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Authors: Carl Hiaasen

Star Island (28 page)

BOOK: Star Island
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“That gnarly load?” Cherry exclaimed. “He
cannot
be workin’ for
Vanity Fair!”

One of the Larks—Ned Bunterman guessed it was Lucy—said, “His name is Claude Abbott and, FYI, he’s got a Pulitzer Prize.”

“No way!”

“Way,” said the other Lark.

Cherry grew thoughtful. “So that’s how come he could afford the Mercedes.”

“There you go,” said her mother.

Maury Lykes snuck a glance at Chemo, who wore an expression of weary disgust.

“The Pulitzer thingie,” Cherry said, “is that like a People’s Choice?”

Ned Bunterman scouted the room for a minibar. He wondered if it was possible that Cherry had tumbled from her crib as an infant and dented her frontal lobe. There’d been several unreliable-looking baby-sitters that he recalled.

“The shoot starts at ten,” Janet Bunterman said.

“Ten in the morning? Yuk.”

“Mr. Chemo will stay with you the whole day.”

Cherry said, “On the set? I don’t think so,” and poked out her tongue at the bodyguard.

“It’s non-negotiable,” said Maury Lykes.

Turning to her father, Cherry said, “Da-ad! You really want me to get all, like, naked in front of that superfr—” She caught herself just in time, recalling the bodyguard’s story about drowning the woman with a boat anchor, some woman who’d called him a rude name. He was probably bullshitting, but what if he wasn’t?

Ned Bunterman said, “No worries, punkin. You won’t have to pose nude.”

“And even if you do,” one of the Larks cut in, “Mr. Chemo wouldn’t be standing around slobbering like some school-yard perv. He’s a professional.”

Cherry’s father wished he were back in California, poring over the bills and brokerage statements, or having a spa day with the Jorgensens, his beloved Danes. Once the current crisis passed and Cherry’s concert tour began, he could return to a soothing routine of golf, vineyard tours and three-way sex; his wife usually phoned once a day from the road to get the latest numbers, but otherwise Ned Bunterman was not much in demand.

Cherry said, “Who’s doing hair and makeup? I don’t want Leo anymore, I want Chloe.”

“Chloe’s in Vancouver,” Janet Bunterman said.

“Then send the jet.”

“She’s on a movie with Hilary Duff.”

“God! Not that skank!” Cherry looked around for something to throw, and settled on a sun-dried fig from the fruit platter. “Then what about wardrobe? How can you
not
wear Versace in Miami? Seriously, Mom.”

Janet Bunterman adopted a gentle schooling tone. “Sweetie, this isn’t going to be like any other photo shoot you’ve done. The man’s a bit eccentric—he demands total control.”

“But he’s brilliant,” chimed one of the twins.

“Claude?” Cherry made a sour face. “He didn’t
smell
brilliant.”

“Plus he’s a huge fan,” the other Lark said.

“True. He knew, like, every song I ever did.”

Maury Lykes looked pleased. “So then we’re good to go, right?”

“Then when can I do the Seaquarium?” Cherry scratched an itch under one of her arms.

“Another day,” said her mother.

“But I need to get a new thong, ’kay? For our save-the-whales video.”

“Of course, sweetie.”

“After I die, see, I really wanted to come back as a whale? But now I don’t, ’cause who wants to get, like, stabbed with a harpoon?”

Cherry misread the dead silence in the room as empathy.

Chemo coughed sharply. “I got a question,” he said, eyeing Ned Bunterman.

“Yes?”

“All these years, you never had her tested? Hell, she was my kid … ”

“That’s enough,” Maury Lykes said.

“Tested for what?” Cherry asked.

Ned Bunterman felt a paternal duty to inform the bodyguard that he wasn’t very funny. The man’s response was a soul-chilling leer.

“Does he mean HIV?” said Cherry.

“No.”

“’Cause I already been tested, like, a hundred times.”

Chemo tweaked an inflamed pock on his jawline. “I was talkin’ about the test that tells if you’re a retard or not.”

Maury Lykes signaled time-out and said, “I’ve got a meeting with the turds from Ticketmaster in five minutes.” Then, to Chemo: “You and I will talk later.”

“Damn right we will.”

The meeting broke up, and Ned Bunterman rolled his suitcase down the hallway to his room. He had a terrace with an ocean view, but it was the wrong ocean.

Instead of unpacking, he fixed himself a bourbon.

20

It had been a long time since he’d seen that particular De Niro film—or any film—but the governor understood the reference when the tourist called him “Travis Bickle.” This happened while he was waiting in the stolen taxi near the Marriott, after he’d politely informed the man that he was off duty and couldn’t drive him to the basketball game. The Heat was playing the Nets.

The tourist, a middle-aged knob in a distressed-leather jacket, had turned to his female friend and said, “Travis Bickle here says he’s off duty.”

“Sorry,” Skink had said.

“Those are the worst fuckin’ hair plugs I ever saw. You should sue.”

“I changed my mind. Get in.”

Skink took the Julia Tuttle Causeway toward the mainland. The man worked for an airline that hubbed in Newark—supervising the night baggage crew, the weight of the entire free world on his shoulders, to hear him tell it. The girlfriend, she did temp work in Brooklyn.

“How much farther?” she asked. “We’re gonna miss the tip-off.”

The governor asked if it was their first trip to Miami and paid no attention to their reply. He was irked at himself for buckling to
a reckless impulse; he should have remained in stakeout position across from the hotel, in case Annie and her kidnapper came out.

But the guy in the leather jacket was such an ass that Skink felt compelled to impart a lesson. It was a chronic weakness; he couldn’t let anything slide. Never had.
Why waste your time on these jerks?
Jim Tile always said.
People don’t change, Clint
.

And his standard response:
Who cares. It feels right
.

“Are you wasted?” asked the knob from the backseat.

It was then the woman pointed out that their driver bore no resemblance to Mr. Henri Juste-Toussaint, the Haitian gentleman whose face was pictured on the taxi license. The male passenger ordered Skink to pull over and let them out.

“Hang tight. We’re almost there,” Skink said.

“Stop this cab or I’ll kick your fuckin’ ass.”

“Not likely.”

He pulled into the James Scott housing project and parked by a basketball court where a lively pickup game was under way. The court had a sun-bleached concrete surface and chain nets on the hoops and three-point lines that had been spray-painted freehand.

The governor’s passengers bolted from the taxi, the woman whipping out her phone to call the cops. Instantly the pickup game came to a halt, as it was not a neighborhood frequented by tourists. Now the only sound was a rhythmic thump of the basketball being bounced by a rangy young brother wearing a Cavs jersey and a pair of old Air Jordans.

To the man in the leather jacket, Skink said: “You’re in for a treat. These guys can play.”

“This is funny to you?”

“Try to behave and everything will be fine.”

“Those fuckin’ Heat seats, they cost me a hundred each!”

“Right you are. It’s a sin to waste them.” The governor snatched the tickets from the guy’s fingers and hollered out the window: “Yo! Who wants to go see D-Wade dunk?”

He picked the two smallest dudes on the court and drove them to the downtown arena, where in addition to the asswipe’s tickets he gave them some cash to take a real cab home after the game.
Waylaid by a massive traffic jam, he crept and crawled back to South Beach and began cruising around the Marriott, searching for a parking spot with a view.

On his third pass he spied young Ann, the actress. She wore a starchy ill-fitting dress but otherwise seemed to be all right. The man at her side was shortish and stout; he had an aqua baseball cap on his head, and a wrap of bright white bandages on one hand. His other hand was concealed in a dark carry bag that he hugged to his chest.

The bad news was, they were entering—not leaving—the hotel. The governor cursed and howled like a gut-shot wolf. It wasn’t safe to follow Annie inside, not after the suitcase-burning incident; the Marriott management would almost certainly have beefed up the security crew.

Skink was jolted by a long blast from an air horn, and in the rearview mirror he saw a city bus on his bumper. He lifted his sandy shoe off the brake pedal and eased on down the road, trying to figure out a new move.

Ann DeLusia was amazed that a person could fire a revolver inside a hotel room and not one single guest would call the desk to complain about the noise. But crank up Radiohead for twenty lousy minutes while you’re zoning in the tub, and they bring out the damn SWAT team.

“There’s no justice,” she said, balancing in bare feet on a chair. Bang Abbott was holding her ankles while she used a wad of toilet tissue to pluck the bloody remnant of his forefinger off the ceiling.

“My trigger finger!” he kept mewling.

Immediately after the gunshot he’d gone pale and wobbly, on the verge of hurling, but he had gathered himself and grabbed the Colt away from her. He’d tried to retrieve the fingertip himself but chair number one had collapsed in pieces under his heft.

“What should I do with this?” Ann asked after hopping down with the mangled chunk.

“For Christ’s sake, keep it warm!”

“You
keep it warm, Claude.”

So he wedged the seeping wad into the second-most-humid crevice on his body until they located a Cuban clinic that was open on Sundays. There a young physician’s assistant informed him that what remained of the severed forefinger was too damaged to be surgically reattached.

“Don’t tell me that,” said Bang Abbott, sagging.

“How did this happen?”

“An iguana attacked me.” The photographer couldn’t reveal the truth, because in Florida medical caregivers were required by law to report all bullet wounds to the police.

“That’s quite unusual,” the physician’s assistant remarked. “It just ran up and bit you for no reason?”

“Well, it was a big-ass iguana.” Bang Abbott looked sharply at Ann for backup.

She said, “Do they carry rabies? Because this one was foaming at the mouth.”

“I’m not sure,” said the physician’s assistant, “but I can check online.” He deposited the sodden tissue containing Bang Abbott’s nub into a red bin marked
BIOHAZARDOUS WASTE
.

Glaring at Ann, the paparazzo said, “Lizards don’t have rabies.”

To straighten her up, he pointed at the camera bag, which was strapped over his left shoulder. That was where he’d put the gun.

“Darling, you should get the shots,” she carried on sweetly, “just in case. I know they’re dreadfully painful, but still—”

“Let’s not waste the man’s time,” said Bang Abbott. Then, to the physician’s assistant: “Just patch up my damn hand, okay?”

Back at the hotel, he cuffed Ann to a leg of the bed and hunkered down with a Nikon to practice pressing the shutter button with his middle finger. It was awkward, the weight of the camera feeling off center in his bulky new grip. The guy at the clinic had gone overboard with the tape and gauze.

Ann said, “You’re uptight about tomorrow. I can tell.”

“No, I’m in pain.” He held up his bandaged paw. “You shot me, remember?”

“It was an accident, Claude. I said I was sorry.”

“Just shut up.”

“I’m the one who should be pissed, after all the shitty things you’ve done.”

Bang Abbott didn’t respond. He was trying to take pictures of a lamp.

“You’re lucky I didn’t pop you in the nuts,” she said.

It wasn’t a prudent way to address an armed, emotionally unstable individual, but Ann was mad and hungry, and she needed a bath. “I can’t wait for tomorrow,” she said.

“Me, neither.”

“Oh, yes, you can. You’re scared.”

“Try psyched.” The photographer waggled his untested digit. “This’ll work. I’ll
make
it work.”

In truth, Ann herself was anxious about the meeting at Star Island. Would he really just let her walk away, free as a bird, after Cherry showed up? How could he be sure that she wouldn’t run straight to the police?

Cherry’s people will take good care of you
. That’s what Claude had said. So there would be some money offered, which was only fair—getting kidnapped was definitely not part of the job description. Ann intended to raise that issue, and others, with Janet Bunterman.

“You said they’re sending a car for me.”

“That’s right,” Bang Abbott said.

“To take me where?”

He peered up from the camera. “How the hell should I know? Back to the Stefano, I guess.”

“Maybe I prefer the Setai,” Ann said.

“Honey, I don’t give a shit if you end up at a Motel 6. I’m tryin’ to work here, so shut the hell up or I’ll have to gag you.”

“You already gag me, Claude.”

Ann knew she’d have to call her agent once it was over. Months had passed since she and Marcus had spoken. His last gem of an offer was a leg-modeling gig for a depilatory made with Jamaican mango rind; Ann had declined. Marcus probably would want 15 percent of the payoff from the Buntermans, but in Ann’s view that was victim’s compensation and therefore exempt from his commission.
She, not sockless Marcus in his Bally loafers, was the one held captive at gunpoint. Even by Hollywood standards his agency would appear slimy, trying to gouge a client who’d been abducted and abused. It was not an item you’d want to see in
Variety
. Ann would point that out to young Marcus if he decided to get pissy.

BOOK: Star Island
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