Strip Tease by Carl Hiaasen

OK?”
    “Don’t you worry.”
    The dancer’s hands were shaking as she folded the money.
    “You know what he told me? He told me he was a congressman.”
    Erb Crandall laughed. “Some guys,” he said, “will try anything.” He dug into his pocket for another hundred-dollar bill.

Chapter 8

    The next day, Malcolm Moldowsky made the call. The meeting was set at a bowling alley on Sunrise Boulevard. “Grab any lane you can,” the man said. “It’s League Night.”
    Moldowsky’s feet were so small he had to rent women’s shoes. He got a nine-pound ball and tried to clean the germy holes with his monogrammed handkerchief. He willed himself to not think about those who had fingered the ball before him.
    He bowled alone for an hour until the man showed up. He was as big as a wine keg, and wore a brown UPS shirt. He scanned Moldowsky’s scores and said, “Not bad.”
    “I cheated,” Moldy said, tossing a gutter ball. He had knocked down maybe forty pins in all. On the score pad he had given himself a 164.
    The man put on his bowling shoes and bowled strike—spare—strike. “You picked a good lane,” he said to Moldowsky.
    A waitress came by and the man waved her away. Moldowsky handed him a thick brown envelope. “It’s all there,” he told him. “The tickets, too. Check for yourself.”
    “Nuh-uh,” said the bowler. “I don’t care what’s inside. I’m just the delivery boy.”
    He rolled a snapping curve that left the seven-ten combination. “Are you a gambling man?” he asked Moldowsky. “Wait, that’s a dumb question. Of course you’re a gambling man. Otherwise you wouldn’t be involved.”
    “Good thinking.”
    “Five bucks says I make this split.”
    “Sure,” said Moldy. “Five it is.” His lack of interest would’ve been obvious to a three-year-old.
    The big man made it look easy, nicking the seven-pin just enough to kick across and take out the ten. “That’s the toughest split in bowling,” he said. “Did you know that?”
    “Amazing,” said Moldowsky with a yawn. He gave the man five ones. “Ask your people to move as quickly as possible. We’re up against a deadline.”
    “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” the man said, “but I’ll be happy to pass it along. Your turn, sport.”
    Unhappily, Moldowsky positioned himself at the head of the lane. He made three tiny, stiff steps and heaved the ball down the alley. Somehow he got a strike.
    “Pure luck,” Moldy admitted.
    “The best kind,” said the man in the UPS shirt. “You go on home now, OK? Everything’s under control.”

    A single piece of rotten news affirmed the leaden sense of futility that had burdened Mordecai every day since his graduation from law school, 207th in a class of 212.
    The setback was especially cruel, coming at a rare moment of optimism. A lawyer from the Delicato Dairy Company had arrived at Mordecai’s office to discuss a possible settlement in the case of the roach-tainted blueberry yogurt. For Mordecai, the company’s willingness to negotiate (without the customary exchange of nasty correspondence) was a glorious surprise. An out-of-court agreement would have spared him long hours of excruciating preparation for a trial; it would also have saved him from exposing a jury to the sight of his client, Shad the bouncer.
    The informality of the meeting had sent Mordecai’s hopes soaring. The attorney from the Delicato Dairy Company had been civil, sensible and not given to bluster. He was keenly aware of the public-relations consequences of a high-profile insect trial. The central concern was television: in Florida, TV cameras are allowed in court. The two men agreed that color videotape of a cockroach being plucked from a Delicate container could have a negative impact on consumer confidence. The extent of damage, sales-wise, would depend on how many major markets picked up the satellite feed from the courtroom. The attorney’s eagerness to avoid such a risk was