobo sniffed as he scrubbed away the fruit paste. “I never heard of a Secret Service officer behaving so arrogant. You people work for all of us, remember?”
The agent said, “I don’t need to be polite with you, Mr. Cobo. I know things about you that you definitely don’t want your family to learn—especially your sister Deirdre, her being so prominent in political circles. And I’m not just referring to your Vegas debts or the hookers or the drugs, or even your bulk purchases from BondageOverstock.com.”
Cobo went pale as he stiffened. “I thought this was America. What happened to our constitutional right of privacy?”
“Down the shitter,” Ryskamp said. “Clearly you haven’t been paying attention. Try reading a newspaper once in a while.”
“Oh, I see. You’ve gone rogue.”
“Wake up, Stanleigh.”
“So, what else have you got on me that’s so awful?”
“You currently employ four—or is it five?—individuals who are undocumented aliens. Correct? From Guatemala, I believe.”
“Hold on, please, they’re okay,” Cobo protested. “Decent, docile people. And wizards at shrubbery!”
“Imagine the embarrassment to the President if this got out—that a brother of one of his Palm Beach Potussies was harboring five illegal Diegos?”
Cobo caved without a pause. “Fine, I’ll arrange for all of them to be deported. That’s easy. Deirdre knows the head honcho at Homeland Security. One phone