Free America Rising by Tom Paine Page B

years without being discovered, until one of the working girls who’d been invited along blabbed after her state senator boyfriend slapped her around in a Glenfiddich-fueled rage. The party boys were scheduled to arrive Friday, two days from now, so I didn’t have much time to firm up my plans and set them into motion.
     
    As the Seven-Mile Bridge rose in the distance, Robert banked the Cessna towards the ocean and over Rock Island. From the air it was a perfectly idyllic slice of paradise. The house and grounds were at one end, sheltered from view on all sides by a dense veil of palms, bougainvillea, oleander, giant ferns and assorted tropical plants. A short pier and dock stuck out into the water. The rest of the island had been left to its natural state, with wooden walkways snaking through the mangroves in case jaded vacationers sought fleeting respite from their man-made pleasures.
     
    We dropped to lower altitude to get a better view and I explained to Robert what I was thinking. We agreed that most of the action would take place around the pool, and he promised to hook me up with a guy in Miami who could supply me with wireless video cameras and a USB receiver that I could connect to a laptop. He made another circle around the house and pointed out the best places to set up the cams, how to connect and operate the system.
     
    He pointed to a wooden walkway that skirted the easternmost edge of the island and said, “That’s where you’ll go in. We’ll leave from Marathon in my boat; I’ve got a dingy with a three-horse motor. A couple hours before your buddies arrive, I’ll anchor offshore. You motor in, tie up under that walkway, then follow the path to the house. Text me when you’re done and I’ll pick you up the same way.”
     
    I was already feeling better. A project like this was just what I needed. “Thanks, Robert,” I said. “I really appreciate you—”
     
    He waved off my thanks.
     
    “Hell, just nailing these fuckers is its own reward. But you do have to promise me a private screening.”
     
    * * *
     
    My little film session couldn’t have gone better. Early Friday morning we left Marathon Marina and cruised to Rock Island. I tossed a waterproof bag full of electronic equipment, power bars and bottled water into the dingy, then climbed in and fired up the tiny motor. It took only a few minutes to reach the island, secure the craft and be on my way. Before the sunrise I’d set up an observation post behind a huge wall of bougainvillea at the edge of the property, placed my cameras, checked to see that they were recording and took up a position by the home’s boat dock to get some still shots of the party boys arriving.
     
    Two hours later a gleaming Sundancer pulled up to the pier and the partiers clambered off. There were six legislators, including the former House speaker and current Senate majority leader, plus another four whose faces I didn’t recognize. Their “dates” were a dozen young women who appeared to have been popped out of molds in some giant factory of siliconed and Botoxed replicants. The men were worse—pasty-white and already liquored up, their bellies stretching Polo shirts over the tops of their gaudy shorts.
     
    I got nice tight close-ups and group shots of them all, then hot-footed it back to my post behind the bougainvillea and waited for the action to begin. It was predictably sad and revolting—eighteen naked and oiled bodies writhing in noisy faux passion in groups of two and three and more, fueled by bowls of sky-blue pills for the men and fine white powder for the ladies. After several hours they broke for lunch, then went at it again until cocktail hour.
     
    I’d seen enough. I checked the laptop’s hard drive to make sure I’d recorded the day’s activities, packed up my gear and texted Robert to come get me. The party picked up after dark but I was already at the dingy, watching Robert flash his running lights. When we’d tied up the