Strip Tease by Carl Hiaasen Page A

obvious by the size of his initial offer—a settlement in “the mid-six figures.” Mordecai struggled to mask his elation.
    Of course, the Delicato attorney requested to see Shad’s roach. Just a formality, he assured Mordecai. The attorney had brought a 35 millimeter camera to document the contamination. Photographs would be important, he explained, should his clients challenge the wisdom of settling. A brief slide show in the boardroom would turn them around.
    Mordecai was impressed by the attorney’s thoroughness. He could see how product liability might be an attractive field of practice, if one could avoid the courthouse.
    He wished Beverly were there to share the triumph, but she was out with one of her three-day migraines. Mordecai was using a temp named Rachel, whose unflagging bubbliness compensated for her lack of shorthand skills and slothful pace at the typewriter. Mordecai called Rachel into his office and told her to fetch the blueberry yogurt from the refrigerator. The smile left her face instantly, and Mordecai knew.
    “I’ll get some more,” she said quickly, “on my lunch hour.”
    Mordecai found no words to express his dismay. The Delicato attorney politely excused himself to use the telephone in the other room.
    “Oh Rachel,” said Mordecai, abjectly.
    “I’ll buy the variety pack. Eight kinds of tropical fruit.”
    “Rachel!”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “What possessed you?”
    “I was hungry.”
    “Did you not notice that the carton was open?”
    “I thought it was Bev’s. I didn’t want it to sit there and go sour.”
    “Rachel,” said Mordecai. “You don’t understand.”
    “I’m very, very sorry.” She began to weep.
    “Shut up,” Mordecai said. “Shut up this instant.” When he thought of Shad, the flesh on his neck got damp. How would he tell him? What bloody havoc would ensue? Mordecai also mourned his own financial loss: forty percent of zero was zero. His vast stomach pitched.
    “I didn’t know it was yours,” Rachel slobbered. “I didn’t know you liked yogurt.”
    “I hate yogurt. It gives me the runs.”
    The secretary’s remorse clouded with confusion. “Then why are you so upset?”
    “Because you swallowed my evidence.” Mordecai spoke in an odd singsong voice. “So how was it, Rachel?”
    “The yogurt?”
    “Yes, the yogurt. A little chunky, perhaps?”
    “Now that you mention it.” She sounded worried. “Are you going to fire me?”
    “Oh, worse than that,” said Mordecai. “Please sit down.”
    “What are you going to do?”
    “Something that will give me great pleasure. I’m going to tell you exactly what you ate.”

    Visitation day.
    Erin waited under cloudy skies at Holiday Park. She chose a bench near the public tennis courts where Chris Evert had learned to play. Today it was a doubles match among French Canadian tourists. They had the whitest skin and the bluest veins that Erin had ever seen.
    Darrell Grant always kept Erin waiting because it gave him a feeling of power, knowing how she lived for these afternoons. Today he arrived forty-five minutes late, pushing Angela in a wheelchair.
    “Momma, look what we got at the hospital!”
    Erin lifted her daughter to the sidewalk and told Darrell Grant to get lost.
    “How’s your butt-ugly boyfriend?” he said.
    “Momma’s got a boyfriend?” asked Angela.
    “No, baby, I don’t.”
    Erin was furious that Darrell was using Angle in his wheel-chair heists. If he were caught, the consequences would be terrible—the state authorities would take the little girl for good. Erin felt perfectly entitled to scream at Darrell and tell him what a reckless idiot he was, but she didn’t want to spoil her brief time with Angela.
    Darrell Grant said, “I see you got new tires.”
    Erin ignored him. She checked her daughter’s dress and socks and underpants, to make sure they were clean. For a sociopath, Darrell was good about doing the laundry.
    “Take care of my pretty little partner,” he