Strip Tease by Carl Hiaasen

Darrell Grant’s location. He hadn’t run far: Erin counted seven collect phone calls from a number in Deerfield Beach. It made perfect sense. Deerfield Beach was overwhelmingly populated by retirees. Where you had retirees, you had wheelchairs.
    Erin turned down the stereo and picked up the phone. Her hand trembled as she dialed—not from nerves, but from anger. It rang six times before he answered. Erin used her old-lady voice. She said she was calling from the St. Vitus Society, collecting donations for the homeless.
    Darrell Grant said: “Donations of what?”
    “Anything you can spare. Food, clothing, medical equipment.”
    “Like wheelchairs?” Darrell Grant asked.
    Erin listened for the sound of a child in the background. She heard only a television, tuned to a talk show.
    Darrell Grant said: “Hello? You mean like wheelchairs?”
    “Actually, we’ve got plenty of wheelchairs and gurneys. But any other medical equipment would be most appreciated.”
    “That’s too bad,” said Darrell Grant. “I got some used wheelchairs in pretty good shape.”
    Erin resisted the urge to scream something terrible into the phone. Still using the old-lady voice, she said, “Well, we’ve just received a shipment of brand-new ones donated by the hospital district. But thank you anyway.”
    “Yeah? What kind?”
    “I really couldn’t say. Can I put you down for some canned goods or bedding?”
    “Sure,” Darrell Grant said. “Better yet, I’ll haul the stuff over there myself. Gimme your address. And spell the name a that saint again, would you?”
    Erin smiled. What a champ.

Chapter 5

    Moldowsky didn’t know that Jerry Killian was crazy drooling mad with love. Not that it mattered; blackmail was blackmail.
    “Where’s Dilbeck?” Killian demanded.
    “I’m here as the congressman’s personal representative.” Malcolm Moldowsky took out a monogrammed notebook. From an inside pocket came a gold fountain pen. “All right, let’s have the terms.”
    “Not so quick.”
    They were seated on the top deck of the Jungle Queen, a gaudy ersatz paddlewheeler that motored up and down the Intracoastal Waterway in Fort Lauderdale. It was Killian’s idea to meet there, safely surrounded by yammering tourists and conventioneers.
    He said, “I specifically asked to meet the congressman.”
    Moldowsky sighed a patient sigh. “Mr. Dilbeck is very busy. This morning he’s touring Little Haiti. This afternoon he will dedicate a domino park in Little Havana. This evening he’ll be speaking to the Democratic Sons and Daughters of Nicaragua in Exile.”
    Killian whistled derisively. Malcolm Moldowsky said, “It’s an election year, my friend.”
    “He has nothing to fear from me.”
    “He’s a busy man is all I’m saying.”
    Killian folded his arms. “So he sends a guy who smells like a Bangkok bidet.”
    “You’re referring to my cologne?”
    “No offense. I’m a Brut man myself.”
    Moldowsky doodled placidly on the notepad. “No offense taken.”
    “He’s an excitable boy, your congressman. Beat the living Jesus out of that schmo in the dance club.” Killian awaited an explanation, but Moldowsky continued to draw, saying nothing.
    “He’s got a problem around the ladies,” Killian went on. “I think he needs help, before word gets out.”
    Moldowsky said, “May we get down to business?”
    “The only reason I mention it is I’m concerned. He could hurt somebody, or get hurt. They’re tough places, those dance bars.”
    “I’ll pass that along. Can we begin now?”
    Point by point, Killian explained his demands. There were only two. Moldowsky listened impassively and took notes. When the blackmailer finished, Moldowsky looked up and said, “This is completely outrageous.”
    The Jungle Queen blew four long whistles. The captain was trying to get the attention of a bridgetender.
    Killian said, “Which part is outrageous?”
    “The money, of course. A million dollars!”
    “Forget the money. What