Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,97
to go to his place, where there was reggae music and pinot noir. He was peeling off her jeans when she’d decided to ask him why he changed his mind about seeing her.
“It’s simple. You’re different, you make me smile, and life’s too fucking short. Also, I missed you.”
“When did this thunderbolt strike, Paul? And, by the way, ‘intriguing’ would sound way better than ‘different.’ ”
“I’m retiring next week,” he’d said.
“So this is why you’re on cruise control.”
“Not just yet, Angie. Big weekend ahead.”
She had waited until after they made love before telling him what she’d seen on the Everglades tree island, and what she believed it portended.
The phone call to Washington went on for a few minutes. Ryskamp returned to the bedroom cupping his hand over his phone. “They want to know how big,” he said.
“The longest was nearly twenty-four feet.”
“Damn.”
“Still not fat enough to swallow your man,” Angie said, not mentioning it was the largest Burmese she’d ever heard of.
The agent left the room to finish speaking with his supervisors. When he came back, he said, “They want you to wear a gown to the event.”
Angie laughed. “I don’t own a gown.”
“Shocker.”
“That’s not very nice, Paul.”
“This is straight from the President’s vice-assistant deputy chief of staff. He thinks your regular workday outfit will spark unwanted curiosity.” Ryskamp sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand.
“Screw the gown,” Angie said.
“Just between us, they’d love an excuse to hire one of your competitors for the job.”
“Because I’m a woman.”
“Duh,” said Ryskamp. “I were you, I’d go buy the most expensive dress I could find. Your rich Uncle Sam will pay for it.”
“I’m kind of liking this new attitude. But, seriously, retirement?”
“The timing’s right, Angie.”
“In six months you’ll be bored out of your skull.”
“Possibly not. I rented a place in Key West.”
“Good choice,” she said. “You’ve already got the wardrobe.”
“Tomorrow I start packing my shit.”
“But I’ll see you at the ball Saturday night, right?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Ryskamp. “Call of duty.”
Then he slid under the sheets beside her, and they talked some more.
* * *
—
Sedated and bandaged heavily, Diego Beltrán was surprised when they moved him from the jail’s hospital wing to his cell. One of the older Hispanic deputies advised him not to come out.
“Word is they want you offed before the weekend,” the deputy said, “as a present to the President.”
“Is it El Rotundo’s birthday?” Diego asked.
“There’s a big party for him on the island. I don’t know what for.”
“So who’s supposed to kill me?” Diego’s ribs ached when he inhaled. “The Aryans again?”
The deputy whispered, “No, it’s the Neo-Christian Cawks.”
“The Cucks? Isn’t that a sex cult?”
“No, man, the Cawks. As in Caucasians.”
“Lamest gang name ever,” Diego said.
“Just stay in your cell, dude. I’ll bring you some books and magazines.”
“But I need a shower. Bad.”
“You wanna be dirty and breathing,” said the deputy, “or squeaky clean and dead?”
“How much are these racist assholes getting paid?”
“Ten grand is what I heard. Eleven if they cut off your nut sack, too.”
Diego felt wobbly. The deputy helped him get on the cot.
“Big crowd out front today,” the deputy said. “They want your balls on a fork, too.”
Diego wondered what had stirred up the loonies. Lately there had been so few demonstrators that even the local Fox affiliate had lost interest. The deputy reported that the TV crews were back in force along with the protesters, who were wearing crimson tee-shirts that said “No More Damn Diegos!” and practicing their chants between live feeds. He said some carried signs with black-bordered pictures of Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons and the words: WE WILL NEVER FORGET.
Diego stared despondently at the crusted gray ceiling. “I don’t get it. Why now?”
“There was a radio contest, I heard, for who could yell the loudest.”
“What’s first prize?”
“Christmas for life at Olive Garden. Whole family eats free.” The deputy closed the cell door, which locked automatically.
Diego lifted his head. “Hey, did my lawyers ever call back?”
The deputy said an envelope from the Public Defender’s Office was tucked in the pages of his Bible. When Diego opened it, he found a copy of a Motion to Withdraw from the case. His latest team of attorneys had informed the judge that they’d been receiving “graphic” death threats online and “ominous” items sent by mail. The disturbing deliveries included a disrobed and crudely altered Mickey Mouse doll, a bullet-riddled target with the lawyers’ faces pasted to the bull’s-eye, and a blood-stained cockatoo feather that arrived without clear explanation. Another anonymous package