Strip Tease by Carl Hiaasen

said.

    Less than two hours later, Congressman David Lane Dilbeck was a portrait of male contentment and relaxation. He smiled, he blew smoke rings, he tapped his shoes, he hummed to the music. A fresh rum-and-Coke appeared inches from his fingers, further improving his mood. Sitting to his right was Erb Crandall, who was huddled anxiously over an orange juice. Every so often he glanced toward the door in anticipation of a raid. Sitting to the congressman’s left, a man named Christopher Rojo folded a fifty-dollar bill into an airplane and sailed it toward the stage, where a woman danced cautiously with a nine-foot Burmese python. The reptile’s jaws were secured with Scotch tape, and someone had painted a bottlebrush mustache on its snout. Erb Crandall figured it was some kind of Hitler joke.
    “This is so wonderful,” said Dilbeck. “Isn’t she something, Erb? How about that damn snake!”
    “Yeah,” Crandall said, “what a life.”
    The woman, whose stage name was Lorelei, had arranged the python in an intriguing way. The tail followed the crease of her bare buttocks downward through her legs, curling out to the crotch.
    “That’s a well-trained animal,” the congressman observed.
    Christopher Rojo was similarly impressed. He was making a new paper airplane with a one-hundred-dollar bill. Rojo was a wealthy young man with few ambitions and plenty of spare time. His family owned a large sugar-cane operation on the southern shore of Lake Okeechobee. Christopher had never been to the farm, but he’d seen photographs. The cane fields looked like a stinking hellhole; he was astounded at the fortune they produced. There was so much money that one couldn’t possibly spend it all. Heaven knows he was trying.
    “Here, Davey,” he said. “Your turn.”
    Dilbeck took the paper airplane and tossed it toward the python dancer. It landed between her feet. She gave the men a slow wink, and scissored elegantly into a split. Picking up the money, she pretended to show it to the snake. Dilbeck laughed and laughed. Lorelei sprung to her feet, waved once and disappeared offstage. The set was over.
    Erb Crandall sagged with relief. Maybe they’d get through the evening without incident.
    Rojo said to Dilbeck: “What’s your bet?”
    The congressman sipped his rum thoughtfully. “Thirty-eight B,” he said. “Nature’s own.”
    “And I,” said Rojo, waving more cash, “say she’s thirty-six inches of plastic fantastic.” He smoothed a fifty on the table. David Dilbeck did the same. They turned toward Crandall, who signaled himself out of the wager. They’d been at it all night, every time a new dancer came on stage. There were two parts to the bet: the size of the breasts, and whether or not they were surgically enhanced. Rojo was getting creamed, and Crandall wasn’t surprised. The congressman had an unfailing eye for the female form; it was his life’s passion, graft being a close second.
    Rojo rose drunkenly and called for a man named Ling. Soon a small Oriental in a black tuxedo and a Yankees cap appeared at the table. He didn’t look like the co-owner of a strip joint, but he was.
    “Mr. Ling!” Rojo said, opening his arms. “Give us the scoop on Python Lady.”
    “Her name is Lorelei,” said Dilbeck. “Have some respect.”
    Rojo sat down. Dilbeck pointed at the cash. “Mr. Ling, you see what’s at stake.”
    Ling nodded tolerantly. “You want the knocker report?”
    “Indeed we do.”
    “Miss Lorelei is a 38-B.”
    “Ha!” Dilbeck crowed.
    He grabbed for the money but Christopher Rojo caught his arm. “Implants!” the young man hissed. “Tell him, Mr. Ling. Tell him it’s implants, and we halve the bet.”
    “No, sir,” Ling said. “Lorelei is all Lorelei.”
    “Mierda,” said Rojo.
    The congressman gloated as he scooped up the cash.
    Ling said, “Only the best at Flesh Farm. Only the finest.”
    “Top of the line,” agreed Dilbeck.
    “Where else you see a snake so big?” Ling