Squeeze Me

*NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLER* A hilarious novel of social and political intrigue, set against the glittering backdrop of Florida s gold coast, from the author of Skinny Dip and Razor Girl

If you could use some wild escapism right now, Hiaasen is your guy. The New York Times

WITH A NEW EPILOGUE

At the height of Palm Beach s charity ball season, Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons, a prominent member of geriatric high society, suddenly vanishes during a swank gala. Kiki Pew was a founding member of the Potussies, a group of women dedicated to supporting the President, who spends half the year at the Winter White House just down the road. Meanwhile, Angie Armstrong, wildlife wrangler extraordinaire, is called to the island to deal with a monster-sized Burmese python that has taken residency in a tree. But the President is focused on the disappearance of Kiki Pew. Never one to miss an opportunity to play to his base, he immediately declares her a victim of rampaging immigrant hordes. This, it turns out, is far from the truth, which now lies in the middle of the road, where a bizarre discovery brings the First Lady s motorcade to a grinding halt. Irreverent, ingenious, and uproariously entertaining, Squeeze Me perfectly captures the absurdity of our times.

“Carl Hiaasen remains the undefeated, unscored-upon conscience of Florida, maybe the conscience of the whole country. I laughed and laughed and laughed while I read Squeeze Me – until I remembered, *hey, I live in Palm Beach! *Oh yeah, spoiler alert – the python did it.” —James Patterson

"By the evidence of the scabrous and unrelentingly hilarious Squeeze Me, the Trump era is truly Carl Hiaasen’s moment . . . Just dive in and have a wonderful time." —Richard Lipez, The Washington Post

"Novelists, like the rest of us, can’t look away from the Trump administration. Unfortunately, they haven’t found much interesting to say about it. Carl Hiaasen’s thriller Squeeze Me is, blessedly, an exception . . . Hiaasen is clear-eyed: He meets the president on his subterranean level . . . Squeeze Me is funny, but as with Hiaasen’s best work, it’s grounded in genuine outrage over the corruption that increasingly defines American political and cultural life. And it turns out there’s no better place to invoke that outrage than the wealthy swamps of Florida." —Alex Shephard, The New Republic

"Pink pearls, pythons and a philandering president add up to a rather unusual Palm Beach social season in Carl Hiaasen’s riotously funny new novel, Squeeze Me . . . [Hiaasen] knows and loves Florida and hates what has been done to it as much as anyone I know of, and those passions shape his razor-sharp satirical fiction." —Colette Bancroft, The Tampa Bay Times

• "Squeeze Me *is vintage Hiaasen — wry humor, social commentary and satire akin to Jonathan Swift, and all fun." —Oline H. Cogdill, *The South Florida Sun-Sentinel

Auteur

Carl Hiaasen

Texte du rabat

Palm Beach. A prominent high-society matron - who happens to be a fierce supporter of the President and founding member of the POTUSSIES - has gone missing at a swank gala. When the wealthy dowager Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons is later found dead in a concrete grave, panic and chaos erupt. The President immediately declares that Kiki Pew was the victim of rampaging immigrant hordes.

Résumé
*NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLER* • A hilarious novel of social and political intrigue, set against the glittering backdrop of Florida’s gold coast, from the author of Skinny Dip and Razor Girl

“If you could use some wild escapism right now, Hiaasen is your guy.” —The New York Times

WITH A NEW EPILOGUE

At the height of Palm Beach’s charity ball season, Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons, a prominent member of geriatric high society, suddenly vanishes during a swank gala. Kiki Pew was a founding member of the Potussies, a group of women dedicated to supporting the President, who spends half the year at the “Winter White House” just down the road. Meanwhile, Angie Armstrong, wildlife wrangler extraordinaire, is called to the island to deal with a monster-sized Burmese python that has taken residency in a tree. But the President is focused on the disappearance of Kiki Pew. Never one to miss an opportunity to play to his base, he immediately declares her a victim of rampaging immigrant hordes. This, it turns out, is far from the truth, which now lies in the middle of the road, where a bizarre discovery brings the First Lady’s motorcade to a grinding halt. Irreverent, ingenious, and uproariously entertaining, Squeeze Me perfectly captures the absurdity of our times.

Échantillon de lecture
TWO
 
The Otter Falls subdivision was on the westernmost outskirts of Boca Raton. A small drab gatehouse marked the entrance. The young, thick-tongued guard said nobody named Angela Armstrong was on the vendor/contractor list. Angie said she wasn’t a vendor/ contractor; she was a specialist.
 
“What’s that in the back of your truck?” the guard asked.
 
“Capture noose. Bungie cords. Road kennel.”
 
“I meant the gun.”
 
“Gas-propelled rifle. Shoots tranquilizer darts.”
 
“For real? No effin’ way.”
 
“Doubt I’ll need it today,” Angie said. “A man named Fleck left a message asking me to come right away. Unless there’s another Otter Falls around here . . .”
 
“This is the only one I heard of.”

“Wild guess: No otters and no waterfall.”

The guard rubbed his fleshy chin. “It’s just that Mr. Fleck didn’t call and put your name on the list.”
 
“That’s because he didn’t have my name,” said Angie. “All he had was a number.”
 
Drowsily the guard shook his head. “Sorry. It’s the rules.”

“I believe you’re baked.”

“What! No way.”

“Sir, there’s a vape pen in the pocket of your uniform.”

The guard sheepishly moved the pen out of sight. “I am totally legal,” he said. His mouth had gone dry. “I got my state card and everything. The weed is for migraines.”
 
Angie smiled. “I’d get stoned, too, cooped up all day in this glorified outhouse. But at least they gave you a/c. Some of these homeowners’ associations, they’re so cheap they make the guards roast in the heat.”
 
“I can’t let you in. That’s how the dude before me got fired.”
 
“Understood. So, if Mr. Fleck calls up asking where I am, please tell him you did your job and turned me away.” Angie put the truck in reverse. “Also, tell him good luck with that raccoon.”
 
As Angie backed up, the stoner guard scrambled out of the booth waving at her: “Yo, ma’am, wait! I didn’t know that’s why you were here.”
 
She poked her head out the truck. “The noose wasn’t a clue?”
 
“The Flecks are in Building D, number 158.” He raised the gate and motioned for the specialist to drive through.
 
“Rock on,” Angie said as she drove past.
 
Jonathan Fleck was pacing the sidewalk in front of the townhouse. His wife and kids had barricaded themselves in an upstairs bedroom while the wil…