Free Star Island by Carl Hiaasen Page B

rough air and he hastily put the camera away, in case the bumps awoke Cherry. He tried to doze off but he couldn’t stop thinking about the astounding thing that had happened to him, and wondering why. Bang Abbott couldn’t recall one other shooter who’d actually been balled by the celebrity he was chasing. Occasionally you heard about the deliberate flash of a nipple or a playful peek up-skirt, but he knew of no paparazzo who’d received so much as a tug job from a star. The social chasm between parasite and host was considered impassable.
    Even if he’d been an A-list liposuctionist or a hotshot movie producer, Bang Abbott knew, it would not have improved the astronomical odds of him receiving a high-altitude quickie from a frisky blonde. He was well aware of his prevailing unattractiveness—the weight issue, his negligent laundry habits, his cursory attention to basic grooming and hygiene. He was in many ways a pig, and Cherry Pye’s seduction of him defied explanation, even given her wild reputation.
    The mystery nagged at Bang Abbott for the remainder of the flight, and he was forced to conclude that Cherry had been more wasted than he’d thought when she’d attached herself to his lap. By the time they landed at Tamiami she’d be sobering up, and he anticipated a cranky awakening and a brusque good-bye.
So what?
he thought.
At least I got some killer photos
.
    But when the Gulfstream touched down, he was surprised to see Cherry wearing a smile. “Hey, big round dude,” she said sleepily. “Can I see your phone?”
    Happily Bang Abbott handed over his BlackBerry. Either she didn’t remember what had occurred earlier, or she was down with it.
    The jet was still taxiing as Bang Abbott squeezed into the lavatory, took a marathon piss and adjusted his Dodgers cap. What he saw in the mirror reinforced the extreme implausibility of the situation. It was beyond astounding that the rumpled, gamy-lookinglump staring back at him had gotten vigorously humped at 35,000 feet by a major female recording artist. Bang Abbott felt recklessly exhilarated. Now anything seemed possible.
    Cherry was still talking on his phone when they got off the plane. A stretch Lincoln with smoked windows sat idling on the tarmac. The driver loaded their bags and Cherry climbed into the backseat, pulling the door shut behind her. Bang Abbott hustled around to the other side of the limo, but it screeched away just as he reached for the door handle.
    “Nooooo!” he bellowed, raising both arms. “My cameras!”
    The Lincoln kept going. With a merry honk it exited the airport through a rolling chain-link gate.
    “Not the Nikons,” the photographer said desolately. “Not my goddamn Nikons.”
    The flight attendant had been watching from the top of the steps. Bang Abbott looked up and raised his arms. “The crazy cunt—she took everything!”
    “That’s terrible.”
    “Please, sweetie, I need a phone.”
    “Sorry,” said the flight attendant, “we’re off to Nassau.” It was the same smile she’d worn when presenting the warm beer nuts. “Enjoy your stay in Florida.”
    “Drop dead,” Bang Abbott said. He turned and walked heavily toward the terminal building.
    Janet Bunterman took a red-eye and landed at Miami International the next morning. She waited nearly an hour for her luggage and then took a hired car to the restaurant at the Raleigh, where Maury Lykes sat amid a pile of tabloids in a banquette.
    “Have you heard from our wandering nymph?” he asked.
    “Not yet, but don’t worry.”
    “Don’t worry? That’s a good one, Janet.” Maury Lykes ran a warty tongue across his front teeth. “She’s supposed to start rehearsing for the tour—you remember the tour, don’t you?”
    Janet Bunterman said, “What else can I do? She left her cell phone at Rainbow Bend—I’ve got no way of reaching her.”
    Maury Lykes said he had people check Cherry’s usual haunts on South Beach—the Stefano, the Shore Club, the