but that’s not what I meant.”
The voice in Ryskamp’s earpiece reported that Mastodon and Mockingbird were on the move; the President’s motorcade was heading to the golf course, the First Lady’s was going to a jobs fair in Riviera Beach.
“I really, really care about the man,” Suzi went on. “I always tell him, ‘Baby, get more cardio. Try a spin class. Zumba. Whatever.’ ”
“The mind reels,” said Ryskamp.
“Don’t judge me, bro. You know how many women out there would trade places? For the chance to bone a President, any President—are you kiddin’? How ’bout supermodels. Preachers’ wives. Even Costco cashiers.”
“If you care about him so much,” Ryskamp said, “explain why you’re doing a book.”
“I bet he’ll like it.”
“Oh, yeah. Especially the part where you say he snorts like a wildebeest when he comes.”
“No, baby wildebeest,” Suzi said. “And I didn’t write that line, swear to God! The dude that’s helping me with the words, sometimes he’s such a smartass.”
They stopped talking while a white-clad attendant retrieved the fallen mini-burgers and buns from the beach sand around Suzi’s chair. When the young man was gone, Ryskamp said, “I don’t have to tell you about the President’s large temper.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “You’re right. He will totally lose his shit if he finds out about the book.”
“It won’t be from me.”
“So how much you want in order to keep your big mouth zipped?”
“That’s funny. You’re the second person today who thought I was trying to blackmail them when I wasn’t.” Ryskamp put on his sunglasses to watch a dark-haired woman on a paddleboard catch a nice wave. She was good.
Suzi said, “He told me he and his wife haven’t done it in forever. Is that true?”
“Were you planning to be at the Commander’s Ball? I didn’t see you on the list.”
“Not as Suzi Spooner. My birth name’s different. He said he’s gonna get me a fake date, so it’s all cool.”
“Oh.”
“I never been to his mansion, the Casa Whatever. You gonna be there?”
“I will,” Ryskamp said emptily. “Should be quite an evening.”
TWENTY-TWO
Angie took a bite. “Not bad. What is it?”
“Coyote,” her host replied.
“From where?”
“Eastbound lane, mile marker nineteen. Years ago, you never saw those gnarly fuckers around here. Now they’re a-thriving.”
He had grilled the stringy hind quarters over an open fire. Angie could hear a generator running on the far side of the camp; that would explain his internet connection, and the heat lamps that warmed the big strange cage at night.
“Not a cage—an enclosure,” he said without irony.
After everything she’d heard about him, Angie still wasn’t prepared for the live, in-person experience. His height, for starters. The funky pink shower cap that clashed with his military camo and boots. A beard as unruly as Spanish moss.
For someone his age he displayed a freakish vitality; the soothing cave-deep voice and movie-star smile, which were part of the legend, failed to offset the thrumming, unsettled force of his presence.
Then there was the damn iguana egg that he was attempting to hatch in his empty eye socket. One of the first things he’d done was flip up the patch and show the speckled white bulge to Angie. If that was a test, she assumed she passed. At least he hadn’t chased her off the island.
When she’d told him her name, he had seemed surprised. “Jim Tile sent you?”
“He told me it was okay to call you Skink.”
“There’s no reason to call me anything. You won’t be staying.”
“Can I see them? Please.”
“What—my books?” Wryly he had gestured toward the library-styled walls of the enclosure. The fissures of his face put the hard years on raw display, the corrosive sorrow and anger.
“Let’s eat,” he’d said, and cooked up the road-kill coyote, which actually tasted terrible. It was another test Angie passed. The only beverage that the governor offered was dark rum in a Dixie cup.
After they were done eating, he scrubbed the pan with swamp water while Angie doused the fire. She asked him what was in the large freezer, and he said frozen rabbits, sorbet, and expired hemorrhoid suppositories.
She said, “I’m actually on your side. You’re aware of that, right? And I know you’re not insane.”
“Do you now?” He laughed and laughed.
“Come on, Governor. Show me what you’ve been up to.”
Angie pointed at the trees, festooned with crispy, translucent snake sheds that fluttered whenever a breeze snuck through. “You should rent this place out for Halloween parties,” she said.
Skink grunted. “Let’s get on with it.”
Angie unknotted the bag that she’d brought, depositing