"Carl Hiaasen - Striptease" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hiaasen Carl)

STRIPTEASE
Carl Hiaasen




CHAPTER 1
On the night of September sixth, the eve of Paul Guber's wedding, his buddies took him to a strip joint near Fort Lauderdale for a bachelor party. The club was called the Eager Beaver, and it was famous county-wide for its gorgeous nude dancers and watered-down rum drinks. By midnight Paul Guber was very drunk and hopelessly infatuated with eight or nine of the strippers. For twenty dollars they would perch on Paul's lap and let him nuzzle their sweet-smelling cleavage; he was the happiest man on the face of the planet.
Paul's friends carried on with rowdy humor, baying witlessly and spritzing champagne at the stage. At first the dancers were annoyed about being sprayed, but eventually they fell into the spirit of the celebration. Slick with Korbel, they formed a laughing chorus line and high-kicked their way through an old Bob Seger tune. Bubbles sparkled innocently in their pubic hair. Paul Guber and his pals cheered themselves hoarse with lust.
At half-past two, a fearsome-looking bouncer announced the last call. While Paul's buddies pooled their cash to pay the exorbitant tab, Paul quietly crawled on stage and attached himself to one of the performers. Too drunk to stand, he balanced on his knees and threw a passionate hug around the woman's bare waist. She smiled good-naturedly and kept moving to the music. Paul hung on like a drowning sailor. He pressed his cheek to the woman's tan belly and closed his eyes. The dancer, whose name was Erin, stroked Paul's hair and told him to go home, sugar, get some rest before the big day.
A man yelled for Paul to get off the stage, and Paul's friends assumed it was the bouncer. The club had a strict rule against touching the dancers for free. Paul Guber himself heard no warninghe appeared comatose with bliss. His best friend Richard, with whom Paul shared a cubicle at the brokerage house, produced a camera and began taking photographs of Paul and the naked woman. Blackmail, he announced playfully. Pay up, or I mail these snapshots to your future mother-in-law! Everyone in the club seemed to be enjoying themselves. That's why Paul's friends were so shocked to see a stranger jump on stage and begin beating him with an empty champagne bottle.
Three, four, five hard blows to the head, and still Paul Guber would not release the dancer, who was trying her best to avoid being struck. The bottle-wielding man was tall and paunchy, and wore an expensive suit. His hair was silver, although his bushy mustache was black and crooked. No one in Paul Guber's bachelor party recognized him.
Raw sucking noises came from the man's throat as he pounded on the stockbroker's skull. The bouncer got there just as the champagne bottle shattered. He grabbed the silver-haired man under the arms and prepared to throw him off the stage in a manner that would have fractured large bones. But the bouncer alertly noticed that the silver-haired man had a companion, and the companion had a gun that might or might not be loaded. Having the utmost respect for Colt Industries, the bouncer carefully released the silver-haired man and allowed him to flee the club with his armed friend.
Amazingly, Paul Guber never fell down. The paramedics had to pry his fingers off the dancer's buttocks before hauling him to the hospital. In the emergency room, his worried buddies gulped coffee and cooked up a story to tell Paul's fiance.


By the time the police arrived, the Eager Beaver lounge was empty. The bouncer, who was mopping blood off the stage, insisted he hadn't seen a thing. The cops clearly were disappointed that the nude women had gone home, and showed little enthusiasm for investigating a drunken assault with no victim present. All that remained of the alleged weapon was a pile of sparkling green shards. The bouncer asked if it was okay to toss them in the dumpster, and the cops said sure.
Paul Guber's wedding was postponed indefinitely. His friends told Paul's bride-to-be that he had been mugged in the parking lot of a synagogue. In the car, speeding south on Federal Highway, Congressman David Lane Dilbeck rubbed his temples and said: "Was it a bad one, Erb?"
And Erb Crandall, the congressman's loyal executive assistant and longtime bagman, said: "One of the worst."
"I don't know what came over me."
"You assaulted a man."
"Democrat or Republican?"
Crandall said, "I have no earthly idea."
Congressman Dilbeck gasped when he noticed the pistol on his friend's lap. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Don't tell me."
Without emotion, Crandall said, "I had no choice. You were about to be maimed."
Five minutes passed before the congressman spoke again. "Erb," he said, "I love naked women, I truly do."
Erb Crandall nodded neutrally. He wondered about the congressman's driver. Dilbeck had assured him that the man understood no English, only French and Creole. Still, Crandall studied the back of the driver's black head and wondered if the man was listening. These days, anyone could be a spy.
"All men have weaknesses," Dilbeck was saying. "Mine is of the fleshly nature." He peeled off the phony mustache. "Let's have it, Erb. What exactly did I do?"
"You jumped on stage and assaulted a young man."
Dilbeck winced. "In what manner?"
"A bottle over the head," Crandall said. "Repeatedly."
"And you didn't stop me! That's your goddamn job, Erb, to get me out of those situations. Keep my name out of the papers."
Crandall explained that he was in the john when it happened.
"Did I touch the girl?" asked the congressman.
"Not this time."
In French, Crandall asked the Haitian driver to stop the car and wait. Crandall motioned for Dilbeck to get out. They walked to an empty bus bench and sat down.
The congressman said, "What's all this nonsense? You can talk freely in front of Pierre."
"We've got a problem." Crandall steepled his hands. "I think we should call Moldy."
Dilbeck said no way, absolutely not.
"Somebody recognized you tonight," said Crandall. "Somebody in that strip joint."
"God." Dilbeck shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's an election year, Erb."
"Some little twerp, I didn't get the name. He was standing by the back door when we ran out. Some skinny jerk-off with Coke-bottle glasses."
"What'd he say?"
" 'Attaboy, Davey.' He was looking right at you."
"But the mustache"
"Then he said, 'Chivalry ain't dead.' " Crandall looked very grim.
Congressman Dilbeck said, "Did he seem like the type to stir up trouble?"
It was all Crandall could do to keep from laughing. "Looks are deceiving, David. I'll be calling Moldy in the morning." Back in the car, heading south again, Dilbeck asked about the condition of the man he'd attacked.
"I have no earthly idea," Crandall said. He would phone the hospital later.