Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,3
“I don’t know why, boss.”
Mauricio walked over to the tall stucco wall and examined the fresh scrapes in the ivy showing the path of Jesús’s hasty ascent.
“Crazy fool,” Mauricio muttered. Then to the others he yelled: “Move that hot mower and get a hose on those treadmarks! Ahora!”
Ten miles away on the mainland, in a neighborhood of modest duplexes, Jesús’s wife knew something was wrong the moment he walked in the door.
“What is it?” she asked.
“They’re going to fire me, Gloria.” He told her everything, the words spilling out.
“Dios mío!” she cried. “What did Mauricio say?”
“I spoke to no one.”
“But you’ve got to go back and warn them!”
“I can’t do that, Gloria. You know why.”
“The police are there? I don’t understand.”
Jesús shrugged dismally. “They are searching for that missing woman.”
Gloria fell silent. Her husband was undocumented. He could be in serious trouble if police detectives started interviewing the yard workers at Lipid House. Maybe they’d ask to see a visa, maybe they wouldn’t.
These were perilous times. Jesús’s young brother, Esteban, was currently in government custody awaiting deportation. The week after Christmas, he’d been detained during the pre-dawn raid of a 7-Eleven in Wellington, handcuffed by armed ICE agents while he was repairing the Slurpee machine.
Gloria fixed a ham-and-pork sandwich for Jesús. She asked if there was a chance to save his job.
“No way,” he answered morosely. “I left my mower with the engine running.”
“In gear?”
“God, no! In neutral.”
“So then, that’s good. There’s no damage done,” his wife said.
“But it was parked on that bentgrass lawn where they do the croquet.”
“What is croquet, Jesús?”
“Where they chase the colored balls around with hammers. The grass is soft and muy caro.”
“Oh, no!”
“I was scared,” he said. “So I just jumped off the machine and—”
“But you’re sure about what you saw?”
“Yes, Gloria. It’s something I will never forget.”
“Es horrible.”
“Why do you think I ran?”
Jesús pushed his sandwich away after two bites. His wife made the sign of the cross as she whispered a prayer.
Somebody knocked at the door. “Are you there, Jesús? Open up!”
It was Mauricio. Gloria let him in and went to the bedroom, leaving the two men alone.
Jesús said, “I’m sorry, boss.”
“The catalytic converter on the Hoosker, it burned a damn patch on the croquet field.”
“You can take it out of my last day’s pay.”
Mauricio shook his head. “No, I told Teabull it was a mechanical problem.”
Tripp Teabull was the chief caretaker of Lipid House, and he understood nothing about the exhaust systems of stand-on mowers.
“Did he believe you?” Jesús asked.
“Por supuesto. They’re already re-sodding the lawn.”
“Thank you, boss.”
“Tell me what happened, and maybe you still have a job.”
Jesús said, “It doesn’t matter. I can’t ever return to that place.”
Mauricio, who was aware of the plight of Jesús’s brother, promised to deal guardedly with the police. He said, “There’s no reason to give out your name.”
“It’s not only that, boss. I can’t go back there again because of what I saw.”
“I need to know.”
“You’ll say I’m crazy.”
“I’m the head groundskeeper. Or did you already forget?”
“If I tell you…” Jesús looked up at the wooden crucifix on the wall. Then his chin dropped.
“Was it the missing woman you saw?” Mauricio asked.
Jesús shuddered and said, “Sort of.”
TWO
The Otter Falls subdivision was on the westernmost outskirts of Boca Raton. A small drab gatehouse marked the entrance. The young, thick-tongued guard said nobody named Angela Armstrong was on the vendor/contractor list. Angie said she wasn’t a vendor/contractor; she was a specialist.
“What’s that in the back of your truck?” the guard asked.
“Capture noose. Bungie cords. Road kennel.”
“I meant the gun.”
“Gas-propelled rifle. Shoots tranquilizer darts.”
“For real? No effin’ way.”
“Doubt I’ll need it today,” Angie said. “A man named Fleck left a message asking me to come right away. Unless there’s another Otter Falls around here…”
“This is the only one I heard of.”
“Wild guess: No otters and no waterfall.”
The guard rubbed his fleshy chin. “It’s just that Mr. Fleck didn’t call and put your name on the list.”
“That’s because he didn’t have my name,” said Angie. “All he had was a number.”
Drowsily the guard shook his head. “Sorry. It’s the rules.”
“I believe you’re baked.”
“What! No way.”
“Sir, there’s a vape pen in the pocket of your uniform.”
The guard sheepishly moved the pen out of sight. “I am totally legal,” he said. His mouth had gone dry. “I got my state card and everything. The weed is for migraines.”
Angie smiled. “I’d get stoned, too, cooped up all day in this glorified outhouse. But at least they gave you