Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,95
three million bucks on phony Facebook ads,” Mastodon went on. “And since she’ll be sitting at the main table on Saturday, you should show a little respect and dim those headlights.”
“Fine. But the gown has a thigh-high slit.”
“Yeah? Maybe I’ll drop my napkin and sneak a peek.” Mastodon’s smile these days was more of a wormy sneer, the product of too many press-conference performances.
He said, “Know what else you should wear? Those new pink pearl earrings. Very sexy.”
His wife responded with granite indifference. She asked if his “nutritionist” would be attending the gala.
“Yep,” said Mastodon, “with her date.”
“Nice try.”
“You’ll see.”
“Are we done here?” Mockingbird asked.
“Not quite.” Her husband told her what the Secret Service said about the rise of the pythons.
“Yes, I was briefed,” she said curtly.
Mastodon snorted. “Well, just so you know, it’s complete total horseshit. Another fake hoax by the Deep Staters.”
“But there was a big one dead in the road not long ago. They had to stop my motorcade.”
“Goddammit, can’t you see what these people are trying to do?”
“Who?” said Mockingbird. “I don’t understand.”
“Never mind. Someone will be patrolling the estate during the ball—a snake expert, they tell me. Not my idea but, hey, we ain’t the ones payin’ for it.”
Mastodon popped a handful of Adderalls, checked his watch and saw it was time for his tanning session. Mockingbird rose to leave. She was curious but not worried; Ahmet would give her the latest python update.
“One more thing,” her husband said. “You might want to keep little Bagel on his leash for the next few days, just to play it safe.”
“Bagel?”
“Your dog.” Mastodon arranged his koala-sized hands to approximate the dimensions of an overfed Yorkie. “Isn’t that his name?”
“Was his name,” said the First Lady. “He passed away the Christmas before last.”
“Aw shit. Really? What the hell happened?”
“Old age.”
“Well, then, let’s get a new one!”
“You’re such a dick,” Mockingbird said, and stalked off.
“I can’t wait to see your new dress!” Mastodon called hopelessly after her.
* * *
—
The Knob insisted he was good to go. Christian said no way; the man’s face and torso still looked like shrimp-skin since passing out with the bimbo on Jupiter Beach.
“She wasn’t no bimbo. She’s a cheerleader for the Patriots.”
“Of course she is. And I’m Dwayne Johnson’s stunt double.”
“Yo, man, I can definitely do this,” said The Knob, who suspected he wouldn’t be paid until he went back inside the presidential tanning tube.
Christian was in a jam. The Secret Service always required the Cabo Royale to be tested the same day Mastodon was scheduled to use it. Christian asked The Knob if there was any sector of his body that wasn’t sunburned.
“Bottom of my feet,” he replied.
“That’s it?”
“My ass cheeks, too. I guess me and that chick didn’t take our underwear off.”
Christian forlornly realized what had to be done. “Let’s have a look,” he said, bracing himself. The presentation was even nastier than he’d feared.
“My God, have you been to a dermatologist?” he cried.
The Knob said, “What for? It’s just acne scars.”
“No, I don’t think so. I really don’t.”
“Yo, maybe some heavy-duty UVs would knock that shit down.”
Christian had to look away. “Let’s get on with this,” he said grimly.
Following directions, The Knob donned the Mastodon wig, goggles, a sun mask, bicycle gloves, dive booties, a hooded long-sleeve tee, and Lycra-blend leggings altered by scissors to expose his chalky pitted buttocks. He entered the Cabo on his knees, lay forward on his belly and waited for Christian to shut the canopy.
Thirteen minutes later, when the lid opened, The Knob heard a loud whoosh and felt a blast of frigid air on his rump.
“Hold still!” Christian yelled as he unloaded the fire extinguisher.
“What the fuck? What the motherfuckin’ fuck?”
“Don’t move, man! Do not move.”
“Whassat goddamn smell?”
“You.”
The Knob let out a wail. “I’m on motherfuckin’ fire?”
“Just your ass hair,” Christian said.
Later the President’s personal physician would examine The Knob and determine that in fact he had suffered curlicue first-degree burns on each buttock. A cooling unguent was applied while Secret Service agents took Christian aside and quizzed him about the Cabo Royale’s untimely malfunction.
What caused it? Christian wasn’t sure.
Could it be repaired? Oh, absolutely.
How soon? He couldn’t say. With luck he wouldn’t need to order any parts.
But how soon? Well, maybe tomorrow. Maybe longer.
We need an answer as soon as possible, the agents told him. The President has an important event this weekend.
He could go to a regular tanning parlor, Christian suggested.
Absolutely out of the question, the agents said. Now get to