Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,98
featured a photo of one of the defense lawyer’s daughters kissing a “nonwhite” high-school classmate at a football game; the word “HORE” had been written on the picture with an orange crayon, scratched through, and replaced with “SLUTT.”
Diego saw a second envelope inside the Bible—a handwritten letter from his mother in Tegucigalpa. The letter had been opened and inspected by an officer at the jail, and the last page—his mother’s loving sign-off—was missing. This had happened before. Diego knew somebody was screwing with his head. The first time he had complained, but now he let it go.
The deputies continued to go through the motions of protecting him, but Diego sensed they were tired of the extra effort. Upon his return from the medical unit, he’d noticed that a new leather belt had been placed on top of his neatly folded jumpsuit. He processed it as a strong suggestion, if not a warning.
Suicide once had seemed cowardly and unthinkable, but the idea had been drifting on the periphery of Diego’s thoughts since the stabbing. There was no reason to believe that Angela Armstrong—as fiery and resolute as she might be—had the juice to get him freed from jail. Even if he was released, for the rest of his life he would be the border-jumping Diego who ignited the No-More-Diegos movement, the Diego made notorious by the President of the United States.
Where could a man run to escape such infamy? How could he hide from the global talons of Twitter and Instagram? Diego had been told his name was now well-known in his hometown, and all Honduras. If he returned, who would risk being a friend? Or lover? Or wife? It was overwhelming to contemplate the chore of erasing his past, inventing a new identity and starting over someplace far away.
Engulfed by hopelessness, he closed his eyes and heard the rabid red-shirted fanatics screaming his name. They were either outside the jail, or inside his head. He felt like it didn’t matter.
An unfamiliar deputy, a middle-aged white dude with a bleached soul patch, came to Diego’s cell and rolled a prescription bottle of pills on the floor through the bars.
“Nurse said you should take those,” he said, “for pain.”
Diego shook the bottle. It sounded full.
“You should get some sleep,” said the deputy.
“What a good idea.”
* * *
—
Mastodon was livid after he learned his tanning session had been postponed because of equipment problems. He bemoaned his halibut complexion, head-butted his bathroom mirror and canceled several afternoon appearances, including the dedication of a seniors-only pickleball complex named for his pal Geraldo Rivera.
Christian worked on the Cabo Royale nonstop for hours, replacing every part for which he had spares. With The Knob singed, sidelined and threatening to sue, Christian had turned to his friend Spalding, who agreed to fill in as the test dummy. To replicate the President’s physique, Spalding climbed into a padded K-9 trainer attack suit that the Secret Service had purchased secondhand from the sheriff’s department.
Fortunately, the tanning cocoon operated perfectly; no flickering, no sparks, no hot spots. An elated Christian offered to buy Spalding dinner, and they ended up late in a corner booth at Echo.
“Why doesn’t the dumbass use bronzer instead?” Spalding asked between bites of wahoo sashimi. “It’s way easier.”
“He won’t touch that stuff anymore,” Christian said. “No personal gels whatsoever.”
“Strange dude.”
“He had a really bad experience at a pro-am in Tahoe.”
“Okay, not while I’m eating,” Spalding said.
“Grabbed the wrong tube—”
“Yeah, I get it. Can we please move on?”
Christian ordered more sake. He asked Spalding for the latest gossip about the First Lady’s romance. “Did she really get dumped by her studly Secret Service man?”
“Uh, dumped hard.”
“Man, I was rooting for those two.”
“Word is he’s boning one of the other agents,” said Spalding. “You know that tall blonde?”
“When you’re my size, bro, they’re all tall.”
“I talked to her in the kitchen once and she is nice. I’ve seen her and the dude together and, yeah, it’s definitely on.”
Christian smiled half-drunkenly. “So, what I hear you saying, the President’s wife is now available.”
“She’s five-ten, douchebag. You better learn to pole-vault.”
“Aw shit.” Christian was checking his texts. “Hey, I’ve gotta re-test the Cabo first thing tomorrow. Can you swing by at eight?”
“Maybe nine,” said Spalding.
“Eight-thirty at the latest. The big man himself is coming at ten.”
“Can I stay for the show?”
Christian shook his head. “Speak of the devil,” he murmured.
He was staring past Spalding, who turned to see. It was the First Lady entering the restaurant behind a